"Please
don't fuss, Marion. I'm absolutely fine.
Feeling much better and really enjoying
seeing the sights."
The
quality of the call, despite the fact it was
coming from the other side of the Atlantic,
was so good that it was hard for Marion to
imagine that her brother was far away in
Paris, and not ensconced in his neat little
house near the university.
"You're
wrapping up well? After all, it is the middle
of winter over there."
"Absolutely."
"And
you promise you're taking your
medication?"
Her
brother sighed. "Of course I am. I'm
doing everything right. Don't worry about me,
please."
"Well
I do. I can't help it." Her voice, with
its gentle, refined Canadian accent, rose a
little, and he felt instantly contrite.
"I
know you do and I'm grateful that someone
cares about me." He assumed a more
cheerful tone. "Now, I must go. I catch
the train to Rennes tomorrow, then on to
Dinan. You know how much I'm looking forward
to seeing all these medieval Breton
towns."
"Yes,
well I hope you have a wonderful time. And
phone me the minute you get there."
"I
can't keep phoning you, Marion, it's costing
me a fortune."
"Well,
just when you arrive. Or find an Internet
café and email me."
"Will
do. Goodbye then, Marion. Love to Peter and
the children."
"Goodbye,
Gil. God bless you. Be careful."
She put
down the phone and turned to her husband.
"He sounds stressed."
"Of
course he's stressed," he said, lowering
the newspaper he was reading. "You keep
hounding him from pillar to post. Leave him
alone, let him get over it in his own
time."
Marion
shook her head. "I don't think he ever
will get over it. What those people have done
to him..."
He
reached out and patted her hand. "Well,
no matter what happens, no-one can reproach
you for the way you've behaved. You've been a
good sister to him."
Marion
sniffed a little, partly to conceal her
pleasure at this rare compliment.
"Well," she said, patting her
greying hair, "whatever he did, he is
family."
Gilbert
Whelan had managed to negotiate the journey
from Paris to Rennes, and thence on a smaller
local train to Dinan, and a taxi took him to
the hotel he had booked in the centre of the
town. It was small and dark. The room was
cramped and the bathroom so tiny he could
scarcely move in it. But the building dated
from the fourteenth century, and Gil, as a
historian, was in his element. He put away
his few possessions, and then ventured out
into the town.
Dinan
is an ancient walled town, the medieval parts
of which have been scrupulously preserved.
Gil walked, enchanted, through narrow streets
with overhanging timber-framed houses,
examining crumbling stonework and scarcely
noticing the throng of modern humanity which
flowed around him. Eventually, he felt
hungry, and he stopped at a pavement café
and had the Breton speciality, a galette, a
savoury buckwheat pancake, washed down by a
kir Breton, a drink of crème de Cassis with
cider, which was too sweet for the meal, but
got him into the holiday mood. As he was
paying, he realised he hadn't yet contacted
his sister. He asked the waiter, in his
drawling Canadian French, if there was an
Internet café nearby.
"An
Internet café?" the man said, as if the
concept were completely alien to him. One
moment, Monsieur, I will enquire."
He came
back in a few seconds, carrying the change
from the bill on a small silver saucer.
"There is one in the Rue de la Chaux,
Monsieur. If you go down that way..." he
gestured to his left... "and take the
third turning on the right, you will find
it."
Thanking
the man, Gil got up and followed the
directions. It was now about ten at night,
but the streets were still buzzing and the
pavement bars doing good business.
The Rue
de la Chaux was right in the old town, a
winding, narrow road, full of ancient houses.
In some places, the upper storeys of opposite
houses nearly met across the route. Gil
walked along it twice, searching for the
Internet café. There were all sorts of
strange shops; one selling craft jewellery,
another with second-hand books, a third a
chemist whose window was got up to resemble
an old apothecary's shop. There was a
boutique selling the sort of flowing,
hippy-type clothes that Gil hadn't seen since
the sixties. And there was an ancient inn,
which looked as if it hadn't changed much for
a thousand years. But nothing that looked
remotely like an Internet café. Frustrated,
Gil stopped to look in a small antique shop.
The windows were leaded and bulging with age,
and there was the usual assortment of ancient
crockery, second hand jewellery, books and
objets d'art. The name of it, he saw, was
'L'Atelier du Temps,' which he translated as
'The Time Shop.' In gothic lettering on the
door, he noticed the words. 'Find the window
to another world...' and below that, rather
more prosaically, 'Internet access here.' The
shop was dark, with just a faint glow coming
from the back. He tried the door without much
hope, and then retraced his steps to the
hotel, making a mental note to come back in
the morning.
That
night, he had the best sleep he'd had for
months, his rest untroubled for once by the
usual recurring nightmares in which
Christophe was taken from him, over and over
again. Breakfast was in the small dining room
at the rear of the hotel. It was early in the
season, and there was only one other guest, a
man of about his own age. They exchanged
greetings, and Gil thought he was probably
British, a view reinforced when he saw the
man was reading the previous day's copy of
the London Times.
After a
leisurely breakfast of croissants and coffee,
he made his way to the Rue de la Chaux,
knowing that if he didn't contact Marion
she'd be imagining all sorts of disasters.
The narrow street was thronged with walkers;
students, he thought, and a few
holiday-makers, mostly British and German.
This time the shop was open, and as he
entered, an old-fashioned bell pinged above
him. It took a while for his eyes to become
accustomed to the dark. The interior of the
shop was crammed with objects, most of the
floor covered by small tables, chairs,
rocking-horses, plant-stands,
sewing-machines, and all manner of furniture
and ornaments, while bookshelves lined the
lower parts of the walls and the upper parts
were thick with paintings, prints, clocks and
mirrors. There was no-one there.
After a
while, a bead curtain at the rear of the shop
swished, and a man came through. If he had
been made up for the part of Mephistopheles,
it would have been spot on. He was tall,
dressed in tight black trousers and a black
polo-necked sweater. His hair, receding from
his face in a widow's peak, was also black,
with a flash of silver at either side, and
framed a long, intelligent face, dark eyes
and a goatee beard. As if to complete the
illusion, there emerged from the back of the
shop a large black cat, which milled about
around his legs, never taking its luminous
eyes off the newcomer.
"Can
I help you?" the man said, in only
slightly accented English.
Gil
moved further into the shop, and spoke in
French. "How do you know I'm not
French?" he said, laughing.
"Ah,
well, the cut of the jacket is not at all
Gallic. Nor is your hair. And you have that
slightly puzzled look which foreigners always
have when entering this establishment. Let me
see; from the accent, North American. Not the
States. Canada."
"Spot
on, Sherlock. I'm surprised you can't get it
closer than that."
"Oh,
but I may be able to do that. Again, with
reference to the clothes and the hair, I
think we can rule out the big cities - I'm
sorry if that sounds rude. And although your
French is excellent, it is not, I think, your
first language, which leads me to suppose
that you don't come from Quebec."
Gil
inclined his head. "Correct."
"I'm
no expert on accents, but to me, yours sounds
like Ontario."
Gil
laughed. "You're good. Very good."
"And
from your appearance, I would say you were an
academic. Yes?"
"I
was."
"Aaaah.
University, not college. You look too calm to
have been a school-teacher."
"I
don't know about that..." He was shaking
his head . "Now then, that narrows it
down to Universities in Ontario. Let me see;
that could be any of about twenty. But I
think I'll go for North Bay. West
Ferris?"
Gil
shook his head, stunned. "That is truly
amazing. You're absolutely right."
"Ah,
excellent. My powers have not deserted me.
So, what can I do for you, Mr...?"
"Whelan.
Gilbert Whelan." After such a startling
display of the detective arts, he felt he
should shake hands. "And you
are..."
"Luc
de Jugon. Welcome to Dinan."
They
both laughed.
"I
really came in to use the Internet. It says
in the window..."
"Oh
yes. There's a terminal in the back room
here. Please come through."
He
motioned him through the bead curtain to a
small, bare room where there was a lone
computer.
"Help
yourself," he said.
Gil
grinned. "I expected something a bit
more elaborate. What do you do if there's a
rush?"
Luc
raised his eyebrows. "It's never
happened. But if it did, I would bring my
laptop down from the flat."
Gil
laughed again, and sat down at the computer.
He quickly typed a message to his sister,
telling her he was fine, then closed down the
connection. There was no longer anyone else
he wanted to communicate with. He felt
something moving around his feet and looked
down to see the black cat was weaving between
his legs, purring loudly. A voice spoke from
just behind him; de Jugon had approached just
as silently . "So, if you are finished,
may I offer you some coffee or some wine, and
a tour of this poor establishment?"
"Thank
you, I'd like that."
Luc
showed him the shop and the back room beyond
where the computer was, which was equally
crammed with objects, then up the curved
wooden stairs to the apartment above. Luc's
bedroom was at the back, with a fine view
over the neighbouring roofs; the sitting room
partially overhung the street below and was
tastefully and much more sparsely furnished
than the lower rooms. Gil couldn't stop
exclaiming over the amazing preservation of
the house, his historian's soul enraptured by
this simple authenticity.
They
returned to the shop, where a couple of
comfortable chairs commanded a good view of
the street and the passers by.
Luc
opened a bottle of red wine and filled two
glasses. "So," he said. "You
said you were a historian, and you obviously
know a lot about medieval France. Is that
your speciality?"
"Yes.
I teach... taught... European history, but my
special passion is France in the middle ages;
and in particular the Breton War of
Succession. I wrote a book..."
The
Frenchman was on his feet. "Of course
you did. I knew the name was familiar.
Somewhere...." He searched around on one
of the bookshelves at the back of the shop.
"Ah, here it is." He came back with
a hardback copy of Gil's book. "
'Brittany and Civil War, 1341-1365.' "
He turned it over in his hands. On the back
was a picture of Gil, looking younger,
fitter, happier. Luc read the blurb.
"Senior Lecture in European History at
West Ferris University. You said 'taught'.
But you're too young to have retired."
Gil
looked down at his drink, clearly
embarrassed. "Yes, well, I had to leave.
My fault, not the university's."
Luc had
returned to his chair and was perching on the
arm of it. "There was a scandal?"
"There
was a scandal," Gil said, starting to
get up, "and I really don't want to talk
about it."
"Ah,
my friend, don't go. Please don't take
offence. I have a natural and insatiable
curiosity. And I believe in fate. No-one ever
comes into this shop without there being a
reason for it."
Laurence
sat down, putting his hand over his eyes for
a moment.
"Look,
Monsieur. Here in this picture you are
laughing, full of the joys of life. Now you
are grey, aging. There's an air of defeat
about you. But this picture is dated only two
years ago. Something very serious has clearly
happened to you."
"I've
been ill," Gil said. "I've come to
France to get away from... everything."
"And
by the look of you, you've brought it all
with you." The piercing dark eyes
regarded him intently. "You've been
unlucky in love, but there's something
more."
Gil
sighed. This man was clearly determined to
hear his story, and, as it happened, he had
never told it to anyone. His sister knew what
had happened, only because everyone in their
circle, everyone in the town knew. But he'd
never actually talked about it. And perhaps,
he thought, confessing to this stranger would
exorcise the whole business, and leave him
free to sleep at night and to get on with his
life.
His
host filled his glass to the brim and said
simply, "Please, tell me your
history."
Gil
closed his eyes for a moment, composing
himself. "I have to start the story by
saying I am, and always have been,
homosexual."
Luc did
a little twirl as he placed the bottle on a
table. "It will not surprise you to know
I have some experience of that myself."
"Ah.
I wouldn't know. Gaydar, as far as I'm
concerned, doesn't work. Mine doesn't seen to
have been switched on at all. And for a shy
boy growing up in small-town Canada, coming
out was absolutely impossible. Such
encounters as I did have were furtive and
riddled with guilt. Until I met
Christophe."
"Christophe,"
Luc repeated. "Tell me."
"He
was an undergraduate. Two years ago, just
after that picture was taken, he arrived in
one of my lectures. He was... I'd never
experienced anything like it. It was love,
infatuation, at first sight. He was blonde,
tall, an athlete. A boyish, open face. Blue
eyes."
Luc was
nodding sympathetically.
"After
the lecture he came to me with a question
about a book I had recommended. We went for a
coffee. He was twenty.' He paused for a
while. "I think it's fair to say that he
seduced me. Not that I wasn't totally ready
to be seduced. But I still retained enough
sanity to know I shouldn't be sleeping with
one of my students. But Christophe..."
He paused, eyeing his companion.
"Please
don't worry about me," Luc said. "I
doubt if there's anything you can say which
will shock me."
"Let's
just say Christophe did things to me which
made it impossible to resist. We became
lovers. I knew it was wrong; knew I would be
dismissed if it became known. I begged
Christophe to be discreet. But he had all the
confidence of the young; he thought it was an
issue of gay pride and equality instead of
one of professional ethics. And so I was
outed, both as being gay and also as
something approaching a pederast."
"Surely
not. He was twenty, after all. Well over the
age of consent."
"Yes,
but I was his tutor. If the relationship had
been between a lecturer and a young woman, it
might have been possible to keep it quiet.
But this was different, there's still an old
fashioned salaciousness when two men are
concerned. I resigned before the university
could dismiss me, and Christophe and I set up
home together. For a while, I was content,
even though some people snubbed me. For a
year, we lived together in perfect harmony. I
loved him with all my soul. And sexually I
was on a journey I had never even known
existed."
"For
a year, you said? You never quarrelled?"
Gil
smiled reminiscently. "Oh yes, we
quarrelled all the time. Over my choice of
music and films, over food, over drink, over
his friends. But making up was always
sensational. Christophe was... those lips,
that tongue. He taught me wonderful
things."
"And
then?"
"And
then it went sour. He stayed out at night, he
was offhand and unfriendly. We stopped making
love. I was desperate, frantic with worry. I
was right to be. One day he told me he was
moving out. He had met someone else."
"Aaaah."
"I
raged, I cried, I begged, I pleaded. He
listened with disdain. Then he told me he was
leaving me for a woman. He was in love with a
woman and she was carrying his child. Evil
things were said; he told me I was a
corrupter of youth, that I had almost
destroyed him, but that at last he'd seen the
light. Then he left me to set up home with
her. And every day I used to see them,
walking past my house with a pram, a happy
little family unit."
"That
was cruel."
"It
was. I imagined that everyone was talking
about me, that they were saying what had
happened proved I must have debauched
Christophe. The conviction that I was the
centre of disapproving attention, and the
primitive grief at losing my lover made me
ill. I had a breakdown."
Luc got
up quietly and fetched another bottle of wine
which he opened, pouring some of the ruby
liquid into each of their glasses. Gil went
on, "My sister nursed me. I know she
couldn't understand what I'd done or why, and
I know she disapproved. But she has a strong
sense of duty and she cares about me. And
when I got a little better, I found I still
couldn't bear to be out in public anywhere
where people might know me and point the
finger. So I decided to fulfil a lifetime's
ambition to travel in Europe. And here I
am."
"You
know, I'm sure people weren't saying those
things about you. I'm no psychiatrist, but it
sounds to me as if you were externalising
your own guilt."
"Objectively,
I know that's so. But it always seems so real
to me. Hallucinations do, you know."
"The
best thing you could do would be to find
someone else. To start again."
Gil
laughed self-deprecatingly. "Who'd want
me? Christophe said I was boring and set in
my ways. And although for a while I thought
of myself as a great lover, he disabused me
on that score as well."
"What
a charmer your Christophe sounds."
Gil
shrugged. "I had my chance with a
beautiful youth, and I blew it." He
grinned at the double-entendre, glancing at
Luc, wondering if his language skills were
sophisticated enough to pick it up, but he
was laughing too.
"Well,
we must see what we can do."
"Oh,
I'm past help, I think. Now, let's talk about
something more cheerful."
"If
you wish. Tell me, have you heard of 'La
Fête des Remparts'?"
Gil had
indeed heard of the great festival when the
whole of the town was given over to medieval
pursuits, with most of the townspeople
dressing up in the bright costumes of the
middle ages.
"Yes.
And I would have liked to be here for it. But
it's in July, isn't it?"
"It
is. But I've got some good film. Would you
like to see?"
"Very
much."
Luc led
him back to the computer and clicked on an
icon. At once, the screen filled with scenes
of crowds, dressed in the manner of the
fourteenth century. There were jousts,
jugglers, magicians, food-sellers, jesters.
Gil watched, fascinated. "Wonderful. We
could be back in 1350, and in the middle of
the civil war." He sighed. "Happier
times, simpler times."
"I'm
not so sure. Our own times have much to
commend them."
Gil
shook his head. "No, I don't think
so." He looked at his watch.
"Gracious, I meant to visit the museum
before lunch. I really mustn't take up any
more of your time." He got up and
staggered a little, feeling suddenly dizzy.
Luc was at his side.
"Are
you all right?"
"Yes,
I'm fine. Too much wine, that's all."
"Well,
I hope you'll come again. I feel we have a
lot more to discuss."
"I
will indeed. I have to keep my sister
continually appraised of my movements."
They
shook hands, and Gil stepped out into the
street. When he looked back, Luc was standing
in the doorway, watching him impassively, the
cat weaving between his booted feet. The
street was empty, and Gil moved back in the
direction he'd taken the previous night. When
he got to the place where the alley joined a
larger thoroughfare, he remembered suddenly
that he hadn't paid for the use of the
computer, or for the wine, and he turned to
go back . As he did, he cannoned into a woman
who had appeared behind him. She let out a
shriek and immediately began to berate him.
At first, he couldn't work out what language
she was speaking; it wasn't French, it wasn't
English. But gradually, he began to make
sense of the words, and he realised he was
being told off in Breton. This was a language
he'd studied a little, during the researches
for his book. But he'd never heard it spoken,
and was astonished at being able to
understand it. His pleasure at the discovery
far outweighed any discomfort at being
shouted at.
The
woman was stout and middle-aged. To his
surprise, he realised she was dressed in a
long gown in some dark blue material, with a
little starched white hat, shaped a bit like
a crown, which fastened beneath her chin with
a bow.
He
muttered his apologies in French, which the
woman seemed to understand. He heard the
distant sound of a clock striking, and
assumed it was the medieval clock-tower in
the centre of the town. The woman said, quite
clearly, 'Hurry, or we'll miss the
burning."
"Miss
what?" he said, thoroughly confused.
"The
burning," she said crossly. "Of the
sodomite."
She
began to walk swiftly towards the central
square, and Gil, baffled, followed her. As he
did he noticed that all the people around him
were wearing the costume of the fourteenth
century, the women in starched caps or more
elaborate wimple-type headgear, and the men
in tunics, with thick leggings and leather
boots.
Gil's
head was spinning. "Too much red
wine," he muttered to himself, as he
joined a stream of humanity heading for the
square. "It must be some minor festival
that I don't know about." The market
square was in reality a rectangle, a large,
cobbled area now thronged with people. With a
slight feeling of embarrassment, Gil realised
that he was the only person not in costume.
But no-one seemed to notice this faux-pas. At
the place where the narrow alleys of the town
gave way to the open area, the crowd was
particularly dense, but because Gil was
taller, and for the most part, bigger and
stronger than the rest, he got through to see
what was attracting so much attention.
Set in
the middle of a fenced-off area, and guarded
by four fierce looking soldiers, also in
costume, was a wooden structure which he
recognised as a pillory. It was a large
wooden frame, consisting of two solid cross
bars, supported on either side by posts. The
top was a board, which could open like a
clapper, with holes for the head and neck;
the bottom had a similar arrangement which
captured the feet. In this abject position
was a young man. His hair was dark, his face
pale. He wore a similar loose tunic to others
in the crowd, but below that he was naked,
his penis and his shapely bottom on show to
everyone. Gil felt a jolt of surprise. This,
surely, was carrying verisimilitude too far.
He muttered out loud, "This wouldn't be
allowed in Canada."
Members
of the crowd were throwing things,
vegetables, fish. In shock, Gil saw what
looked like a dead rat hit the youth on the
chest. And then, from behind him, a burly man
stepped forward and began to use a
many-tailed flogger to beat the prisoner on
back and buttocks, while the crowd roared.
The boy raised his head, so he seemed to be
looking straight at Gil, an expression of
beatific joy on his face. And unmistakeably
the penis began to inflate and grow, becoming
firmer as the beating continued.
"But
this is..." Gil looked at the man next
to him, who was yelling in enjoyment.
"It's barbaric. What has he done?"
The
man, a large, bearded individual in doublet
and hose, looked briefly at him. "He's a
sodomite. Lay with a fellow soldier and tried
to defile him. Disgusting."
Even in
his shock and distress, Gil registered that
this man was also speaking in Breton, and
that he could understand.
"But
it's dreadful. Someone must make them
stop."
"Oh,
they'll have to stop in a minute," the
man said, nodding over his shoulder.
"The pyre is ready."
Appalled,
Gil turned around. There, in the centre of
the square, was a huge pile of wood, and
rising from the centre of it, a thick post.
There could be no doubt about what was going
to happen; this youth was going to be burned
at the stake.
His
neighbour said happily, "But first,
they'll cut off his dirty cock and balls so
they can shove them in his mouth before they
send him to the devil."
Gilbert
Whelan was an educated man, an intellectual.
He knew perfectly well that, at the beginning
of the twenty-first century, in civilised
Western Europe, things like this simply
didn't happen. But even so, before his very
eyes, a young man was about to be mutilated
and burned to death. He looked around wildly
for some sort of authority figure, for a
police officer. But the only people who
seemed to be in charge were the solemn guards
and the man with the flogger. Then the crowds
parted to let through a man in clerical
robes, at the head of a column of soldiers.
Gil
tried to remember where the police station
was. He edged through the throng, back in the
direction he'd come, still searching for
someone who could help him. He'd got to the
edge of the square, to the main road running
through the centre of the town. And suddenly,
it hit him that there were no cars in the
normally busy thoroughfare. No cars, no
bicycles, no vans, nothing. And it came to
him in a blinding flash that something very
strange had happened here; that he was no
longer in Dinan in the twenty-first century.
He was assailed with a mixture of fear and
excitement, and the only thing he could think
to do was to go back to the antique shop and
seek help from Luc de Jugon. For some reason,
he was quite positive that he would know what
was going on.
But as
he began to retrace his steps he heard
screams coming from the square, and the sound
of whinnying horses. Looking back, he could
see the crowd disperse, people running, some
of them falling. A woman ran past him and he
said urgently, "What is it, what's
happening now?"
"Some
horses have bolted, pulling a wagon."
He
hesitated, wondering if he should go back to
help. Another woman with a child hurried
past, her face contorted with fear.
"He's escaped," she shrieked.
"The sodomite's escaped."
Gil
turned to go back to the square. And as he
did, a figure raced past him and into the
alleyway beyond. A figure dressed in a tunic
and nothing else. The condemned man. Without
thinking, Gil followed him. At first, he
thought his quarry had escaped through a
narrow passage at the end of the alley. But
then he saw movement in a doorway, and looked
into the terrified eyes of the youth from the
pillory.
"Don't
worry," he said quickly. "I'll help
you." He was wearing a short mackintosh,
and he tore it off and gave it to the man,
who was panting, leaning against the door
trying to recover his breath. "Here, put
this on. At least it'll cover up your... more
obvious bits."
He
stopped for a moment, trying to get his
bearings. In this strange world into which
he'd been plunged, nothing was certain. But
he knew he had to get the boy to some place
of sanctuary. For a moment, he contemplated
seeking refuge in the Church of Saint
Sauveur, the burial place of the heart of the
Breton warrior, Bertrand du Guesclin, who had
fought a celebrated single combat with an
English knight, Thomas of Canterbury, in the
very square from which they had just escaped.
But on reflection, he thought it was probably
the church which had been responsible for
meting out the punishment in the first place.
And in any case, if his observations were
correct, they were somewhere in the middle of
the fourteenth century.
"What
year is it?" he asked the young man,
urgently. His companion looked at him as if
he were mad. "The year of our Lord
1350," he said.
Gil
nodded to himself. Du Guesclin had another
thirty years to live, and the famous combat
had taken place only three years earlier. It
was fascinating, but he realised he didn't
have time to ponder on it further. To get to
the antique shop they would need to cross the
main road, but as he tiptoed forward he could
see it was full of townspeople, enraged at
being denied the promised spectacle. He went
back to the young man. "I think we'd
better go this way. I'm pretty sure I can get
to my hotel by these back streets. Always
assuming it's still there. Then we can work
out what to do next."
The
young man was still looking at him warily,
but he had little choice, and so he followed
through deserted alleys until they reached
the hotel. It looked surprisingly unchanged
from when Gil had seen it last, with the
brightly painted in sign swaying in the wind.
Fortunately, there was no-one in the hallway,
and Gil assumed that the staff had all been
out in the square to watch the execution. The
keys were behind the small counter, just as
they had been when he left, and he took the
one for number 8, praying that his tumble
through time had not disrupted his hotel
booking. Upstairs, the door opened easily,
and the room looked just as he'd left it. A
quick examination showed that his things were
all there, but when he glanced into what had
been the bathroom, it was nothing but a
cupboard. The young man flung himself onto
the bed, his shoulders still heaving with
effort and fear. Gil locked the door from the
inside.
"Now,"
he said. "You should be safe for a
while. I think you'd better tell me what all
this is about." The man stood up and
removed the coat. He was indeed a handsome
specimen. His hair was thick and curly, very
dark, framing a pale face with dark,
lash-fringed eyes and no trace of beard. He
was tall, though not as tall as Gil himself,
but by the standards of the day a giant.
Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and
long straight legs, and, as Gil had seen
earlier in the square, impressively large
genitalia . "What's your name?" Gil
asked him.
"I
am Arnaud. Arnaud de Redon."
"And
I am Gilbert Whelan."
The boy
looked at him with suspicion. "You are
not Breton. Nor French. Are you
English?"
Much as
it went against the grain for a Canadian of
Irish extraction to masquerade as an
Englishman, Gil thought it would be far too
complicated to attempt to explain, so he
nodded.
"What
are you doing here?"
Gil
realised, just in time, that it was the
middle of a civil war, and to say that he was
on holiday would sound odd. Remembering his
history he merely said, "I bring letters
from England." Edward III of England had
backed one of the contenders for the Breton
throne, John de Montfort, while du Guesclin
supported the other, Charles of Blois. He
rather thought the Blois supporters had
occupied Dinan at this time, but it wasn't
beyond the bounds of possibility that the
King should write to them, and he hoped his
guest wasn't sufficiently au fait with Breton
politics to know if this was feasible or not.
It must have made sense, because Arnaud
nodded.
"Poor
boy, I should have offered you a drink,"
Gil said, remembering his manners. In the
corner of the room, where there had been a
mini-bar, there was now a small cupboard, and
when Gil opened it he was pleasantly
surprised to find a pitcher of water, one of
white wine, and a couple of tankards.
"This
really is a very good hotel," he told
Arnaud, realising how ridiculous the remark
was even as he made it. "Wine or
water?"
"Wine
please." Arnaud had now moved to the top
of the bed and was leaning on the hard
bolster there; his legs were spread, his limp
penis artlessly displayed.
Gil
handed him a tankard, trying to avert his
gaze. "Now, tell me what on earth you
did to get yourself in so much trouble."
Arnaud
looked at him with suspicion for a while, but
then obviously decided that after such a
gallant rescue he deserved an explanation.
"I'm a soldier, squire to Vincent de
Plancoet, who is a general in du Guesclin's
army. We've been here for a while because de
Montfort..." He stopped suddenly,
realising he might be talking to a spy.
"Well, that doesn't matter. But anyhow,
in the barracks I usually share a bed with my
friend, Jean. And in the night we... well,
you know."
"I'm
not sure that I do," Gil said
cautiously.
"Well,
I put my member between his legs, or between
his bottom cheeks, and rub until I spend
myself. And he does the same. Sometimes we
suck each other."
"And
that's all?"
"Well..."
Arnaud looked at him sharply again.
"You're not something to do with the
church?"
"Arnaud,
if I wanted you to be punished, all I needed
to do was to drag you out into the main
street when I found you in that alley."
He
nodded. "Well, sometimes, if the madness
is very bad..."
"...the
madness?"
"Here.
You know." He used one hand to heft up
his long penis . Gil gulped. "Yes, I
know."
"Well,
if it's very strong, he lets me put my member
in his fundament."
"And
you like that?"
"I
like it a lot."
He was
stroking his penis as he spoke, coaxing it
into life.
"And
Jean?"
"He
likes it too. Not as much as me though. I
like it even more when he does it to
me."
"So
what happened?"
"Jean's
been sent on patrol along the Arguenon.
Usually we'd go together, but de Plancoet
needed me to see to the horses. In the
barracks, they put another lad in to share
with me. Denis. Saint Denis, we call him.
He's very religious."
He
sounded dismissive and amused, and Gil
reflected that young men hadn't really
changed much in the intervening
six-hundred-and-fifty years.
"I
forgot," Arnaud said, simply. "It
came over me very strong, and I turned round
and kissed his neck and then I spat on my
finger and put it in his bottom. And he
didn't say anything, just moaned, so I pushed
my member up his fundament and kept going.
And he was sighing and moving and liking it
too. Then I spent myself, and it was good,
and suddenly this idiot started yelling about
sodomy and the devil's work and getting up
and showing his arse to the others with my
spending dripping from it."
"Oh
dear." Gil said, feeling there wasn't
much more he could say.
"So
he'd made such a fuss that the officers got
involved, and of course, then the chaplain,
and he reported it to the bishop, and they're
all excited because it's an ecclesiastical
court and so... well, you saw what
happened."
"But
if this happens a lot in the barracks, why
did...?"
"Oh,
they know it happens, and no-one cares, so
long as no-one makes a fuss. But Saint Denis,
he's a bit simple. I just forgot it was
him."
Gil
shuddered, both at the thought that such an
easy mistake could lead to a sentence of
death, and because the boy was taking it so
calmly.
"And
what happened in the square. When you got
away?"
"Two
horses pulling a heavy cart came crashing
into the crowd. I think Jean and my other
friends probably set them off. It was just as
the priest was taking me over to the pyre,
and I made a dash for it. But I wouldn't have
got far if you hadn't found me. Not like
this." He gestured down at his penis,
now at half-mast. Gil had been studiously
ignoring it, but this made him say faintly,
"How old are you Arnaud?"
"I'm
twenty."
Twenty.
The same age Christophe had been when they
first made love. Gil moved towards the door.
"I expect you'd like to have a wash
after all that excitement." There was a
china bowl and a jug on the dresser and he
gestured to it. "I'm going downstairs to
see if I can get us something to eat. I bet
you're hungry."
"I
could eat a horse," the boy said.
"You promise you won't...?"
"No,
of course not. I'll be back very soon."
Downstairs
he found a plump woman whom he assumed to be
the landlady. She certainly seemed to know
who he was and when he asked for food to be
brought up to his room, she readily agreed.
"If you could supply some extra, I'd be
most grateful. I walked a long way today and
I'm very hungry." He went upstairs,
where Arnaud had taken the opportunity to
strip off completely and was washing his lean
body in the flowered bowl. When he had
finished, Gil washed too, mentally noting
that the lack of a proper bathroom was one of
the very worst aspects of living in the
fourteenth century. Both of them used the pot
which, happily, was confined to the big
cupboard. Afterwards he put on his dressing
gown, and contemplated giving Arnaud
something to cover himself up with. In the
end he decided against it; the man wasn't
embarrassed, and he himself was enjoying the
show far too much. When the knock came at the
door, Gil hustled Arnaud into the cupboard
which would one day be the bathroom, and took
the tray from the smiling maid. There was a
huge pot of stewed chicken in red wine, great
chunks of bread and a flagon of ale. Arnaud
ate like a starving man, while Gil picked at
a piece of chicken. When all the food was
gone and the ale drunk, Arnaud laid back on
the bed again, and unselfconsciously stroked
his penis until it pointed at the oak-beamed
ceiling.
"What
am I going to do?" he said simply.
"Tomorrow,
I'll take you to see a friend of mine,
someone I'm sure can help us." Gil was
convinced that the secret to what had
happened would be found in 'L'Atelier du
Temps'. "For now, all we can do is wait.
You must rest. No-one will look for you
here."
"Thank
you Monsieur." Arnaud was touchingly
trusting.
They
extinguished the candles and climbed naked
into bed. Gil had left the shutters open and
a bright moon illuminated the room. His brain
was racing with everything that had happened,
and he had no thoughts about what might come
next, but nevertheless, his own cock was
rising and twitching, and when Arnaud's hand
crept around and stroked it, it responded by
leaping into full erection.
"I
thought, since you rescued me, and don't seem
to mind my shame, you might like...?"
Gil
turned, shaking off the hand which was
causing him such pleasure. "I would like
it above all things, Arnaud. But please don't
feel you have to pay me this way. I would
have helped you under any
circumstances."
"You're
very kind." Arnaud wriggled a little.
"But I'm feeling it very strongly
tonight. And I'd like to experience the
English way."
"In
that case..." Gil rolled over and
studied the young man's beautiful visage.
"May I kiss you?"
"I'd
like that."
Arnaud
lay back, and Gil, his heart beating, leaned
over him. In the moonlight, he looked pale
and noble, like the carved profile on a
crusader's sarcophagus. Gil moved forward
until he could feel the boy's breath on his
face.
"Arnaud."
Their lips met. The Breton's mouth was
unbelievably soft and sweet, and when his
tongue began to probe, Gil could feel a
familiar warmth suffuse his brain.
As they
kissed their two cocks met, rubbed together,
grew harder. After a long time, Gil broke the
contact and moved down the bed, kissing the
arching neck, licking at the nipples, running
his lips along the line down the centre of
the body until he reached the cock. The tip
was glistening with liquid, and he licked it
off, his body thrumming with desire. He took
the solid shaft into his mouth, his head
working back and forth, the taste, the smell,
fuelling his longing so he thought he might
burst from pleasure and anticipation. Arnaud
pushed upwards, making animal noises, while
Gil ducked below, smoothing the cock with his
hand while he sucked at the swelling balls.
Then his tongue found the tiny opening, the
small, tight anus, and it flickered and
sucked, relishing the sweaty, manly aroma,
and spurred on by Arnaud's yelps of pleasure.
"No-one
has ever... done that... to me...
before..." Arnaud gasped, thrusting his
hips upwards and trying to get the probing
tongue deeper inside him.
Gil
moved upwards, his tongue, fresh from its
exploration, plunging back into Arnaud's
mouth. His fingers entered the tight anus,
pushing inwards, feeling his lover press onto
his hand.
"Wait,"
Gil said. He reached into the side table
where, nearly seven-hundred years later, in a
spirit of desperate longing, he had placed a
tube of lubricant. It was still there. He
spread a dollop of the sticky substance onto
his fingers and smoothed into onto his cock,
which throbbed with a painful intensity. Then
he renewed his attentions to the dilating
hole, pushing in two, then three fingers,
while Arnaud strained against him.
"Now,
please," Arnaud breathed, "Show me
how the English do it."
"It's
been a long time," Gil said, but as he
spoke he was positioning his cock and
beginning to slide it inwards, slowly. It was
tight, very tight, and Arnaud's muscles
contracted and relaxed, causing glorious
sensations to riot through his body. Then he
got his rhythm, and speeded up, pushing
Arnaud's legs upwards until they were hard
against his chest, opening him out
completely. And then he pounded into him, and
he forgot where he was, or what the year was,
or who he was, or anything. The only reality
was that narrow, warm channel and his own
desire to enter it deeper and harder. For the
first time for two years, he even forgot the
name of the lover who had betrayed and left
him. And Arnaud was making such a racket that
he brought his mouth down onto the Breton's
just to muffle the sound, so they kissed as
they fucked, and lights flashed in Gil's head
as he felt his juices bubble up and fire deep
into the young soldier. Then Arnaud was
coming too, a warm, wet adhesive between
them, as Gil flopped, exhausted, on top of
his lover. And they slept.
In the
morning they were wakened by the inexorable
chime of the clock in the tower. Gil found he
had his arms around the Breton, who wriggled
in the embrace and slid down the bed like an
eel to take his early morning erection in his
mouth and suck it with determination until he
climaxed with unaccustomed ferocity. Then he
had to repay the compliment, and then there
was a knock on the door and breakfast was
brought, in the shape of freshly baked bread
and milk.
When
they'd finished, Gil found Arnaud some jeans
to wear, which were too tight for him, but at
least, under the tunic, looked like leggings.
And when they'd finished getting ready and
breaking off to kiss and fumble and fondle,
it was time to plan how they would get to the
Rue de la Chaux.
In the
end, it was easier than they'd anticipated.
They crept along the alleyways and back
streets until they got to the main road, and
then sprinted across it. The Rue de la Chaux
had a few early morning shopper in it, and so
they slowed down, not wanting to draw
attention to themselves. Gil had been uneasy
about finding the shop, given the strangeness
of his situation, but it was there, looking
exactly as it had when he last saw it. He
pushed at the door and went in, hearing the
familiar bell.
'L'Atelier
du Temps' was just the same. He thought that
some of the artefacts which had been there in
the twenty-first century were still on sale
in this, the fourteenth.
Someone
came through the bead curtain at the back of
the shop. A tall man, in a black tunic, black
hose and black boots. Dark hair tinged with
silver, and a small goatee. Round his feet
stalked a black cat.
"Ah,
Professor Whelan. So you survived your
twenty-four hours?"
"No
thanks to you," Gil said, without heat.
"You knew what you were sending me to,
didn't you?"
"Of
course. Otherwise there would have been no
point in doing it." Luc stepped forward.
"So this is the famous sodomite that all
the town is looking for." He put his
hand under Arnaud's chin and looked into his
face. "Very nice." He turned to
Gil. "I trust you put your time with him
to good use?"
"
I don't think I've ever had such a busy
night."
"Excellent.
The question is, what are we going to do with
him now?"
Arnaud
was kicking his heels, idly picking things up
and examining them, rather as a child might.
Gil thought it was odd, since it was his life
and future which was under discussion, but he
supposed that the years of army life and of
being a mere vassal of his master had led to
this lack of self-will.
"Well,
we've got to get him out of Dinan..."
"Yes."
The dark eyes looked at Gil shrewdly.
"Tell me, was it a very good experience
last night?"
"It
was... absolutely sensational."
"Then
perhaps we don't need to get him out of
Dinan, just out of 1350."
"What,
take him with me?"
"Why
not? It looks to me as if he needs some
intellectual stimulation as well as... the
other sort."
"But
how could we explain it to him?"
"I'll
do it. Arnaud?"
The
young man stood to attention.
"You
need to be removed from the reach of those
who are trying to harm you. By means of a
sorcery so powerful that it is quite beyond
your ability to comprehend it, this gentleman
has come to you from the future. He now
invites you to visit his own time for a
while, and meanwhile I shall see what can be
done to improve your situation."
"Witchcraft!"
Arnaud looked scared.
"Yes
indeed," Luc said kindly. "But
since you have been convicted of sodomy,
which is a sin of a similar magnitude, you
need have no fear."
This,
he seemed to accept. Gil asked, "What
happens, what do we do now."
"Just
come this way." Luc led them through the
curtain to the rear of the shop. There, on
the table which usually held the computer,
was a large crystal ball. Luc passed his
hands over it, smiling at Gil. "Every
age has its own technology."
They
watched in fascination as a cloud-like
substance swirled inside the glass, and then
cleared. Inside, Gil could see a minute
replica of the street outside, empty now.
Then, shockingly, a white delivery van drove
along it, followed by a middle-aged couple
strolling past, the man festooned with
cameras.
"There
you are," Luc said, pointing to the
crystal with both forefingers. "Have
fun."
"But
what...?" Gil spluttered, confused by
this casual attitude to powerful magic.
"No
questions. Go and enjoy yourselves and come
back when you're ready. I'll sort something
out for Arnaud."
Gil
took Arnaud by the hand and led him out into
the street. It looked unchanged, and the
young man hung back. "No! Someone will
recognise me."
"I
don't think so. But... Steady on!"
A
motorbike roared past them at speed, causing
Arnaud to flatten himself against the wall in
terror. He crossed himself. "What in the
name of all that's holy was that?"
"Oh,
it's a... it's a sort of mechanised horse.
Very fast and noisy. Nothing to be frightened
of. Come along."
By dint
of alternate coaxing and bullying, he got
Arnaud into the main street. "Come and
look at the square," he said, "then
we'll get some lunch."
There
were more people here, and the crowd swirled
around them. Every loud noise or startling
new discovery made Arnaud flinch, but after a
while he got himself in hand. He looked in
astonishment at the market square, where so
recently he had almost lost his life, and
which was now a car park. In the centre,
where they pyre had been, was an equestrian
statue. "Du Guesclin," Arnaud said,
recognising it. "He's a great man."
He seemed pleased.
Gil
went back to the restaurant he'd visited
previously, grateful that Arnaud's clothes
merely made him look like a hippy. His table
manners, however, drew attention from the
other diners, and Gil was glad when the meal
was over. Afterwards, they walked around the
castle and the ramparts, but Arnaud was
indignant about the damage that had been done
to them over the years, and then his nerve
was completely shattered when a French air
force jet made one of its occasional sorties
overhead. Gil thought it was best if they
went back to the hotel . Here, Arnaud fared
better. He was charmed by the flushing
lavatory, playing with it for a while in a
child-like way. He submitted himself to a
shower with good grace, laughing beneath the
spray and holding his face up to be kissed.
And when Gil had dried them both, Arnaud sank
to his knees and took the swollen cock in his
mouth, sucked it with the firmness and
determination of youth, and drank with that
blissful look on his face which reminded Gil
of his expression in the pillory when he was
being beaten.
In the
bedroom they kissed again with lingering
sweetness, and Arnaud said, "I want to
enter you. As you did me. From the front.
I've never done it like that before."
And so
Gil lay on his back on the bed, and bent his
knees, while Arnaud knelt on the floor and
inhaled his odour, eyes closed in pleasure.
He used his thumbs to pull his lover's
buttocks apart, examining the exposed anus
with fascination. And finally, he put his
tongue on it, and licked with relish, causing
Gil to moan with pleasure, and his muscles
involuntarily to expand and contract.
And
then Gil reached out for the lubricant, and
had to show Arnaud how to cope with the tube,
and by the time Arnaud had pushed some of the
sticky substance in, and had experimented
with how many fingers he could get inside
him, and had kissed his cock and sucked at
his balls, Gil was in a state of frantic
excitement.
Now
Arnaud moved upwards, his wiry body looming
over Gil's and there was an agonising moment
while he readied his cock and placed it on
the spasming anus and paused. And finally, he
was driving it home, deep into Gil's bowels,
and once more he experienced the joy he
thought he would never feel again, of a
young, strong cock thundering into him.
Arnaud's
stamina was phenomenal. He went on and on,
shouting in joy, as Gil experienced wave
after wave of climactic shocks. And when
Arnaud fired his warm, plentiful semen deep
inside him, Gil wept.
Later,
as they lay curled up together in the bed,
Arnaud said wonderingly, "And is it
really not unlawful to commit sodomy in this
world?"
"Really.
It's taken us a long time to get here, but in
most places in the world, it's perfectly
legal."
"And
you are not despised? Persecuted? Put in the
pillory?"
"No,
not any more. Well..." He thought about
what had happened to him in North Bay.
"Sometimes we put ourselves in the
pillory, I think."
"Put
yourself there? How strange." But Arnaud
moved Gil's hand to his own growing penis,
and both men soon lost interest in any
further conversation.
Much
later, Gil said, "What are we going to
do with you, Arnaud?"
"I
don't know. What has happened, all of this,
has changed me. I used to believe that all
there was to do was to fight, get drunk, find
some willing girl. In the end, I thought,
once I'd been paid off, I'd get a farm
somewhere and a wife, have children."
"And
now?"
Arnaud
grinned. "No wife, no children. After
that," he gestured at Gil's now flaccid
penis, "I know women are not for
me."
"And
the army?"
"I
don't know. I've been a soldier since I was
thirteen. It's all I ever wanted. But now I
know there's something more, so much more. I
think I'd like to study."
"That's
excellent. Where would you go? Rennes?
Nantes?"
Arnaud
laughed. "There are no places to study
there, not the kind of thing I want do
to."
"Oh."
Gil went quickly through his mental filing
cabinet. "No, you're right; but there
will be a university in Nantes a hundred
years time. Too long for you to wait
though." He thought about it for a
while. "You could go to Montpellier in
the south. Or Paris."
"Paris,"
Arnaud said, in tones of wonder.
"Yes,
and in Paris, this wouldn't get you into so
much trouble." He pulled on Arnaud's
cock, and they began rolling over in renewed
passion.
In the
morning, he asked Arnaud, "Are you sure
you wouldn't like to stay here? Here in this
age, I mean? He was lying on his back, Arnaud
on top of him, their lips close together.
"I
would like to stay with you. For ever."
The lips brushed. "But this world? No.
It is all noise and speed and sharpness and
glare. Not for me. But if you would come with
me, together we could go to Paris. You could
teach, and I could learn. Please..."
Sadly,
Gil silenced him with a kiss. He knew the boy
was right to want to make his way in his own
age, just in the same way as he knew he had
to stay in his. But still, there was an hour
before breakfast, and Arnaud was hard again
and ready.
They
went out for the meal, since Gil didn't want
to scandalise the hotel staff. As they
descended the stairs, they met the other
guest, the Englishman, coming in with his
newspaper. Gil was embarrassed, but the man
looked Arnaud up and down, said good morning,
and as he moved on towards the dining room,
unmistakeably winked. For some reason this
small gesture cheered Gil up immensely.
After a
hearty breakfast, they went back to the shop.
"Luc will know what to do," Gil
said, confidently.
Luc was
in the window, rearranging the display. The
bell pinged, and Gil realised he'd never
actually seen any customers in the shop.
"Well,
my dears, I hope you had a wonderful
night."
"We
did. Gil said. "We've made some
decisions, but we need your help."
"Go
ahead."
"Well,
Arnaud here has realised there is more to
life than soldiering and would like to become
a student. We thought Paris..."
There
was a glimmer of a smile on Luc's face.
"An excellent decision."
"We've
had much pleasure from each other's bodies.
But neither of us can contemplate living in
the other's world. So with great regret,
we've agreed to part."
Luc
nodded. "Very wise. But every now and
again, there may be an opening..."
"And
so our only problem is that Arnaud is still
under sentence of death for sodomy."
"Well,
I think that can be solved if our friend here
can manage a little restraint. Arnaud, I'm
going to send you back to one day before the
episode with Saint Denis. You'll relive your
life, just as you did, the only difference is
that you'll remember everything that happened
to you the first time. You just have to keep
you hands and your other bits off
Denis."
"Ah,
oui, Monsieur!" Arnaud's eyes were
gleaming. "I can talk to Jean and
persuade him to come with me to Paris. It is
far away and in another country, but I think
he'll agree. And after that..."
"In
Paris, I think you'll find enough to satisfy
all your requirements." Luc patted him
on the back. "Are you ready?"
"I'm
ready." Arnaud reached out and held
Gil's hand tightly. They moved to the back of
the shop where the computer stood and Luc sat
at the keyboard and typed some strokes. The
screen came to life and there it was, the
street outside, full of pulsating medieval
life.
Luc got
up. "Now, my boy, you're free to go. Be
careful!"
At the
door, Arnaud and Gil embraced and kissed.
"Goodbye, my dearest friend,"
Arnaud said, in a voice which cracked.
"You have taught me so much about life
and love. And above all, to glory in what I
am, and not to fear the pillory. I will never
forget you. Or this." His had sought the
front of Gil's trousers, giving his penis one
last, loving stroke. Then he opened the door,
squared his shoulders, and disappeared out
into the street.
Gil
turned back into the shop, his face wet with
tears. Luc had tactfully retreated to the
inner sanctum, where he was tapping away on
the keyboard. He looked up. "According
to my researches, your boy is going to do
well. He'll become a major scholar,
philosopher and ascetic."
"Ascetic?
I don't think so. Not Arnaud."
Luc
smiled. "Well, there you are. You can't
always believe the witness of history."
He stood up. "Aaaah, you're upset. Come
here." With one long finger he traced
the course of the tears down Gil's face. He
sighed. "I'm not really supposed to do
this. But with you, I can't resist.
Come." He led Gil over to a solid table
at the far end of the shop. Pushing him
against it, he put his arms around him, and
kissed him deeply. He tasted of honey and
sulphur and wine and wormwood, and his tongue
was hot. His hands worked expertly at the
fastening of Gil's trousers, and when they
were round his knees, strong hands on his
hips turned him round and bent him over the
table. A finger touched his anus.
"Lube?"
Gil said, in a breath.
"Not
necessary," Luc replied. And with that,
something entered him, something so hard, and
broad and hot that for a moment he was
reminded of the death of the English King,
Edward II, who was reputed to have been
killed by having a red-hot poker inserted
into his rectum. But soon the pain declined,
and the sensation was so exquisite that he
thought he would pass out from pleasure. And
Luc began to move, and it was as if the nerve
endings in his anus were being individually
kissed. Luc drove in and out, leaving him
weak and gasping, and eventually he felt a
searingly hot liquid fill his bowels, and in
his mind it was as if he had been injected
with molten gold, and he felt uplifted and
exalted. At the same time, he ejaculated onto
the floor, pulsing hard, jetting drops of
semen.
Luc
said, "This is my gift to you. For ever
more you will experience the heightened
sensitivity you do now. Everything will be as
wonderful, all orgasms as intense." He
leaned forward and bit into Gil's neck.
"All I ask is that, as you perform the
act of love, for one moment, for one second,
you think of me."
Then it
was over, and Luc withdrew, and by the time
Gil, still shaking, had turned around, he was
zipped up and as cool as ever.
"Now,
my Canadian friend, tell me, what have you
learned from this little experience?"
Gil
shook his head. "I can't say. It's all
too fresh."
"You're
probably right. But I must say, having met
young Arnaud, I find it interesting that this
boy, with all the weight of the church and
state ranged against him, and the threat of
execution hanging over him, was considerably
less concerned about his alleged crime than
you, a product of the enlightened
twenty-first century."
Gil
gave a rueful smile. "I know. I think
too much."
"Indeed.
And after your experience with the egregious
Christophe, I believe you've been looking for
a similar pattern, and then flagellating
yourself with the knowledge that you'll never
attain it again."
"Perhaps."
"So,
you're looking in the wrong place. You made a
sensible decision, letting the boy Arnaud go.
Young men like that get tedious after a
while, for those of us with more refined
minds. In thirty years, perhaps..."
Luc's eyes twinkled. "Look around you.
Take chances. Enjoy what you can get."
Gil
nodded. "I will. And thank you."
Bizarrely, considering what they'd just been
doing, they shook hands.
Luc
said, "Please come again. Any time we're
open."
Gil
left the shop, turning round once to see Luc
framed in the doorway, the cat, as ever,
between his feet . That evening, tired by his
exertions, he dined in the hotel. While he
was having coffee, he became aware of someone
standing by the table. The Englishman.
"I'm
sorry to disturb you. But you are here on
holiday, aren't you?"
"I
am."
"Me
too." He out his hand. "Michael
Campion. How do you do?"
"Gil
Whelan." They shook hands. "Won't
you sit down?" he said politely.
"Well,
just for a moment. Look, I'm sorry to bother
you. But for a while now I've been trying to
sort out a trip up to Mont Saint Michel. It's
not that far away, but without transport it's
quite difficult. So I thought I'd hire a car.
I just wondered if you'd be interested in
coming along?"
"Well...
thanks. Of course, I want to see Mont Saint
Michel. When were you thinking of
going?"
"Tomorrow."
"Oh."
Gil heard Luc's voice. 'Take chances, enjoy
what you can get.' "Yes," he said,
"thank you. I'd like that."
The
other man hesitated. "And it's just you?
Your... friend won't be coming?"
Gil
grinned, suddenly feeling free of
embarrassment. "Oh no. He was a good
friend, but a very temporary one."
The
approach to Mont Saint Michel affords the
visitor one of the most thrilling vistas in
Europe. Far away across the flat sea-plain,
one can see the stark protuberance of the
Benedictine Abbey and church, rising from its
rocky islet at the mouth of the river
Couesnon. And in the distance, it looks like
a model, one of those constructions they put
inside those paperweights which simulate snow
when you shake them. But as you drive
onwards, the fortress grows and broadens, and
there's a point where you have to acknowledge
that this is something powerful, mystical and
frighteningly real.
Because
it was out of season, there weren't the usual
crowds, and they parked the hire-car easily
and walked along the causeway , through the
stone gateway and up the narrow streets. It
was not unlike Dinan, but this was the middle
ages recollected by Disney, with souvenir
shops, bars and cafes at every turn. They
climbed the steep track up to the abbey
itself, and went in, marvelling at the
sublime architecture, and at the sheer
brilliance of the builders who had created
this masterpiece on such an unpropitious
piece of rock.
Afterwards,
they had lunch in a restaurant whose
stone-framed medieval windows looked across
the treacherous shifting sands which
surrounded the island, and out to sea. Every
now and again, a party of riders came into
view, the horses picking their way along the
safe paths with practised ease. They ate a
platter of fruit de mer, of lobster and
langoustine, oysters and mussels, bulots and
winkles, washing it down with a fresh
Muscadet.
Gil
felt completely relaxed. Michael, it
transpired, was former publisher and a
bookseller, partly retired, with a shop in
rural Oxfordshire. Gil was one of those
people who liked to have company when
sightseeing, but also enjoyed the selfish
pleasure of going off alone to look at
something, or spending much longer at one
site than another, and Michael understood
this. When they got back to Dinan it seemed
natural that they should dine together. Over
dinner, Gil found himself spilling out the
story of his disgrace and departure from the
university. And Michael told him that his
partner had died two years previously.
"He smoked himself to death," he
said. "I kept telling him, but all he
would say was that life without cigarettes
wasn't worth living." He gave a slight
sob. "He didn't seem to realise that for
me, life without him wasn't worth
living."
Gil
reached out for Michael's hand and before
they knew it, there they were, in the middle
of a public place, holding hands.
After
that, it seemed right for Gil to go back to
Michael's room. Michael drew his finger down
Gil's cheek. "I've wanted you since the
first time I saw you in that dreary dining
room. But then, when I saw you with the hunk,
I thought I had no chance."
"Ah,
the hunk. Well, he has a beautiful body. But
the brain is that of a bimbo."
"Oh.
Michael leaned forward so their lips were
just touching. "Yes?"
"Please."
And so
they kissed. And then they were taking off
each other's clothes. Michael had a good,
lean body, a big cock rising from dark fur.
They fell onto the bed, kissing, and then
found themselves in a spoon position, Michael
behind. His hands smoothed down Gil's spine,
entering the crack between his buttocks, and
moving down to his anus. Lube-coated fingers
entered him, then he felt the familiar nudge
of a cock. Into his head flashed the memory
of Luc, saying, 'All I ask is that as you
perform the act of love, you think of me.'
And with that, the most incredible sensations
began coursing through his nether regions,
and his body burned with excitement and
desire as Michael fucked him with slow,
skilful strokes.
It felt
as if he and Michael had always been meant to
be together. At breakfast the next morning,
they excitedly began planning an itinerary
for a journey across Europe. Gil said
suddenly, "Oh my God, I must message my
sister. She'll be frantic, I haven't been in
touch for days."
"We
can do that this morning."
For
once, Gil really wanted to talk to Marion,
wanted to tell her that finally he had found
someone he loved and who loved him. A man he
wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
"Yes; let's go to the Internet café in
the Rue de la Chaux. There's someone there
I'd like you to meet."
"Rue
de la Chaux? I don't think there is an
Internet café there. I've been up and down
it several times, but never seen one."
"Oh,
it's pretty well hidden. Come on, I'll show
you."
They
walked through the town to the Rue de la
Chaux. When they got to 'L'Atelier du Temps',
Gil was shocked to find it empty, the windows
grimy, and a pile of free-sheets and junk
mail visible inside the door.
"But...
it was here the day before yesterday!"
"It
can't have been." Michael patted his
arm. "Never mind, time plays tricks on
us all."
"It
certainly does," Gil said. He looked
swiftly up and down the street, and seeing it
was empty, pulled Michael into the doorway
and kissed him passionately.
"Hey!"
Michael said, before submitting to the
embrace.
"Here's
to time," Gil said, pushing him hard
against the door. He kissed him again, his
hand on the front of Michael's smart slacks,
squeezing the growing erection. And from the
corner of his eye, at the back of the empty
shop, he thought he saw for a moment the
flickering outline of a smiling man in dark
clothing, with a little goatee beard, and at
his feet, a cat with black fur and luminous
eyes.
© 2006
Ansley Vaughan
