Lucifer's Crown (18 page)

"Because,” Thomas said, “through relics God allows the supernatural to enter the natural world, thereby leading us toward the divine light."

"Illuminating the faith,” interpreted Maggie.

"Three relics in particular strengthen each other."

"Three? Oh, that's right, you've got one yourself."

"Yes. I keep the Cup from which Our Lord drank at the Last Supper."

Maggie's hair rose on end. She twisted around to look up at him. “You mean you really do have the Holy Grail?"

"An element of it, yes.” His face was a sketch by da Vinci, strong lights, stronger shadows. His glasses reflected the flames.

He is who he says he is
, Maggie told herself, although whether that was thought or feeling or wishful thinking she didn't know. And didn't care. She looked back into the heart of the fire. “Okay. If I swallow who you are, then I might as well swallow that—that a symbol can be real."

"Symbols are real.” Thomas's gentle laugh sounded like Dunstan's purr. “The Grail is the Celtic cauldron of rebirth and inspiration, the emerald that broke off Lucifer's crown when he fell from heaven, the philosopher's stone beloved of alchemists. It was Robert de Boron in the twelfth century who wrote that the Grail is the chalice or cup of the Last Supper. That the Cup was brought here to Glastonbury has been implied by many writers, but no one said so explicitly before Tennyson."

"You're the one who brought it here?"

"Yes. When I found the Cup, I found the purpose of my immortal life, as well as the means of my penance."

"To guard the Grail and all its symbolic baggage, is that it? Because we need it—them, whatever—to get us through the End Times? But 1999, 2000, 2001—they're all arbitrary dates."

"Dates that were fixed long before my birth. Although three significant stories did originate in my own twelfth century, amongst them the intermingling of the Grail stories with the stories of Arthur, bringing human emotions to the former, and providing motivation to the latter."

Maggie's brain was starting to twitch. But she felt as though she were reading a good book, and couldn't put it down. “So what's going to happen at the beginning of the third millennium? Armageddon?"

"I don't know what will happen. I know what I'd like to happen."

What? Oh ... He hoped he would die. God knew she felt alone. How much more alone had he felt, year after year after year? She bent her head again to his denim-clad thigh. He didn't smell old at all, not sour or mildewy, but fresh and clean as a spring garden.
Touch me
.

He touched her, his hand stroking her hair and settling lightly on her sweater-clad shoulder. And there was consolation, she thought, in flesh against flesh. Well, in flesh against wool against flesh.

"I fear,” he said quietly, “that the end of the millennium—the actual end, the beginning of 2001—will indeed be the end of our world. That it will be an Endarkenment, if you will."

"If you lose the relics then you're no longer illuminating the faith, proving that there's an Unseen and that the gap between it and the Seen can be bridged. I get it. I think."

"Demonstrating that mankind was created with the opportunity to choose good over evil. Making sure that there is always someone who sets the example of embracing love and forgiveness over hate and vindictiveness. Of choosing inclusion over exclusion."

"Like you?"

"I am but the instrument of God's grace. As is the Grail."

"So Armageddon isn't a matter of armies clashing by night. It's a matter of individual choices. Why am I not surprised?"

"Because you are not afraid of asking questions,” Thomas answered.

He intended that as a compliment. “You're part of some secret society guarding various relics?"

"No. Secret societies and hermetic traditions are elitist games. No true conspiracy can be sustained for long. Look at Mick's family, muddling through in the usual human fashion until their identity faded into legend. I'm one of a circle of friends. The existence of the relics is no secret, and their stories, their patterns, are common knowledge."

"True, yeah. But why are the Book and the Stone so important?"

"Because with the Cup they form a triad, an echo of the Trinity—three in one, one in three. The complete Grail. The Stone, an ancient artifact of the Jewish people, is the father. The Cup, a relic of Our Lord himself, is the son. The Book, the Word decorated with images of the natural world, in a style that includes Celt, Anglo-Saxon, and Roman, is the all-encompassing Holy Spirit. Together they have what Jivan would call
prana
, the energy of the universe. Breath."

"Okay...” What had Thomas said to Rose about beglamoured? Maggie asked herself. And here she was, enchanted by his words, by his ideas, by his metaphors. Although she wasn't about to deny his physicality. Not his sexuality, but his physicality, the abstract made concrete, like a relic. But then, while he might be almost nine hundred years old, he was no relic. “The relics sound like Tolkien's rings of power."

"Without stretching the comparison too far, yes. Tolkien was a guardian in his own way, of the power of language and of the natural world. His father,” added Thomas, “was even named Arthur."

Maggie couldn't help but laugh. “This is like calculus and poetry. I have to take them on faith, too.” His reply was the clasp of his hand. No teasing movement of his fingers, no inquisitive probing of his thumb, just the steady clasp. “You've never told anyone all of this because you never wanted help before, right?"

"Quite right. It is for that perception, that glimpse into my pridefulness, that I need you, Maggie. I can only hope that somewhere in your heart you need me."

She didn't ask herself just what she was getting herself into here. She surrendered to the caress. “I think so, yes."

The last incantatory phrases of Mozart, of Vaughan Williams, even of “First Rites” ebbed into silence. In her mouth lingered the aroma of sun-warmed grain, the smell of the corn dollies, the tang of water from a deep well—didn't the Gaelic word for “whiskey” mean “water of life” ... She closed her eyes. The glow of the fire was a sunrise through her lids. In just a moment more she'd sense that peace of God which passed all understanding, and grasp the state of grace.

The knock on the door was as harsh as the sudden thrust of a battering ram. Maggie's heart shattered and bits lodged throbbing in her throat and stomach. Thomas jerked. His voice strangled, he called, “Come in."

Anna opened the door. “I'm so sorry to intrude, but I just went up to the room I share with Rose, and this note was on my pillow."

Maggie lurched to her feet and grabbed the sheet of notebook paper. In a hurried scrawl Rose had written, “I've gone with Mick to Housesteads, Robin told him his father is there okay. R."

Thomas loomed over her shoulder. “Housesteads. The Scottish Borders. Anna, I'd be much obliged if you would ring Inspector Gupta. Ask him to come straightaway. And do you know where Sean is?"

"I'll find him.” Anna vanished out the doorway.

Maggie stood reading the note over and over again, as though she could wring more than words from it. “Shit! Robin was so mad there at Sarum, I should have known he'd strike back as fast and as hard as he could."

Thomas's eyes were a landscape drifted by the ashes of pride. “No. It is I who have struggled with him for long, weary, years. I should have known. But the damage is done. We shall deal with it.” He set the hot dry strength of his left hand against her cheek. With his right he made the sign of the Cross. “Magdalena,
dulcis amica dei
.” Then he seized his coat, handed her hers, and ran into the night.

Dulcis amica dei
, sweet friend of God.
Yeah, right.
“Wait for me,” Maggie called, and stumbled into the darkness.

The icy night air slapped Thomas's face. Beside him Maggie stumbled. He grasped her arm, guiding her into the courtyard, and threw open the door of the house.

In the light her face was white and cold, her eyes hard. A few moments ago she'd glowed in the firelight. Sulfur filled his mouth, overwhelming the last tang of sun-warmed grain. Damn Robin! But that was redundant, he was already damned.

Dunstan crouched halfway up the staircase, tail twitching, eyes watchful and wise at once. “That's why the cat ran off so suddenly. He heard Mick and Rose leaving.” Maggie reclaimed her arm and rubbed at it.

I've hurt her
, Thomas thought.
Probably not for the last time
.

Anna walked down the staircase. “Inspector Gupta's on his way. Sean's coming down. I'll get the Puckles.” She went on toward the kitchen.

Thomas strode into the lounge and set about the fire. A vigorous bashing of the logs sent his resentment hissing like a shower of sparks up the chimney. God had given him anger to fight evil, yes, but he could not allow anger to misdirect his actions now.

"Divide and conquer,” said Maggie behind him. “You warned me."

"Rose knew that Anna would come directly to you with her note. Trusting you—and by extension, me—must have been a very difficult decision for her. Just as trusting Rose must have been difficult for Mick."

"How did Robin get through to him so fast?"

"By playing on his vulnerability, I expect, his guilt about not being able to help his father."

"And now Robin has Rose, too!"

Thomas replaced the poker in the rack. “Robin will not have Mick or Rose alone, any more than he had you or me alone at Old Sarum."

Feet clattered down the staircase and Alf's voice echoed in the hall. “What's all this then?"

Several people burst into the room, Anna almost obscured behind Bess and Alf, the lad Sean mussed and red in the face, a girl lagging behind him ... With weary resignation, Thomas recognized Ellen Sparrow. “Well hello, Ellen."

"This here's Bess's daughter,” Alf explained to the others.

"Yeh.” Ellen crossed her arms across her chest, concealing the bloodstained bandage on her right palm.

Maggie looked from Ellen to Sean and his slightly shame-faced expression. She swore beneath her breath.

"Anna,” said Thomas, “would you hand round Rose's note, please?"

"Blimey,” Alf said when he read it. “Housesteads. That's one of those old Roman forts along Hadrian's Wall. A long way from here."

"Rose ran off with Mick?” Sean's expression slipped off balance, incredulity warring with indignation. “Jeez."

"Ellen?” Thomas asked. “Do you know Robin Fitzroy at all?"

The girl sent an apathetic glance toward the note. “I'm a member of the Freedom of Faith Foundation, aren't I?"

As he feared, then. Robin had found himself yet another group of damaged souls who would be susceptible to his poison. “And Calum Dewar?"

She stiffened. “Yeh. He's a member as well, isn't he?"

The knocker on the front door thudded home, but before anyone could answer Jivan let himself in. The knot of people unraveled before him. “What's this about Miss Kildare?” he demanded.

Alf handed him the note. Jivan's features darkened as he read it. “Robin Fitzroy, eh? He's lying—we've heard sod-all about Calum Dewar, haven't even turned up his car.” His eye fell upon Ellen. “I don't believe we've met."

"She's my daughter, Ellen Sparrow,” said Bess.

"Been going about with this Fitzroy chap,” Alf added.

Jivan whipped out his notebook. “Do you know where he is?"

"Nah,” Ellen replied with a yawn.

"Could you show me the lad's room?” Jivan asked Alf. They went up the stairs. Doors opened and footsteps walked overhead whilst the faces in the lounge turned this way and that, not connecting. Then Jivan was back. “Nothing. Did anyone take notice of his car?"

"A Fiesta,” said Sean. “Kind of a dirty red. A rental."

Ellen edged away. “Here, it's been a long day, I'm off."

"Do you need...” Bess began, but Ellen didn't stop.

Sean watched her plod up the stairs, his confusion almost palpable. Having a word with the lad wouldn't help, not when he was at the mercy of that hormonal imperative which could so often led men into blind folly.

"I'll notify the authorities in Northumbria.” Jivan shut his notebook. “Thomas..."

Thomas led Jivan outside, Maggie close upon their heels, and was halfway across the courtyard before he realized Anna was hurrying to catch them up. “I hope you don't mind,” she said, “but I'd like to help, if I may."

"Yes you may, with thanks.” Thomas ushered everyone into his cottage and narrowly avoided shutting the door on Dunstan. With infinite dignity, the cat settled down on the hearth to wash his face.

The embers of the fire filled the room with a liquid orange glow. Thomas switched on the electric light and pulled out a chair for Anna.
She is less fragile than she seems
, he thought. She refused to trust the evidence of her senses and accept that they'd met in her childhood, for doing so would conflict with her understanding of natural law. Her refusal was her choice. He could not—he should not—go about ripping the veil of reality for everyone.

Jivan sat heavily down. “Miss Sparrow knows Fitzroy, does she?"

"I remember her as a fearful and embittered child, just the sort Robin easily exploits,” Thomas said. “He's using her as a spy, I expect. Mick told me Calum was writing checks to her."

Swearing more audibly, Maggie took the fourth chair. “I saw her in Salisbury cathedral. She wasn't wearing the hooker outfit then."

Jivan's notebook reappeared like a rabbit from a hat. “I'll lay you odds that Fitzroy's lured Mick away because of this relic business. But where does the Foundation come into it? Morgan was a member, we've learned. Dewar as well. Fitzroy is a consultant."

"Consultant!” Maggie laughed sarcastically.

From his coat Thomas produced the paper he'd pulled from the cathedral notice board. “I've kept an eye on the Freedom of Faith Foundation for some time now, wondering if Robin were at work behind the scenes."

Jivan took the notice and read it aloud. “'Are you concerned about the erosion of family values in Britain? Then attend the Freedom of Faith Foundation lecture at the Assembly Rooms, Glastonbury, Friday November 5.’”