She glanced at her watch. Almost noon. She picked up her bag, tiptoed across the creaking floor—it’d be hard to sneak up on anyone in England—and asked Mrs. Howard, “Where’s the rest room, please?”
The librarian looked puzzled.
“The loo,” translated Rose.
“Oh! It’s downstairs, just off the cloister.”
“Thank you.” Rose sensed Sean’s eyes follow her out the door.
She paused on her way back from the bathroom to admire the way the sun shone through the arcades of the cloister, drawing parabolas of light and shadow on the flagstone walk. Inside the nave of the cathedral she pondered the interlaced stone vaults. This beauty was long lasting, as long as it was cared for. She slotted a pound coin into the collection box.
The blue and silver miraculous medal on its chain was tucked in her billfold. Although her mother hadn’t worn it for years, she’d insisted Rose take it with her. “For luck,” she’d said, but Rose knew better. She’d behaved herself so far, hadn’t she, although more for lack of serious temptation than through any particular virtue.
She strolled through the north porch and looked out over the Close. No Mick. No Thomas, no Maggie. Several decrepit vans painted with dragons and crescent moons edged the lawn. Two long-haired figures were raising a red canopy fringed with tassels. A bearded man holding the disc of a bodhran, an Irish skin drum, sat down on a stool. Next to him settled a woman with a keyboard. They broke into a lively Celtic-flavored tune that reminded Rose of “First Rites.”
She realized she was walking along with everyone else in the area toward the makeshift stage. Okay, she told herself, Thomas said to stay inside, but she could find her way back.
A young man with thin, sharp features emerged from a purple van and struck a pose beneath the canopy, his white robe and gilded paper wings fluttering in the wind. “Christ!” he shouted, and Rose thought for a moment he was swearing. But he went on, “Jesus Christ, son of God! Lawful Lord of heaven! Your trust we violated, and so Adam fell. We repented, and so are received again into your favor. But there is one, not man but angel, who profaned your trust and would not repent.”
A medieval mystery play! Sweet! Formal theology tended to be dry and distant, while the popular religious stories pressed emotional buttons. Which, Rose thought, is why they are popular.
“Lucifer!” proclaimed the actor. “Prince among angels, who in his pride refused to render homage to his lawful Lord, and so was cast out, throne overturned, crown broken, gates of heaven shut behind him.”
“Eh?” said a voice. “What’s that, then?”
Rose glanced around. The woman standing next to her was about her age. Half-hidden behind a curtain of lank brown hair, her face was pursed into puzzlement and resentment mingled. Her oversized coat smelled of stale sweat.
“In medieval times,” Rose explained, “the punishment for denying one’s Lord was to be cut off from the community. Makes you sympathize with the Devil, but then, he made his choice.”
The girl shot Rose a hostile glance and turned her back. Oops, that had been a rhetorical question.
The actor extended his arms. A couple of red-suited demons sprang from the van, wearing scowling Halloween masks and tails made out of wire coat hangers. They whisked away his robe to reveal a red body suit. Over his shoulders they hooked a new set of paper wings, black this time, charred along the edges. Nice touch, Rose thought.
The young man twisted his features into a sneer. “I stood before God and told Him I need not serve Him nor worship His son. I have myself to worship, my own image to bow before!”
The demons draped linked-paper chains over his arms. “My Lord, you can never defeat God,” said the first one.
“He has called Men to take your place at his side,” said the second.
“Then I shall deprive Him of them!” Lucifer declaimed. “I shall turn Men against Him, and bring their souls to serve me in Hell! How much more comfortable will I rest in these my chains, knowing that Men, too, have been denied the Kingdom of God! I shall send my demons to the Garden, to Adam and to Eve, and I shall tempt them, in their pride, to eat of the Tree of Knowledge. So shall they be separated from God’s grace, and fall into my hands.”
“That’s what they want, isn’t it?” said the girl at Rose’s elbow, getting in to the spirit of the play. “They want to bring us all down with them.”
She was answered by a silky murmur, “We shan’t let it happen, Ellen. Be strong.” And with a quiet laugh, “Cut along now. You have work to do.”
Wait a minute. Rose spun around.
Robin Fitzroy stood just behind her, his green eyes polished with—anger? Or with exhilaration? Great, this was all she needed.
Ellen hiked away, her hands deep in her pockets. The music started up again, the beat of the bodhran echoing the leap of Rose’s heart. “Hello,” Robin said. “You’re looking lovely today.”
“Thanks.” She stopped herself from adding, so are you. The denim jacket, the sweater, the jeans fit his body perfectly. His short red hair embellished his flawless features. The gold hoop in his ear was the finishing touch, as much a costume as the paper wings of the actor.
On the stage the red and black figure exulted over a couple with green construction paper leaves pinned to their Tshirts and jeans. Then a man in a modest brown bathrobe and a tinsel halo stepped between them. “I am the light of the world. Come with me, and be saved.” He lifted a flashlight—the light of forgiveness breaking through the gates of Hell, Rose supposed.
“No!” protested Lucifer. “Leave them to me, and all the riches of this world will be yours!”
“True riches are stored in Heaven,” Christ replied. “You have made Hell for your world, and it will be your dominion forever.”
“So be it!” howled the red-suited actor. “Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven!”
Rose recognized that last as Milton, not medieval, but it made a good closing. The music reached a crescendo and trailed away into silence even as its tempo remained, a resonance in wind and stone and flesh—of one substance with the word, of one mind with the flesh, begotten not made by grace out of blood … The players took their bows. The audience applauded. So did Rose.
Robin didn’t. “What a fearfully amateur effort. I thought your poem on the harrowing of Hell was better written, Rose.”
She scowled. “So you did take my notebook.”
“I was charmed by it. Do you mind?” His megawatt smile was brighter than the actor’s flashlight.
“Yes, I do.”
“I shall apologize then. Although I take it from your tone of voice that Thomas is already poisoning your mind against me. I have nothing to offer you but my word. Can you take that on faith, do you think, even though faith can be a very slender reed indeed.”
Rose cocked her head skeptically.
“I should have a care for your teacher. She’s just the sort Thomas likes to corrupt, a woman of a certain age and, shall we say, desperation? I saw them a few minutes ago, hanging on each other in a most embarrassing fashion. It’s hard to believe Thomas is a priest. Do you think Maggie feels that her desires are more important than his vow? Does he?”
Rose shook her head. Again Robin was confusing her, telling her things she didn’t want to believe but couldn’t disprove.
“Let’s have a bite of lunch, shall we?”
His voice was the melody of the keyboard, his words the rhythm of the bodhran, tingling in her nerves, drawing saliva into her mouth … Robin was three paces closer to her and she hadn’t seen him move. His forefinger touched her chin and traced a line part fire and part ice to the hollow in her throat. A rich odor, like incense but probably cologne, clung to his hand.
One of the long-haired figures cut through the dispersing crowd, shaking a plastic bucket hung with bells. Wrenching herself away from Robin’s way too intimate touch, Rose tossed several coins into the bucket. It was only fair, the troupe had put on a good show.
�
��Yeh, thanks, luv. Look for us in Glastonbury Saturday.” The deep voice and glance up and down Rose’s figure revealed the young man’s gender.
Waving away the bucket, Robin said, “Act the man, Sunshine. Get a job.”
With a shrug, the boy jingled on. Rose stepped further away from Robin. “There’s a lot of unemployment here, isn’t there?”
“Layabouts, the lot of them. Lazy ignorant sods beyond redemption.”
“No one’s beyond redemption,” Rose said. “Maybe not even Lucifer.”
Robin’s green eyes blazed. For one quick moment Rose thought he was furious. But no, he laughed so hard he choked. “Oh Rose, your wit is truly exceptional. Come along, cider and a sandwich, is it?”
“I’ve got to get back inside, thanks anyway.” She started toward the cathedral.
Robin fell into an easy stride at her side. “Would you like me to chase down that pillock and give him a couple of quid?”
“Just because street theater isn’t as respectable as journalism, or whatever it is you do, doesn’t mean he’s not working.”
Robin stopped, his hand on her arm pulling her around to face him. “When I told you I worked with Vivian Morgan I was telling you the truth, Rose. I was her spiritual advisor. I save souls.”
“Excuse me?” She pulled her arm away, but she could still feel his fingers pressing through her sweater, against her skin.
“How do you ever know anything? You have to be told, by trustworthy people who know. I know. And I’d like to save you from the bad company you’re keeping, and from the errors in your belief.”
“In my belief?”
“Is what you believe the truth, Rose? Or have you let yourself be taken in by propaganda? You should decide for yourself.”
“I’ve decided I need to get back. Bye.” She walked as fast as she could without running to the huge doorway and ducked into its shadowed stillness. Emptied of the wind, the music, and the satiny voice, her ears rang. Her throat ached where Robin had touched it. When she turned to look, he was gone. How does he do that?
Rose stood in the porch telling herself that while Adam and Eve ate of the tree of knowledge, knowledge itself wasn’t the sin. The sin was thinking that they knew everything. And right now, she didn’t feel as though she knew anything—except that Robin had more than a physical agenda.
Chapter Fourteen
Whoa! There was Mick trudging across the lawn, looking like a lost soul turned belly-up in the harrowing of hell. And Maggie and Thomas rounded the corner of the building, he paler and finer-drawn than ever, she pink-cheeked and tight-lipped. So something is going on with them, Rose thought in surprise.
“Rose!” exclaimed Maggie. “Why aren’t you in the library?”
“I went to the rest room, and then I watched the play.” She gestured toward the collection of vans. “A mystery play. Robin Fitzroy was there.”
Both Maggie and Thomas recoiled. “What did he say?” Thomas demanded.
“The usual. Messing with my mind.” Rose waved her hand, brushing aside the awkward details.
Mick joined the group. His gray eyes looked blankly from face to face until they found Rose. There they clung.
She summoned up her sweetest smile for him. “They didn’t know anything at the police station, did they?”
“No,” he said. “Nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. She glanced from Mick to Thomas, her eyebrows lopsided. Thomas looked at Maggie, his forehead furrowed. Mick’s stare was getting a bit unnerving, like he was afraid Rose would vanish if he blinked. She had the distinct impression each of them knew something she didn’t.
Decisively, Maggie turned to Rose and shooed her into the cathedral. “We need to be getting back to Glastonbury.”
“We’re coming back here, aren’t we?” Rose asked over her shoulder. “I’ve just barely scratched the surface with Igraine—I have a lot more of Arthur’s women to go. Elaine, Morgan le Fay, Guinevere.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Maggie said. Behind her Thomas did a double-take at the bulletin board in the porch. Tearing off a notice, he folded it into his pocket.
Rose collected her notebook while Maggie collected Anna and Sean and made another appointment with Mrs. Howard. Back in the van, Sean asked, “It’s way past lunchtime, aren’t we going to eat?”
“Oh,” said Maggie. “Sorry. We’ll ask Bess to fix another high tea.”
“Whatever,” replied Sean, rolling his eyes toward her back.
Maggie drove with her shoulders up around her ears and eyes strictly front. Thomas sat very still, gazing out the window, the reflection of his face looking like Hamlet’s father’s ghost. Mick’s ponytail bobbed as he shifted restlessly. With so much tension crackling like frost in the air, Rose was actually glad Sean went rambling on about Arthur’s twelve battles while Anna got in a few words about the non-Christian elements in the Conte du Graal and Perlesvaus.
By the time they reached Temple Manor the sun was dipping toward the southwest. Dunstan sat on the doorstep, licking the sunlight into his fur. Grudgingly he moved aside so Maggie could open the door. Sean went into the dining room. Anna headed upstairs, Mick just behind her. “Are you all right?” Rose called after him, but his only answer was the slam of his door. No, he wasn’t all right, duh.
“I’ll ring Jivan from my cottage,” Thomas said with a look at Maggie that obviously carried a sub-text. His eyes were banked embers in his ashen face, his usually inscrutable expression positively opaque.
“Call me for tea,” Rose told Maggie, and ran up the stairs just as Anna came back down.
She went into the room they shared and sat down beside the window. Crows called. Shadows lengthened. Her thoughts hopped from the silver stone spire to Mick’s voice to Robin’s eyes to Adam and Eve with their paper fig leaves. From the world, the flesh, and the Devil make me anew…
Priests fell in love and left the priesthood all the time. But Thomas and Maggie barely knew each other. How could they be in love? And neither of them seemed the type to just leap into bed without love, let alone without getting Thomas released from his vows.
For a religion based on the Word made flesh, Christianity was sure squeamish about sex. About any sort of appetite, really. A shame that all those high voltage signs the church staked out around sexuality came across as “it’s dirty,” not as “it’s dangerous.” Even without ever having had sex Rose understood that. It was a matter of honesty. Maybe, in 20-20 hindsight, Igraine justified her adultery because it had given the world Arthur. But she’d still been unfaithful … If Robin is right about Thomas and Maggie, Rose thought with a shudder, what else is he right about?
“Rose?” said Anna’s voice behind her. “Time for tea.”
“Oh! Thanks.” In the dining room she sat down between Maggie and Sean. Mick’s place was empty.
“I knocked on his door,” Anna said.
“I’ll try again.” Rose leaped up.
“Leave him alone,” Maggie told her. “He’s going through a rough time.”
Who isn’t, Rose thought, but like a well-trained little girl, she sat back down. She nibbled on a scone but it tasted like sawdust. She was tired of sublimating. What she wanted wasn’t food. It wasn’t necessarily even physical, although the physical was there, like a rash.
Maggie, too, picked at her food. “Excuse me,” said Sean at last, tossing down his napkin. “I’m going to see what videos they’ve got.”
“I’ll get my tatting.” Anna went upstairs.
Rose and Maggie got up from the table and walked in opposite directions. From the door of the lounge, Rose watched Sean watch guns, cars, and women in skimpy dresses. Even when Anna sat down with the little spider’s web of her tatting, Rose still hesitated, wanting neither car chases nor crafts but having no where else to go…
Another sound filtered through the mayhem, like a strangled oboe playing a lament or a lullaby. The tune was unearthly and otherworldly, fingering her spine like a flute. Now what?
Rose walked into the hall. The music was coming from upstairs. It shimmered in her senses, calling her. Mick.
Maggie came slowly down the steps, pulling on her coat. When she opened the door a russet gleam of sunset flooded inside, making her look dazed and feverish. She went out the door and shut it behind her.
Rose couldn’t help Maggie. She couldn’t help Thomas. Maybe she could help Mick. She headed down the hall to the kitchen door. From inside came Alf’s voice. “I know, luv, it’s frustrating.”
“If we could only do something to help her,” said Bess.
“She’s not thinking she needs help, that’s just the problem”
Putting on an apologetic face, Rose knocked. “Come in,” called Alf. He sat at the table with a newspaper and a glass of beer. His jowls drooped despondently but still he managed a smile for Rose.
Bess was loading the dishwasher. A glass of what was probably sherry waited on the counter top. “Yes, luv?”
“I’m sorry to barge in, I wondered if I could take Mick a sandwich or something since he missed tea—I’ll fix it if you’ll show me…”
“It’s no trouble.”
Rose wondered who they’d been talking about. Even Bess’s plump and rosy face sagged like bread dough that had risen and fallen again. Maybe it was the way the stars were aligned or something, but there was enough angst around here for month of soap operas. She stood making small talk while Bess assembled a sandwich, microwaved some leftover chips, poured a cup of tea, and put it all on a tray. “Here you are.”
“Thank you. I’m sure he’ll be very grateful.”
“That he will,” said Alf with a knowing smile.
Okay. She liked Mick. He seemed to like her. That, at least, was no secret. Rose balanced the tray down the hall and up the stairs. She tapped on the door with her toe. The music stopped. The door flew open. “Aye?” Mick’s gray eyes, bright and sharp as steel, softened.
“It’s an X-chromosome thing,” she explained. “When a woman is worried about someone, she feeds him.”
“Thank you.” She could swear Mick sighed in relief as he took the tray and set it on the chair. “Come in, sit yourself down. I’d just made up my mind to talk to you after all.”
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