Phase 4
It was a fine sunny day in the English countryside. The grounds of Cruxton Abbey were dotted with brightly coloured tents serving a range of refreshments. There was a stage where several men with beards were dancing with bells on their ankles and waving handkerchiefs, while other people dressed as medieval minstrels played period instruments.
The Minister’s black car pulled into the gates and went up the well raked gravel drive toward the main house.
“You’re sure you have this all sorted out, Jolly,” said the Minister apprehensively, his eyes darting through the crowds at the side of the drive, as if he might spot Professor Barbara Moore lurking behind a tree waiting to stab him with a pen.
“Absolutely, Minister,” said Jolly. “She was very pleased with the offer to see the crux festival for herself.”
“I’ll bet she was,” said Wragg. “She wants my head.”
“You don’t typically cut off heads at crucifixions,” muttered Bob.
“I did anticipate her intentions,” said Jolly, “and I noted that the department would naturally take a dim view to her publishing anything that was not based on thorough research.”
“So,” said Wragg, “you told her we’d squash anything she wrote.”
“Not exactly,” said Jolly. “We do have to respect academic freedom, after all. I merely negotiated the terms of full access to the complete range of crux festival activities.”
“So, we’ll get to read and review anything she writes before it goes to press,” said Wragg.
“I hardly think it will come to that,” said Jolly. “Ah, here we are.” The car had pulled up to the front doors and the butler was opening the Minister’s door. Lord Randolph was waiting, wearing a Roman senatorial toga, attended by three young women in very sheer shifts.
“You’re just in time!” Lord Randolph beamed. “The main event is just about to start. Good of you to sort out that nonsense about cultural funding in the nick of time. Can’t think what blundering dunderhead could have thought up a bollocks scheme like that. You wouldn’t catch a Wragg doin’ that, eh, m’boy!” He clapped Wragg on the shoulder affably.
“Er, yes, Uncle Randolph. No problem,” said Wragg. “Just glad it’s all sorted out.”
“Quite right!” said his Lordship. “Now, these ladies will accompany you. They’re “slavegirls” for today, so they’ll do pretty much anything you ask. I got one for each of you. This one (green shift) is for Sir Jollyrei, this one (blue shift) can go to Mr. Inder, and for you my boy, Valerie (pink shift). Valerie was a tall slim black girl, and she put her arm in Wragg’s and winked at him. Suddenly he felt better.
“Right then,” said Lord Randolph. “Off we go!” He led the way at a sprightly pace around the house to where there was a large meadow. A large group of spectators had already gathered. Just at the edge of the meadow was a row of tents and outside the tents a row of ten posts. Each post had a girl tied to it so that she was facing the post on her tiptoes, and each girl wore nothing but a white loincloth.
Behind the girls was a row of men in leather kilt-like garments, holding whips. Bob thought one of them, a large man with a red beard, looked familiar. Certainly, among the girls, he could spot Eulalia, tied to one of the posts. Beside her was another woman, complaining loudly that this was not what she had intended. He thought she looked a lot like Professor Moore.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Lord Randolph loudly. He was a very robust 87 years. “I want to thank you all for making our festival a rousing success for another year. As you know, Cruxton has been hosting the festival for over 700 years. While we no longer actually require our lovely participants to die on their crosses…” here he paused for some hesitant laughter.
“…we do try to carry on with the spirit of the thing in our re-enactment. And so, without more ado, let the punishments begin!” He waved his arm theatrically.
The men with whips started in on the girls tied to the posts who started to dance and writhe, trying to avoid the whip. Eulalia bobbed and swayed and occasionally gave out a squeal of pain, when the whip connected with the skin of her back, but she didn’t protest. Professor Moore beside her, on the other hand, yelled “hey!”, and “ouch!”, and other things that probably shouldn't be printed.
Each girl got 20 lashes of a nice soft leather whip. At the end, their backs were red, but not bleeding. The men went forward and cut them down from the posts. Each girl was given a cup of water and a chance to rest.
“What do you think so far?” asked Lord Randolph. “In my dad’s day, the gels would have blood on their backs by now, and proud of it! But these days…”
“It’s very good,” said Sir Jolly. “Quite elemental. I say, m’Lord, isn’t that Professor Barbara Moore sitting beside the Scottish girl there?”
“Yes, that’s her,” said Lord Randolph. “Came to me in London a week ago and asked to sign on for the “Crux experience” she said. I wasn’t sure she’d sign the contract, but she did.”
“It was the version of the contract that our department approved?” asked Jolly.
“Of course!” said his Lordship. “Everything nice and legal, accounted for and by the book here!”
“Of course it was,” said Sir Jolly. “I do apologize. No intention to suggest anything untoward going on. It’s a splendid festival. Only disappointing that we have to sully these events with so much…”
“Bloody red tape!” said Lord Randolph.
“Exactly what I was thinking, m’Lord,” said Jolly, smiling in agreement.
“My nephew will sort that out!” said Lord Randolph, once again clapping Wragg on the shoulder.
“He’s a fine Minister,” said Jolly.
The girls were all standing now and the men were laying beams of wood on their shoulders binding their arms to the beams. Then when the ten girls all had a beam, the men with the whips got them moving in a procession that took the line of almost naked girls out into the meadow. The crowd was allowed to follow along at a regulated distance, order being kept by Cruxton Abbey staff dressed as Roman soldiers.
“It’s very well thought out, isn’t it?” said Wragg to Bob.
Bob had been enjoying the distractions offered by his slave girl, who was normally one of the chambermaids, she had explained. He had enjoyed finding out that her breast was also of the satiny variety, and quite soft. She had been saying something about a four-poster.
“I’m sorry, Minister?” said Bob.
“I’m just commenting that it’s very well done,” said Wragg. “The festival, I mean.”
“Very cultural,” said Bob reassuringly.
The girls were now in the centre of the meadow and were standing and resting while the men fixed the beams to long poles lying on the ground. Then each one was taken and laid down on one of the crosses. The crowd was allowed to move in a little to get a good view. Ropes bound each girl by the wrists and ankles, and then the crosses were raised.
Barb Moore had intended to leave, but the man that had whipped her was apparently a soliciter in his professional life, and reminded her that she had signed a contract, including initialling her compliance with all aspects of this event. She had resigned herself to the fact that she had simply not read the contract thoroughly enough before signing, and now she was in it. She stopped complaining. She only struggled a bit as they took her arms and legs and laid her down on her back on the wood of her cross. She was bound to it efficiently and then had the giddy sensation as she went upright.
There was a momentary jolt as the cross dropped into a hole, and then she was hanging, with enough slack provided to bend her knees and for her legs to push her up.
“There, Yankee,” said the Scottish girl. “It’s not so bad once ye’re up. Ye’ll want to keep pushing with those nice legs of yourn, to catch a breath.”
“I got tricked into this, you know,” said Barb.
“But it’s not bad sport,” said Eulalia, "once ye get past the pain of it."
At that point, a man dressed as a centurion (Bob thought he looked like the butler) came down the row of crucified girls and ceremoniously tore off each girl’s loincloth, to the cheers of the crowd.
Barb gave a yelp of surprise as she felt him grab hers and pull. The cloth gave way and she was suddenly naked in front of quite a lot of people.
“That should do it,” said Jolly, sounding like something had just been accomplished.
“You don’t think she’ll write a scathing article on this in some academic journal?” asked Wragg.
“Well,” said Bob philosophically, “she is hanging around naked in a public festival after signing papers agreeing to do it.”
“It’s really just a simple equation of whether she gets more questions about why she did it and what it was like, obscuring the point she was trying to make which was that it’s degrading,” said Jolly. “It’s fine to want to hang naked on a cross, as long as you don’t write articles about how wrong it is afterwards.”
“Well, you got yoursel’ into this,” they heard Eulalia gasp out to Barb. “Dance for them then.”
“So, they’ll hang there for about half an hour,” Lord Randolph was saying, “and then we take them down, have a doctor make sure they’re alright, and then they’re given massage, a solid meal, and all the pampering they want. We have about 3 shifts of 10 girls each, but the first shift is always special.”
“Indeed it is, m'Lord,” said Jolly. "I couldn't agree more. And it's very civilized treatment for the girls."
“You wouldn’t want to try it yourself, would you Sir Jolly?” asked Bob.
“Don’t be silly, Bob,” said Jolly. “I’m more of a leather chairs and sherry person, if we’re talking civilization.”
“I still don’t understand how you got Professor Moore into this position,” Wragg said to Jolly as they watched Eulalia and Barb moving seductively on their crosses.
“She signed some sort of contract,” said Bob, “as I understand it.”
“Naturally there has to be a contract,” said Jolly. “I made it clear that we would be open to Professor Moore having full access to these festivities and all parts of the preparation and behind the scenes aspects of the crucifixions themselves. I noted that we would not only be open to this, but would welcome her presence and facilitate it, subject to a number of standard legal considerations.”
“You made her sign a contract,” said Bob.
“I did nothing of the sort,” said Sir Jolly. “I merely mentioned that there were questions of research ethics that needed to be addressed, and that the contract would ensure that any activities to which Professor Moore acceded would be captured within the legal rubric of the contract. Standard practice for all research done by university affiliated personnel.”
“And the part about how she agreed to actually take part in the crucifixion herself…” asked Wragg.
“Was completely and thoroughly detailed in the terms and conditions set out in the documentation,” said Sir Jolly.
“Where in the documentation was this?” asked Wragg.
“Pages 163 to 166,” said Sir Jolly without changing expression.
“I see,” said Wragg. “Well, I realize that you were just doing your job, as a loyal public servant, but I feel I should thank you.”
“My pleasure, as always, Minister,” said Sir Jolly. “Service is its own reward, but one does like to know one’s efforts are noticed.”
A man in clerical dress strolled by, carrying a mug of lager.
“You’re his lordship’s nephew, ain’t you?” The clerical man had obviously had a few lagers already. “You’re the Minister of Culture or whatnot.”
“Er, yes,” stammered Wragg. He wondered if he was suddenly in trouble again.
“Well, I suppose I should thank you for sorting out the funding thing. Maybe you won’t make such a dog’s breakfast out of it to begin with next time out. Anyway, all’s well that ends well. No hard feelings.” The clerical man staggered off to get a better view of the naked girls on their crosses.
“I wouldn’t think we would need to sort out much funding for a dog’s breakfast,” said Bob philosophically.
“Who was that, Jolly?” asked Wragg.
“Bishop of St. Alban’s, if memory serves,” said Sir Jolly. “Happy that we aren’t reducing the cathedral funding allotments after all, it would seem. Nice to see so many happy people here, don’t you think?”
“What was St. Alban’s famous for again, Bob?” asked Wragg.
“I believe it is considered the origin of the hot cross bun, Minister,” said Bob.
“St. Alban’s?” said Wragg. “Not Cruxton Abbey?”
“I don’t create history, Minister,” said Bob. “I only recount it.”
“Even so,” said Jolly, “the new Heritage Policy does create a fortuitous juxtaposition of themes such that various cross-related entities and festivals all receive equitable support.” Jolly smiled at the slavegirl holding his arm.
Wragg looked as if Jolly's last statement had required him to do complicated mathematics.
“I think Sir Jollyrei is noting the interesting fact that the new policy has simultaneously rescued the Cruxton crucifixion festival and the hot cross bun in one go, Minister,” he explained.
“Well,” said Wragg, looking into the middle distance in what he hoped was a forceful and almost heroic pose, “you know, sometimes you have to spend a little money to preserve things that are worthwhile, and the culture of Britain is worthwhile. Wouldn’t you agree, Jolly?”
Sir Jolly simply said, as he looked at the slave girl, almost naked and holding his arm, and beyond her to the row of crosses, each with a lovely naked girl dancing on it:
“Yes, Minister.”
FIN.