Matt Reilly Stories (11 page)

Every
day this happened. Every day, that is, until the morning the Crown Prince’s
body was found crucified on the great wooden cross above the altar.             

* * *

THE
BODY

The
prince’s death-pose almost perfectly resembled Christ’s. He had been
nailed
to the gigantic wooden ornament.

And
as De Christo—a battle-hardened veteran of the just-finished war—had quickly
deduced from the dead prince’s bloody wrist-wounds, he had been alive when this
had been done to him.

That
the Crown Prince of France—the
Dauphin
—had been murdered on the grounds
of the monastery would normally have been enough to send the Abbott of Mont St
Michel into a blind panic.

But
this was worse. Much worse.

Because
the King was on his way to Mont St Michel.

He
would be here in two days.

Whence
he would discover that his first-born son and heir to the throne of France was
dead.

* * *

THE
INVESTIGATOR

Fortunately
for De Christo, he had been away from the Mount when the murder had taken
place—he had taken two day’s leave to visit Bayeux, to see some old friends. He
had returned to the monastery on the Monday morning that the body had been
found.

Truth
be told, this was both fortunate
and
 unfortunate.

Fortunate,
because he was not a suspect.

Unfortunate,
because the Abbott asked him—as an impartial outsider, as a former army
commander, and now as the Royal Architect—to find the killer.

De
Christo didn’t much like the idea of peering behind the curtain of life at Mont
St Michel—every monastery had its secrets—but he also knew that the King, his
friend, would demand an explanation of the killing.

 ‘I
will need complete freedom of action,’ De Christo said to the Abbott.

 ‘You
shall have whatever you ask, Master Builder.’

 ‘Then
let us view the scene of the crime.’

 Moments
later, De Christo was standing in the cavernous cathedral, beneath its soaring
ceiling.

 He
saw the Crown Prince still hung high, hands spread wide, head limply bowed.

 Then
he examined every corner of the cathedral—but found nothing of note.

 But
then, high up near the ceiling at the side of the cathedral, he saw a small
balcony. Its rear door was ajar.

 After
a few minutes’ climbing, De Christo stood on that very same balcony, gazing out
over the entire cathedral. It was a splendid view.

 His
feet crunched on something.

 He
looked down: and saw several tiny pebble-like stones, each orange in colour.
They looked like the crushed pebbles used in some of the paths in the
monastery’s gardens.

 ‘Hmmm,’
he said.

 He
returned to the Abbott down in the nave. ‘Has anyone left the Mount this
morning?’

 ‘No,’
the Abbott said. ‘The gate records show that not a soul has left the island. It
was the first thing I checked.’

 ‘Which
means our killer is still among us,’ De Christo said.

 ‘Still
on the island. Lord Abbott: seal off the Mount. From now on, no-one enters.
No-one leaves.’

* * *

THE
ISLAND MONASTERY

How
the Dauphin and his entourage came to be at Mont St Michel was a matter of
history. After 116 years of bloody warfare with the English—a war which would
later become known as The 100 Years War—all of France was celebrating.

And
Mont St Michel—the spectacular monastery-cathedral perched high on its own
island out in the centre of the Gulf of San Malo, so high that it was visible
for twenty miles in every direction—was to be the focal point of the post-war
celebrations.

Three
times during the hostilities, the island monastery had held out against English
sieges, once against the vicious Henry V himself.

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?’