But those sieges had left their scars and at the conclusion of the war, the monastery was in need of substantial repair. And so at great expense, the King had sent his Royal Architect, Robert De Christo to repair the monastery’s battered fortifications and rebuild its fire-scarred cathedral.
And now the King was coming to inspect his works. As an envoy, he sent the Dauphin and his two brothers, the Princes Louis and Phillip (and their respective hangers-on) to the island monastery a week ahead of him.
But as De Christo was to discover, the Dauphin and his travelling retinue had been very naughty boys during their time at Mont St Michel.
THE CARETAKER
De Christo set up his investigation office in the refectory. It comprised a desk and two chairs—one for him and one for each witness he interrogated.
The first witness he called was old Brother Michael, the ancient caretaker of the cathedral, the monk who had watched De Christo at work for the past three months.
‘The world is a better place for that filthy rogues’s passing,’
Brother Michael spat through his toothless mouth. ‘Dauphin or not, he shall tremble before the Lord when he is judged!’
Ah-ha. De Christo thought. This could be a very short investigation indeed.
‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.
‘The Dauphin was a brat. Of the most spoilt kind. He drank to excess, he blasphemed with abandon and he was utterly wanton in his depravities.’
De Christo nodded at that. The young Dauphin’s sexual appetites were well known. It was not uncommon for a rural noble to discover a few months after a visit from the Dauphin that one of the servant girls was with child.
‘We are all sinners in our own way, Brother Michael. Was he worthy of death for those sins?’
Brother Michael leaned forward, lowered his voice. ‘For what he did whilst he was here at the Mount, he should burn in Hell, Master Builder. He—’ the old man seemed pained to say it—‘ deflowered some of the younger nuns here at the abbey.’
De Christo looked up from his notetaking. ‘He what?’
Brother Michael’s eyes had filled with tears. Hawkish and protective he may have been, but a murderer he was clearly not.
Besides, the crucifixion of the Dauphin had required strength and Brother Michael was incapable of such an exertion.
De Christo tried another line. ‘You live in an apartment adjoining the cathedral, do you not, Brother?’
‘I do.’
‘And you cherish your cathedral, do you not? After all, you watched me like a hawk for the whole time I was working in it.’
‘I love that cathedral, Master Builder,’ the old monk said. ‘It is a most sacred place, blessed by the Archangel Michael himself.
Indeed, I cherish it.’
‘If you cherish it so, and knowing how diligently you watch over it,’ De Christo said, ‘how did it come to be that you did not witness the murder of the Crown Prince in your precious chapel?’
Brother Michael scowled. ‘We all must sleep sometime. It was while I slept that the crime took place. My brothers will vouch for my whereabouts last night.’
Just as you will vouch for theirs, no doubt, De Christo thought.
‘Thank you, Brother Michael. That will be all for now.’
SISTER MADELENE
The young nun sat before De Christo, sobbing. It had only taken one question for her to break down.
Like many of the young nuns at the Mount, she was a country girl of little education, for whom the cloisters of a monastery like Mont St Michel offered at least some kind of life.
‘Yes! I did it!’ she cried. ‘I gave myself to him! He gave me wine, muddling my senses. Then he confused me with his clever tongue—he told me that the King of France is only king because God wills it. And since he was to be the next King of France, he had been chosen by God. And since he desired my body, that meant God desired that I give it to him. And so I lay with him and Sister Arabelle.’
‘You lay with him and Sister Arabelle? At the same time?’ De Christo coughed.
‘Yes . . .’ the young Sister Madelene seemed unsure if this was an unusual thing to do. ‘While his brothers lay with Sisters Phillipa and Margarita on the other side of the Crown Prince’s bedchamber—’
She bowed her head with shame, her voice trailing off.
De Christo—who had seen many things in his life—swallowed.
‘So it was . . . an orgy?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘How many nuns were present?’
‘Four.’
‘And how many of those nuns engaged in the debauchery?’
‘All did, my Lord.’
‘And how many of the Dauphin’s people were there?’
‘Only three. He and his two brothers. Well, on the first occasion.’
‘There was more than one time?’ De Christo asked.
‘Three nights ago, the Dauphin invited we four to his bedchamber, where we partook in the depravities. On the second occasion, it was myself and Sister Arabelle only—shared between the three princes. And on the third night, last night, it was the largest gathering of all—twelve nuns, the three princes and two of their young stewards.’
De Christo could only stare.
‘How did you feel afterwards?’ he managed to ask.
She bowed her head. ‘I felt terrible, sire. Filthy. Like he had used his wiles to convince me to engage in the most wanton desires of the flesh.’
‘Were you enraged?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you feel powerless?’
‘Yes.’
‘Enraged and powerless enough to kill the Crown Prince?’
The young nun looked away. ‘No . . .’ she said softly, almost wistfully.
Her tone made De Christo pause. But before he could say anything, she went on.
‘I liked it, Master Builder,’ she said. ‘All my life I have wondered about the pleasures of the flesh and now I know them.
They are delicious and delightful and I do not know why they are veiled in so much shame and guilt.’
She looked up at De Christo, her simple eyes wide. ‘The truth is, I was not enraged at all, Master Builder. I liked it.’
THE SECOND-IN-LINE
The young Prince Louis slouched in the chair opposite De Christo as if he didn’t have a care in the world. And perhaps he didn’t, as he was now the Dauphin, the next-in-line to take the throne.
‘You want to know if I killed my brother?’ Louis smirked. ‘So I could be King.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ De Christo said.
‘I would be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed mine too at various times in the past,’ Louis said. ‘But no. I didn’t kill him this time. I have witnesses who can vouch for my whereabouts last night.’
‘Who?’
‘A gentleman does not reveal such things,’ the prince smirked again.
‘You were lying with a nun?’ De Christo said simply. ‘You are some gentleman.’
The prince sat bolt upright. ‘How did you—?’
‘Don’t underestimate me, Your Highness.’
‘And don’t underestimate me, Master Builder,’ the prince snapped. He stood up, walked to a nearby cupboard, where he grabbed a terracotta drinking bowl.
He spoke as he filled the pale orange bowl with water from a flask: ‘You would be wise to choose your words carefully. For if you falsely accuse me now, when my father is dead and I am King, you shall end your days in a cell with only rats and your own screaming for company.’
He gazed evenly at De Christo as he drank.
‘So you were with one of the nuns last night?’ De Christo went on.
‘Two of them, actually,’ the prince grinned. ‘In my chamber.
Sisters Arabelle and Margarita. The three of us had been with the others before we decided to adjourn to my bedchamber.’
‘You left the greater orgy?’
‘We did. And believe me, from what I saw,
my dear departed brother, the Crown Prince, was very much alive and . . . active . . . when we left.’
De Christo gazed long and hard at the insolent young man who was now next-in-line to be King.
The prince kicked back his chair, stood. ‘Good luck with your investigation, Master Builder.’
THE ASSISTANT
De Christo questioned another dozen or so monks and nuns that afternoon, including the Abbott himself. No leads arose.
At dusk, he stepped out onto the great balcony overlooking the sweeping Gulf of San Malo.
He was joined by the Abbott. ‘Any luck?’
‘None so far.’
De Christo saw some monks crossing a courtyard below them, carrying their water bowls for the night. Among them, he saw old Brother Michael talking to a much larger young monk, a veritable giant of a man.
‘Who is that?’ he asked. ‘The monk Brother Michael is speaking to.’
The Abbott said: ‘Why, that is Brother Barnabas. He is a mute and a simpleton. But a most devoted soul—almost as devout as Brother Michael. They make a fine pair—Brother Barnabas worships old Brother Michael, parrots his every word. Indeed, he aids Brother Michael in his duties as caretaker of the cathedral.’
‘He is the assistant caretaker of the cathedral?’ De Christo said.
‘Yes. Brother Michael did not mention this?’
‘No, he didn’t . . .’ De Christo eyed the gigantic Brother Barnabas. ‘Could this man have committed the crime?’
‘Brother Barnabas!’ the Abbott exclaimed. ‘No! He is a most gentle giant. Strong but withdrawn, quiet as a mouse. I cannot even begin to imagine the obscenity that could rouse Brother Barnabas to anger, let alone murder.’
De Christo frowned. ‘Hmm. Still, I think I shall question him tomorrow.’
THE WALK
Exhausted from his day’s investigations, De Christo decided to take a walk around Mont St Michel—to examine some of the places he had heard about.
He went to the cathedral—and gazed up at the cross upon which the Crown Prince had been crucified.
Looked up at the high balcony on which he had found the small orange pebbles from the gardens.
Then he descended into the complex, whence he came to the Crown Prince’s bedchamber.
It was smaller than he had imagined—a lot smaller. A canopied bed, a sitting chair, a window. Barely big enough to hold seven people pressed close together.
Seven people only.
But Sister Madelene had said—
Wait a moment, De Christo froze at the realisation . ‘Oh De Christo! You fool! You assumed that it all happened here!’
ILLUMINATION
De Christo charged into the nuns’ dormitories. Some of the nuns squealed at the sight of a man in their midst, but De Christo ignored them. ‘Where is Sister Madelene!’ he shouted. ‘Where is she!’
Sister Madelene stepped forward. ‘Yes, Master Builder?’
‘Last night. The third orgy,’ he said. ‘It did not take place in the Crown Prince’s bedchamber, did it?’
‘Well, no . . .’ Sister Madelene flushed red.
‘Because the prince’s bedchamber was too small to accommodate seventeen lustful young bodies—twelve nuns, three princes and two stewards, if I remember correctly. So!
Where did this third orgy take place?’ De Christo asked, even though he now knew the answer.
Sister Madelene averted her gaze.
‘Where did this third congress take place!’ he demanded.
The young nun swallowed. ‘It took place in the cathedral, sire.
All around the altar. By the light of many candles. There were naked bodies everywhere, engaged in every form of sexual congress both natural and unnatural; writhing forms splayed all about the holy area, on the steps, on the floor, with the Crown Prince on the altar itself lying with Sister Phillipa; Sister Phillipa moaning in ecstasy.’
De Christo saw the scene in his mind—but in his mind’s eye, he also saw the individual who had watched it all from the balcony high above the cathedral.
An individual carrying an orange terracotta water bowl—presumably having gone to get more water in the dead of night—only to hear a noise in the cathedral—then going to the balcony to investigate—and witnessing the depraved scene.
Witnessing the Crown Prince himself defiling an altar of God.
At which sight, he dropped his bowl in shock, breaking it. The killer had managed to sweep up nearly all of the orange shards of the broken bowl, but not all of them.
Then he must have waited for the fornicators to leave the cathedral, waited for the Crown Prince to fall behind.
So he was big enough to overpower the prince.
Strong enough to nail him to the cross and hoist it high.
And passionate enough, devout enough—and dull-minded enough—to kill the Crown Prince of France for his display of gross disrespect on an altar of the Lord.
De Christo heard the Abbott’s voice in his head: ‘ I cannot even begin to imagine the obscenity that could rouse Brother Barnabas to anger, let alone murder.’
‘I think I can imagine it now,’ De Christo said aloud.
The King would arrive two days later.
Of course, riders had already brought him the news of his son’s death. Upon his arrival, De Christo told him everything—of the orgies, the murder, and the killer: the gigantic halfwit, Brother Barnabas.
The King took the news in an odd way. He asked to see the killer.
Brother Barnabas was brought to him. The King appraised the devout simpleton closely.
No-one dared speak.
The King gazed at the silent Brother Barnabas.
Then he said softly: ‘This man is to be allowed to live. My son debased himself on an altar of the Lord. Sadly for my son, the eyes of God were watching.’
The twelve nuns who had partaken in the depravities were reprimanded by their seniors, but they were also forgiven—and given the choice of a pure life henceforth or leaving the holy orders.
Eight of them repented and stayed. But four of the disgraced women—all of them younger nuns, among them Sister Madelene—chose to leave the abbey.
As for De Christo, one week later he would leave Mont St Michel, too, never to return.
THE END
TIME TOURS
OFFICES OF TIME TOURS INTERNATIONAL
AUSTIN, TEXAS
12 noon
1 January, 2006
The giant letters blared ‘WELCOME TO TIME TOURS!’, and in front of the great billboard stood Mitch Raleigh, along with five other celebrities.
An army of media photographers and reporters took photos of them and yelled questions.
‘God, I hate these things,’ Raleigh muttered.
‘Oh, come on, Mitch. Lighten up,’ the pretty blonde beside him whispered as she smiled for the cameras. ‘This is going to be awesome. And we’re going to be the first to experience it.’
Mitch Raleigh was a novelist from Australia, here in Texas on a book tour for his latest novel, Seven Deadly Wonders. The current success of that novel had got him an invitation to this, the much-hyped launch of Time Tours.
He turned to the girl beside him. An old family friend, Laura had done very well for herself. Not only was she a Calvin Klein model, she was also—
‘So, Humbert! How do you think you’ll review this!’ a reporter shouted from the crowd.
The hunch-backed, bespectacled man to Mitch’s right cleared his throat. In his mid-fifties, Humbert Hughes was a much-feared book reviewer from the New York Times. It was a very brave move by the people at Time Tours to invite him.
Interestingly, Mitch Raleigh knew something about Humbert Hughes that few others did: a year ago, Hughes had submitted a manuscript for a novel to publishers in New York and London. It had been awful, unreadable, and had been rejected by everyone.
Today, however, the usually dour Hughes was in fine spirits.
He’d even brought a bottle of vintage 1932 Dom
Perignon to celebrate the occasion with his fellow travellers—Mitch, Laura and three sporting stars.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and a new figure stepped up onto the stage: Tad Ellis, the dashing CEO of Time Tours Inc. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he proclaimed. ‘Welcome. . . to Time Tours!’
He raised his hands, and the giant billboard on the stage divided into two halves, revealing the Travelling Room.
The Travelling Room
It looked like an ultra-modern laboratory.
In its centre was a ring of six silver recliner chairs, each of them bolted to the floor like dentist chairs and each fitted with a dome-shaped device on the headrest.
‘This is where the magic happens!’ Tad Ellis proclaimed. ‘This is where our guests will commence their journeys to . . .’
A video screen sprang to life, a voiceover man intoning:
‘. . . The Ancient Empire! Go to the world of Ancient Egypt, where you will live like a pharaoh. Overlord: experience the action of World War II first hand! Or Dinosaurland: for the naturalists, take a scenic tour of the Earth as it was 75 million years ago. Or, for the not-so-naturalist, how about going on a T-Rex hunt?’
There were three more worlds: including one called Superstar where you lived in a world where you were the most famous person alive.
Tad Ellis said, ‘To create our worlds here at Time Tours, our expert programmers have joined forces with the world’s foremost historians, scientists and satellite surveyors. Our proprietary engine program, Ultimate World v.2.0, uses their input to create realistic environments based on the actual terrain and cityscapes of our planet. So when you storm the beach at Normandy, you’re storming a replica of the actual beach.’
The media wrote frantic notes, filmed the images.
During the pause, Mitch turned to Tad Ellis: ‘Sounds a bit like The Matrix.’
‘This is way better than the fucking Matrix,’ Ellis whispered before moving away and continuing his presentation. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! You can do all this and more at Time Tours! How?
Well, it all takes place in your mind.’
All in Your Mind
Humbert Hughes popped the cork on his 1932 Dom Perignon and the six celebrity time tourists toasted each other and drank.
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