Lucifer's Crown (45 page)

They moved off toward the cottage, Rose hanging on to Mick for dear life, not that he was shoving her away. Dunstan was waiting on the doorstep, and escorted them inside. There Thomas untied strings, unwrapped paper, and unrolled a red and green tartan cloth. Gently, he laid the Book on the table.

Rose leaned closer. Parchment glowed. Colors danced. Patterns changed subtly from abstract shapes into living images-the intricate patterns through which she and the others were walking, and the knotwork of flesh that bound their spirits to the world. Through them all wound the exquisitely written letters of the Word. The cramp in her throat finally eased. “Oh yes."

Dunstan stretched, his chin brushing the floor. The deep lines in Thomas's face eased in the glow of the vellum and its rainbow hues. “Robin held the Book for much too long, but he was not yet, thank God, moved to defile it."

Maggie touched the Book and then looked at her fingertips, as if that Otherworldly glow was paint she could rub off. “Is this why Mick didn't get the Book back at the end of November? So he could show up with it now, when we needed a jolt of hope?"

"I should believe so,” Thomas told her.

"We have two of the three,” Rose said.

"And I still have my own wee relic.” Mick lifted his sweater to show his
sgian dubh
safe at his waist. “But Robin's won a round."

"He succeeded only in setting the place for the revelation of the relics,” Thomas told him.

"Only?” Maggie made a face. “We've been playing musical relics. Now it's time for the tug of war, winner take the future."

"A pitched battle,” said Thomas, “on New Year's Eve, at Canterbury. Robin thinks my guilty conscience will weaken me there, and so it might."

"No,” Maggie told him. “By the time New Year's Eve gets here you won't have a guilty conscience, not any more."

Thomas's eyebrows tightened into doubt and then so obviously threw that doubt away Rose could hear it shatter on the floor.

"Taking the Book and the Stone to Canterbury will be delivering them straight into Robin's hands,” Mick protested.

"Since we do not have the Cup, we must take the other relics to it,” answered Thomas. “Robin is taking as great a chance."

"Can he waltz right into Canterbury, the holy of British holies?” Rose asked.

"Robin can venture even there if his true believers carry him in their hearts. For the cathedral, like my chapel—like your necklace, Mick, and yours, Rose—is but a symbol of the faith we hold in our own hearts. It is when we show that faith from our hearts, passionately, in word and deed, that he is repelled. For our words, our stories, are the greatest relics of all.” Thomas's stern face cracked into a smile. “Let us remember that Robin's stories, his lies, are more likely to divide his forces than our own."

"Yeah,” said Maggie, “may the Force be with us."

"It is.” Thomas's long, elegant fingers began folding the Book into its tartan wrapper. “Maggie, we must carry this to Salisbury straightaway."

The door opened. “Thomas?” asked Gupta. “You've had a spot of bother? Oh, hello Mick, Rose, Maggie."

Rose almost laughed. A spot of bother? Yeah, right. “Tell you what, I'm going to get Mick over to the house."

"An admirable plan,” Thomas told her. “Would you please ask Sean to step across so Jivan can interview him?"

"Oh aye.” Tucking the necklace into his pocket, Mick took Rose's hand in his. Together they retrieved his backpack and a tartan carrying case from the car, then went into the house, where they met Alf lumbering down the staircase. “What's this about Ellen getting herself kidnapped?"

"Inspector Gupta's in Thomas's cottage...” Rose began.

Alf clomped on past. “The lass needs help. Oh, hello there, Mick.” The door slammed behind him.

Mick and Rose went on up the stairs. Anna and Sean were sitting in the gallery beside the Christmas tree, Sean shaking his head. “Hi, Mick, we saw you from the window. I figured Fitzroy was lying about you. You wouldn't believe, he actually had a knife on Ellen."

"I believe it,” said Mick. “No problem."

"Thomas wants you to tell Inspector Gupta about it,” Rose said.

"Let's get that bastard Fitzroy behind bars—going after Ellen with all this woo-woo crap like she didn't have issues already.” Sean stalked off.

"He'll never fully understand, but I told him enough to satisfy him for the moment. Not that I'll ever understand it all, either.” Briskly Anna stood up. “I'll get lunch started. No, Rose, stay with Mick."

No problem.
The piney smell of the tree reminded Rose of the hillside where they'd found the Stone. Where a miracle had happened. She wasn't sure what had happened today—a test of faith, probably. Mick was the miracle.

He sank onto the loveseat, Rose beside him, and leaned his head against her shoulder. She heard his breath whistling in his bruised throat and felt his heart beating in his chest, steady as a drumbeat. Her own heart finally stopped fluttering and fell into the same rhythm. She told him about the Tor maze, Annwn, and Maddy and Calum together.

"Oh aye.” A tear rolled down his cheek, in the Christmas lights a tiny rainbow. A moment later his breath lengthened and his head went heavy against her. He'd dozed off, drained, wrung out, and permapressed, bless him.

Sean's footsteps marched up the stairs. The sound of “First Rites” echoed through the house, first the rock and reel, then the quiet Gaelic blessing: “Deep peace of the running wave to you, deep peace of the flowing air to you, deep peace of the quiet earth to you, deep peace of the shining stars to you, deep peace of the gentle night to you, moon and stars pour their healing light upon you, deep peace of Christ the light of the world to you, deep peace of Mary the vessel who bore him to you."

The words trailed away on a sigh that was both passionate and peaceful. Then the pipes swelled again, dancing with fiddle and guitar and drum, until the song ended in a crescendo of thought and feeling intertwined.

In that completion, Rose saw clearly that no one, human or otherwise, could deny her the presence of God so long as she chose it, freely and honestly. She kissed her fingertips and touched them to Mick's bruised flesh.
This is now
, she thought.
This is forever
.

Ellen crouched in the Jaguar, watching Robin lean in the window of the other car parked in the layby. The thin wintry sunlight glinted on his hair and his teeth. He was right chuffed, wasn't he?

She pressed her scarf to her neck, trying to stop the bleeding. He'd put a knife to her. He'd cut her. He'd said he'd kill her. She'd have gone along, if only he'd asked.

Rose gave up the artifact. The artifact They thought was more important than anyone's life, Rose gave it up for her.

"Ellen!” shouted Robin.

She opened the door, stumbled across the gravel, took the box handed out the window and carried it back to the Jaguar. She sat down, the box on her lap. Something inside chimed. Her muscles cramped. Mustn't hurt it. It was more important than her life. To Robin. But not to Them ...
I believe
!

Robin climbed into the Jaguar and switched on the engine. He was still grinning, tight-like. “Fasten your seat belt. If we stopped suddenly you'd crush the box."

She fastened her belt. Robin pulled onto the road. In the wing mirror Glastonbury Tor grew smaller and disappeared behind the trees and hedgerows. Ellen opened her dry mouth and said, “You scared me, there."

"Scared Rose, too, didn't I? I humbled her, as I promised."

"Good job I was there for you, with the house and all. Part of the divine plan, wasn't it?"

The green eyes flashed at her. “Yes. Of course."

A chill like the point of a knife traced Ellen's spine. He hadn't ever chosen her just because of the house, had he? He wanted her for herself, not Alf's stupid sodding house.

"You'd like to stop at a posh hotel, wouldn't you?” Robin asked.

She didn't answer. She felt the knife at her throat—he was always stabbing her, with the knife, with his body, with his words. He told her it was Them who'd hurt her. But even too-sodding-pretty-by-half Rose and too-sodding-clever-by-half Maggie didn't stab her. Anna was kind to her, even if she was heathen. And Sean sat with her in front of the telly, rubbing her neck and shoulders. She couldn't ever go back to him, not now.

If she couldn't trust Robin who could she trust? If he wasn't the truth and the light then who was? Or was there any truth, any light at all?

"I want you in Canterbury December thirty-first,” he said. “For the final battle."

"And then?” she asked.

"Why then,” he said, not half sarkey, “I'll prove my devotion to you."

Like fun you will
, she thought, and took the thought back, forcing it down until it choked her.
I believe
.

The mobile chirped. Robin reached inside his coat and pulled out the knife, the knife Calum gave Vivian long since, as a joke, like, but the stupid cow thought it was an artifact. Chucking it on the floor at Ellen's feet, Robin pulled out the mobile. “Fitzroy. Oh, Mountjoy."

He scowled. The car swerved. Ellen shut her eyes and clutched the box in both hands. The lid went loose. The chime was loud, insistent, but Robin didn't seem to be hearing it.

"So some prat at the station told you Dewar took it away with him, is that supposed to excuse your losing it! May your soul scream forever in the darkness!” His voice burned like acid. “What? Yes, perhaps you can redeem yourself..."

Forever in the darkness
. By Robin's word, that's where Mum was now.

"...December thirty-first,” Robin concluded, switched off, and thrust the mobile into his coat. He overtook one car, then another, whipping back and forth, faster and faster.

The lid fell from the box. Inside Ellen saw a gold dish like a tureen. She'd never seen anything so brilliant, tiny gold beads on the handles and the base arranged in patterns that had no beginning and no end. The colors filled the swirls clear and bright. The gold gleamed.

Robin swerved again. With a peal like a bell the gold lid slipped aside, revealing a flattish glass bowl. Ordinary glass, not especially pretty, thick and uneven. That was never Jesus's cup, holding his wine, holding his blood. It was nothing but an idolatrous artifact.

The glass was clear, and yet light welled from it and into it like a spring morning in the midst of winter. Robin shuddered. The car veered across the road, jounced against the far curb, veered back again. “Cover that up, you gormless bint! Now!"

Ellen covered the box. But her eyes were still dazzled. Her ears still rang with that soft chime. If the artifact had no power why wouldn't Robin let her look at it? If he was the truth and the light, why was it that the Cup was filled with light and he was ... It was like he was afraid of it, Robin was. Who'd never shed any blood for her. It was her who was always bleeding for him.

Robin said he'd take her up to heaven with him. What if there was no heaven? What if death was the end and there was nothing more, no joy but no pain, either? Was that why Mum died, so she wouldn't be frightened, so she wouldn't doubt, not any more?

Robin's hands were clenched on the steering wheel, face flat white. The sun dipped behind a cloud and the landscape darkened. A thin rim of gold light showed beneath the lid of the box. Robin said it was a lie.
I believe Robin
.

In the back of her mind, Ellen heard Rose's voice asking,
But does he believe in you?
And she answered,
No
.

Here it was December twenty-third, Maggie thought. Probably the most important two months in her life, and they were nearly gone.

She and Thomas walked past Beckett's Pub—"no relation,” he said—and on down Silver Street. The shop windows, filled with New Age tchotchkes, were decorated with tinsel and holly. In the cold sunlight the shadow of St. John's steeple pointed to the northwest. Tomorrow morning Maggie and the students were heading east.

"I hate to leave Glastonbury,” she said, trying to keep her voice relaxed. “Not all the New Age stuff makes it past the you've-got-to-be-kidding threshold, but loonies, theologians, whatever, they're still trying to solve the mystery of the nature of God."

"Most solutions are positive ones,” Thomas said.

"The ones that aren't stand out because they're unusual. Yeah, I get it.” Maggie walked beside Thomas through the Abbey gateway.

He pointed upward. Two contrails crossed in the blue sky above the broken towers of the Abbey church. “
In hoc vinces
."

"In this sign conquer. Constantine.” Their game of literary/historical line-and-response would be the least of a hundred things she'd miss once they were separated. However they would be separated. Having him as a pen pal would be better than having him—gone.

Maggie took his arm, lightly, knowing that clutching at him would do neither of them any good. Placing his warm, strong hand over hers, Thomas led her on toward the transept that had once been his chapel.

Rose and Mick were standing at the spot where Vivian Morgan died. In the almost two months since then the scuffed and muddy patch of grass had healed into a thick greenish-gold carpet. Rose gestured. Mick put his arm around her. This morning they'd been working out the logistics of her transferring to Glasgow or Edinburgh for her senior year. More power to them, Maggie thought. At least
they
could plan a normal relationship, although whether they actually got to have one was another matter.

Anna, Sean, and his camcorder came across the lawn from the Lady Chapel, Anna saying, “Poetic justice, perhaps, for Celt-descended Henry VIII to eject the Roman church from Britain. A shame he did it so violently."

Sean shrugged. “Sometimes violence is the only way to make your point."

"The question,” Maggie said, “is whether your point is a valid one.” Was it nature or nurture that squeezed some people's imaginations into such small holes? The business with the Cup had left Sean bewildered, and resentful at his bewilderment. And yet he'd done well in the seminar, his literal mind grasping military tactics faster than her own often chaotic one.