Lucifer's Crown (47 page)

She glanced over her shoulder. Shabby folk like her were scoffing down lashings of food. Toffs stood by with cups of tea and cakes—they're falling about at the sight of us, Ellen thought.

They weren't laughing. One tall man was even kneeling in front of a child, slipping new shoes onto her little feet. It was the traitor, burned brown eyes, nose like a bird's beak.

Robin said Thomas betrayed God. She didn't know what he'd done any more than she knew what Calum had done. Robin said he'd tell her everything she needed to know. But he hadn't done, had he?

The bloody wound on her hand hurt, the bloody cut on her neck hurt, and something bloody well hurt in her chest, like her heart had been pulled right out.
I believe
... She didn't believe in anything, not any more.

Someone switched on a radio. “First Rites,” again, she'd gone off “First Rites,” the pipes squealing and the drums beating. A man sat down beside her. The traitor, Thomas, holding a first-aid kit. She was too knackered to move away. “I don't know where it is,” she mumbled.

"I know,” he said. “Are you all right?"

That was too complicated a question. “Yeh."

"Alf wants you to come back to Temple Manor."

"Alf hates me."

"He was distressed when Bess died. But he's always cared for you. Temple Manor is a place for you to go, and work to be going on with."

Ellen said, “I have a place to go. Canterbury."

"You'll be going on the thirty-first, I expect.” Opening the kit, Thomas dabbled at her neck with something that burned. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away.

Robin told her Thomas was a traitor and a liar. But Thomas had the Book and the Stone off Robin, hadn't he? What did that make of him? Of Robin?

"...the light of the world to you, Deep peace of Mary the vessel who bore him to you,” ended the song. Thomas's hands were as gentle as Mum's. He bandaged her neck and took her hand. Shaking his head—her hand was a dog's breakfast, wasn't it, all puffed and purple—he wiped it off. Again the sting brought tears to her eyes and this time they ran hotly down her cheeks.

The image of Mary and her baby swam before her. The three candles blurred into one streak of light. A choir on the radio sang, “Silent night, Holy night, son of God, love's pure light...” The Child looked into that hole which had been Ellen's heart. She'd seen light filling his Cup, beautiful light. But that was probably a lie, too. The knife wasn't a lie. It lay cold, hard, and smooth against her ribs.

Thomas closed the kit. He touched her head, murmuring something in another language, heathen Latin, most like. He was praying over her. She wasn't strong enough to turn away. “God loves you,” he finished.

The man was daft. No one loved her.

"I'll bring you some food,” he said, and walked away.

Canterbury, Ellen thought. Robin was after cleaning out the artifacts, wasn't he, and the traitor was after stopping him, and neither of them would so much as notice if she was there or not. Unless she made them take notice. One more week, and she'd go to Canterbury. And then, if it was blood that mattered—well, the edge of the knife was razor-sharp.

She no longer gave a toss about the new world coming on. She just wanted the old one to end and be done.

The towers of Canterbury Cathedral rose above the rooftops. Gray towers against a mottled gray December sky, Thomas thought, remembering other towers and another December sky. But his cathedral was long gone. This new one had been built to the glory of God and His martyr as well.

In the west hung a quarter moon, like a cryptic smile. He'd seen such a moon the day God's merciful hand brought Maggie and the students to Temple Manor. He'd seen such a moon the day they found the Stone and were delivered by that same omnipotent hand. He wondered what he would be feeling if he saw next month's last quarter moon—relief, or disappointment?

Setting his jaw, he turned toward the group of American students queuing outside the Burger King. “Makes me feel old just to look at them,” said Maggie at his elbow. “I can't imagine how they make you feel."

"Pleased to be alive. And to see you again.” He took her hands and found that he was still capable of a broad smile.

"I need to thank Canon O'Connell for putting in a good word for me at the hotel. I've got the best room in the house, canopy bed, fireplace, and the cathedral right outside the window. You should have seen Rose's face when she looked in, like Cinderella watching her pumpkin turn into a coach."

"Good man, Ivan,” Thomas told her. “Did you enjoy your Christmas?"

"Yes, thank you. Comparing notes with the other instructors was a heck of a reality check. They were talking about flat tires and sore throats like they were hair-raising adventures."

"You and the students downplayed your own adventures, I take it."

"We were inadvertently caught up in a murder investigation is all—I passed the treks north off as field trips.” Maggie took his arm and they walked off. “Do you recognize anything?"

Thomas considered the medieval facades modernized by shop windows and advertising signs, now decorated for the season. “Even the oldest of these buildings is younger than I am."

"Especially that brick shopping center over there."

"During the last war the Luftwaffe dropped incendiary bombs onto the cathedral, but a wind—the breath of God, I daresay—blew them onto the medieval town. The destruction proved a boon to archaeologists."

Maggie shook her head. “Thomas, if you bit into an apple and found half a worm you'd give thanks for the protein."

This is the worm that dieth not
. “I should hope so."

"And your Christmas at the homeless shelter?” she went on.

"Ellen Sparrow was there."

"She was? There's a—no, it wasn't a coincidence, was it?"

"No. She's fearfully depressed, and, it seemed to me, fey. She intends to be here on the thirty-first ... Look!” Above the street rose Christ Church gate, decorated with crenellations, gilded shields, and the benign stone faces of angels. “Built in 1517 under Henry VIII."

"And twenty-five years later Henry was looting your—the shrine. A century after that the Puritans were happily breaking and burning. And now...” Maggie was not obliged to finish her sentence.

Together they walked through the gate and into the spacious grounds of the cathedral. What had been a chill breeze in the streets of the town here became a raw wind scouring Thomas's face. He had seen drawings and photographs, but the grandeur of the actual building, the towers, buttresses, windows, arches a symphony in stone, took his breath away.

"Do you want to walk around outside first?” Maggie asked gently.

"Yes.” Pressing her hand, he let her guide him alongside the south facade. There, the stair tower tucked into the angle of the southeast transept—he remembered Prior Wibert adding its arcades. Biting his lip—
lancing a wound always hurts
—he walked on.

A striped cat prowled past the base of the Corona Chapel at the far eastern end of the cathedral, a miniature tiger at its hunt. Thomas and Maggie went round into the network of blank walls, empty windows, and passageways which lay against the northern side of the cathedral. The water tower with the conical roof, that was Wibert's as well.

The cloister wasn't the one he remembered, and yet still it smelled of mold and damp and time. Those uneven stone flags might as well be the ones he'd once walked, and the door into the northwest transept, a wooden slab with an iron latch, the one he had entered that fateful night.

A burst of sunlight cast the shadows of the pillars black across the walkway, like prison bars. Then the sun went out. He was walking toward the door, the shouts of the knights ringing in his ears, his bowels churning and his heart beating in his throat—his martyrdom was upon him, and yet mixed with his exaltation was a leaden fear that made his feet slow to rise and fall—David, Edward, the others told him it was no time to be standing on his dignity. They pulled at him, urging him to run, to hide, to lock the doors. “No,” he whispered. “It is the hour of vespers."

He blinked. It wasn't night, but a gray noon. The faces round him coalesced to one face, that of a woman, her dark eyes touched with incorruptible gold. “Are you sure you want to do this?"

"How can I confront Robin, if I fear to confront myself?” His voice broke and he swallowed fiercely.

She offered no tawdry affirmations. “Let's go in the main door, then, not this one."

Not this one.
Unresisting, he walked beside her round the far end of the building and into the nave. Two rows of tall, graceful columns marched eastward, joined far overhead by interlaced stone branches. Just beyond the base of the main tower and its decorative braces, an arched doorway in the choir screen opened onto a gleam of light.

The scent of incense hung in the air. That night the scent of incense had mingled with wool and beans. Sweat trickled cold down Thomas's back, but Maggie's hand was warm on his arm. She led him not to the north but to the south side of the choir. A second circuit, then, one closer to the center. He tried to breathe deeply, but his chest felt as though it were packed with lint.

The southwest transept held a souvenir stand and the St. Michael Chapel, hung with regimental flags. Up a flight of steps, and the southeast transept was illuminated by two very recent stained-glass windows. Thomas said, “Many of the original windows were broken out by the Puritans—'rattling down proud Becket's glassy bones,’ they said. I was indeed proud, and needed bringing down. But aren't the reformers and purifiers who resort to destruction and murder guilty of even greater pride?"

"You don't have to convince me,” said Maggie.

Opposite the transept sat the high altar and the austere stone chair of St. Augustine, the archbishop's seat. Thomas felt the miter on his head, heard the voices singing a
Gloria
, saw the blaze of candles that sent the shadows fleeing—his heart leapt in the presence of God—he was chosen not by an earthly king but by the King of Kings ... Whose teachings he betrayed eight years later.
Thomas Maudit
.

Maggie drew him on up another flight of steps, their stone worn into curves. Between the columns circling the Trinity Chapel sat tombs with carved and gilded canopies and effigies, all focused on an eloquent emptiness. There, where the mosaic zodiac gave way to stone flags still hollowed by the knees of pilgrims, there Thomas Becket's shrine had once stood.

In a way the site has always been empty
, Thomas London told himself.
Were those laid to rest in the surrounding tombs disappointed to discover whose bones they actually companioned?
Surely they were honored to encounter David, whose courage in life was matched only by his humility in death.

"You know,” said Maggie, “the focal point of this entire—magnificent, glorious, gorgeous, take your pick—structure is the Unseen. Right there, in that empty spot."

"Yes,” Thomas said, pleased yet again by her perception, “you're quite right. Yes."

Past the Trinity Chapel opened the Corona Chapel, where once the crown of David's skull had rested. Its windows told tales of his miraculous healings, mis-attributed though they were. Thomas knelt to light a votive candle. His hand trembled but Maggie help him guide the candle to the flame.

They walked on down the ancient steps past the northeastern transept, along the north choir aisle to another stairway. There, in the northwestern transept, the floor remained at its twelfth-century level. Thomas recognized those drab stones, the stones spattered by David's blood. There, just inside the wooden door into the cloister—a pillar had stood there, against which David had fallen ...
Lord have mercy
.

He turned toward the Altar of the Sword's Point, an austere modern altar like a table tomb set against the wall. Above it hung a contemporary sculpture, a cross formed of jagged sword blades. At its feet the word “Thomas” was etched deep into the floor.

Several Japanese tourists strolled past, chatting softly. What Thomas heard was shouting and the ring of swords. He knelt with a thump on the kneeler set before the altar. Clasping his hands to still their shaking, he bowed his head. This then, had been his Camlann, early in his story rather than at the end. In two days he must circle back to his Mount Badon.
Lady have mercy
.

With a quivering exhalation Thomas lifted his face to the sculpture. A murmur of voices and footsteps might be angel's wings fluttering amongst the columns. Far above, muffled by stone, the bells in the great tower began to ring. Each stroke reverberated in his living bones as they no doubt reverberated in the dried bones upon which this building rose.

"It's time for the service,” Maggie said. “Come on. You can do it."

"Yes.” He would have expected his limbs to be numb, but no, whilst shaky they were warm, as though a ray of sun penetrated the shadows not only of the cathedral but of his heart.

He and Maggie walked up to the choir. Mick and Rose were saving seats for them amongst the superb carved stalls and as he sat down he smiled dazedly upon them. Still his chest seemed full, straining like the seed pods of the
Euonymus europeaus
in the garden at Temple Manor.

Above him the mellow stone pillars spread into soaring vaults that made the stone itself into an airy substance. The multitude of colored windows brightened. Rose whispered, “It's beautiful."

"Brilliant,” Mick agreed.

Maggie interlaced her fingers with Thomas's, blessing him with her flesh, and he hung on for his life. For his death.

The bells ceased. His Anglican brethren in their robes—red for a martyr's feast—filed in, the shapes and colors of their faces showing their homes in Uganda and Indonesia and Farleigh Wallop. One intoned the prayer specific for this day, the day honoring England's greatest saint. “Almighty God, who didst suffer thy martyr to be cruelly slain by the swords of men and yet madest him in his death to become a sword of witness to the might of things unseen..."

Amen
, Thomas thought.

The high clear voices of the boy's choir were finer than any he had ever heard, the words bits of light raining down upon his upturned face. “You have placed over his head, Lord, a crown of precious stone. You have given him the desires of his heart...” The crown of precious stone rose above him here and now. As for the desires of his heart ...
Lamb of God, have mercy on me
.