Lucifer's Crown

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  Maggie sat down beside Willie and applied the handkerchief. A snowflake whirled into her face, then another and another, leaving quick icy kisses on her cheeks. No more rays of sun penetrated the low, pewter-gray clouds. The wind was raw, the stone beneath her clammy, Willie’s hand cold. He was slipping back into unconsciousness. She began to babble to him, “This time last week I was in my back yard pruning my roses, wearing shorts and a T-shirt—I hadn’t worn a sweater since half-past March…”

  By the time Thomas returned with the paramedics, the snow was falling thick and fast, driven sideways by the wind. Willie’s mates wrapped him in blankets and carried him away on a stretcher. Several other figures moved through the ruins of the fort, among them another stretcher team, this one in considerably less of a hurry.

  Cars sat skewed across the parking lot. Flashing blue lights cast eerie reflections through the snow. Directing operations from a van was a business-suited man who introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Mungie. Maggie guessed the name was spelled Mountjoy, even though the man had nothing joyous about him. His saturnine face and short-cropped hair made her think of Julius Caesar confronting the Ides of March.

  Thanks to police bulletins, Mountjoy already knew the basics—Vivian Morgan dead, Calum Dewar missing, Mick Dewar and Rose Kildare at large and possibly in danger. It took him only a few moments to take Thomas’s and Maggie’s statements. He didn’t mention the hoof marks and the turf-cut circle disappearing beneath the snow. Neither did Thomas, no doubt reasoning that they fell beyond the domain of the secular authorities.

  “Robin Fitzroy,” Mountjoy said at last. “I’ve heard the name.”

  “He works with a religious group,” Thomas answered carefully. “The Freedom of Faith Foundation.”

  “Ah, that’s it. I attended their rally in Newcastle—Clive Bland, the footballer, made a grand speech about how we Christians are under siege by the secular humanist conspiracy. You’re not telling me Foundation members are after doing criminal activity, are you? They’re good moral folk.”

  “Bashing your constable is criminal activity. And Calum Dewar’s lying dead…”

  “We’ve no evidence as yet, have we? Not till we lay young Mr. Dewar by the heels. You’re sure your Miss Kildare went with him willingly?”

  “Yes.” Maggie bit off the word.

  “If you’ll excuse us.” Thomas’s hand urged her out of the van, not that she needed urging. “We’ll be stopping at the Hotspur Arms, Otterburn.”

  “Very good then,” Mountjoy told them, with a raking glance that, judging by his inscrutable expression, Thomas didn’t miss.

  “Shit,” said Maggie as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “He may have attended a Foundation rally, but so have many other people. Calum went so far as to join up. We must keep our minds open.”

  “Sure, just as long as Mountjoy does, too.” Thomas opened the door of the mini-van and Maggie climbed inside. Her refrigerator wasn’t this cold. “Otterburn?”

  “The hotel is a safe place on our way north.”

  “North?” He shut the door. Her teeth chattering, she watched one of the flashing lights move onto the road. Its siren dwindled and died beneath the fury of the wind. Constable Willie seemed like a nice kid.

  Mick and Rose were nice kids. Oh God, if only we knew where they went from here!

  Something flew against the window and hung there shivering. For a moment Maggie thought it was a small white bird. But it was rectangular. An index card. In another second it would sail away and be in France by suppertime. Carefully she rolled down the window and grasped the card. It was one of the ones she’d given to the students when they arrived at Temple Manor, with its address and phone number. A flower sketched in the corner was as good as a signature. Rose.

  On the back of the card, in the same hurried scrawl as her other note, Rose had written, “Robin take us safe house, Holyscone. Rose.”

  Two days ago, Maggie thought, she’d have bleated about coincidence. Now she recognized an answered prayer when she saw one, even if seeing one sent her stomach into free-fall.

  The driver’s door opened. Thomas piled inside, snowflakes thick on his hair. “What’s that?”

  “A note from Rose. It blew up against the window, otherwise we’d never have seen it. A mini-miracle, I guess.” She handed over the note. “Holy Scone? Do you think she heard him right?”

  “Not at all, no. I should think he’s taking them to Holystone Priory, north of Newcastle. Almost within sight of Lindisfarne, but a very different sort of place. I’ll inform Mountjoy, shall I? Although he’ll not be sending anyone there alone, not after Constable Armstrong’s misadventure. We’ll get there first.” Thomas darted out into the snow.

  Maggie was trying to picture herself as the U.S. cavalry riding to the rescue when Thomas slid back into the car and asked her, “Are you all right?”

  “Cold. Nauseated. Mad as a wet hen. Scared spitless. I’m just fine, thanks. And you?”

  “Likewise.” Solemnly he looked at her, into her, through her, all at once.

  The light in his scalded brown eyes was the only warmth in this God-forsaken place. Maggie wanted to lean across the seat and kiss him. But he was already spoken for, and she didn’t want to embarrass him, and she didn’t believe in romance anyway, not any more.

  Starting the car, Thomas turned on the headlights and drove into the whitecaps of snow.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The tail lamps of the green Jaguar brightened as it turned onto a smaller road. Mick guided the Fiesta into the same turn and switched on the windscreen wipers. Frozen hard, they bounced across the glass but still scraped semicircles in the thickening snow. “I learned St. Patrick’s Breastplate from my great-grandfather, he being a bit ecumenical for his generation. The sgian dubh was his, too. He was always saying it was magic. I thought he was having me on.”

  “Was it magic that drove away the evil spirits?” Rose asked. “Or was it the prayer? I mean, if you believe in evil spirits then you have to believe in good ones like saints and angels.”

  “I dinna ken what’s real, lass, let alone magic.”

  The gray and brown fields were fast turning white, the rare tree bent double in the wind. Mick couldn’t see a single roof or lighted window. This wasn’t country to be lost in, not in a storm, with darkness coming on fast. Last month he’d turned twenty-one years old. Now he felt eighty.

  “Is he taking us into Scotland?” asked Rose.

  Well, perhaps only sixty. “No, we’re going east. That glow on the clouds, that’s Newcastle, I reckon.”

  “Robin may be on some sort of secret mission, yeah, but we don’t have to follow him.”

  “I owe it to my dad to follow him.”

  “You’ve seen too many movies where the good guy walks into a trap because the script says he can fight his way out.”

  “A trap? Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking,” she admitted, her voice suddenly very small.

  He’d brought her here, he owed her as well … His thought defaulted yet again to one horrible image. “My dad. He shouldna be lying there all cold and alone.”

  “They’re going to find him real soon, Mick.”

  “Eh?”

  “I promised you I wouldn’t tell Thomas and Maggie, so I left a note for Anna. She told them we were going to Housesteads. When I talked to her she said they were on their way.”

  “You didna trust me?” he demanded.

  “I trusted you,” she retorted. “I didn’t trust Robin. Besides, I’ve known Maggie almost a year now, and she and Thomas—well, they just feel trustworthy, okay?”

  “Sorry.” Mick’s sigh was almost a groan. “We might as well listen to your heart, lass. Look where my head’s brought us.”

  “I left another note in the door of the Information Center back at Housesteads. I bet it’s blown away by now.” Rose put her hand on her jumper, probably touching the
medal. “Mick, where’s the cell phone?”

  “In the bin.”

  “No it’s not.” She scrabbled along the back seat, across the floor, in the glove box. “Great. He took the phone and the map both. He wouldn’t have done that if he was telling us the full story, would he?”

  Mick swore. “We’re on our own then, lass. And I’m no so sure where we are. Or who we’re with, for that matter.”

  “You’re with me.” She set her hand comfortingly on his thigh. A pity he was too distracted to appreciate her touch.

  The hills on either side grew less harsh. The snow slowed and stopped. A dour gray twilight fell over land and sky alike. The Jaguar cut ruts into the white trough between stone walls which was the road, until at last it turned through a stone gateway.

  At the end of an alley of huge, black, leafless trees stood a mansion from a nightmare, a monumental block of masonry with turrets, dormers, and gables all capped with snow. Two lighted windows looked like eyes on either side of the gaping maw of a porte-cochere. “Lovely,” Mick said.

  “If you put up some Christmas lights,” said Rose, “it might look a little more cheerful.”

  Mick parked beside the Jaguar and pried his fingers from the steering wheel. He felt like he was outside his body looking back at himself, every reaction dulled … Despite the dim light, Rose’s eyes shone. Anything he could say would be either daft or stupid. Strengthened, he lifted her hands to his lips and kissed each one.

  Her smile poured over him. She opened the car door. “Is that the wind? Or is it the ocean?”

  The wind was souching and moaning amidst the branches of the trees. But yes, Mick heard a rhythmic undertone. He thought of Dunnottar, and Iona, and Orkney, all the seashores he’d visited with his dad.

  Prince stepped out of his car. “Filthy weather.”

  Rose’s smile soured. Mick tossed her her rucksack and retrieved his own. Snow sifted over the tops of his shoes on the way to the porte-cochere. The plaque by the massive door read, “Holystone Priory.”

  “Oh,” Rose said under her breath.

  The door was opened not by a gargoyle but by a white-haired granny wearing a flowery dress that would look a treat on the Queen Mum. “Come in, come in, the kettle’s on, you must be perishing from the cold.”

  “Mrs. Jeremy Soulis,” said Prince with an elegant gesture. “May I present Mick Dewar and Rose Kildare? They’re helping me with my inquiries and are need of food and shelter.”

  “Friends of Robin’s are always welcome here,” said the wee woman, smiling and bobbing.

  Sharing a wary glance, Mick and Rose stepped through a vestibule into a hall bright with gold-trimmed wallpaper. Mrs. Soulis guided them on up a grand staircase and along a hallway. “Here you are, a nice bedroom for each of you. Tea in half an hour, back down the stairs, through the gallery, and into the dining room.” Rose murmured a thank-you and walked into the first room.

  Mick stepped into the second, wended his way past carved and gilded furniture, and gazed out through the brocade-covered window. Below lay an expanse of white broken by blots of shrubbery. At the edge of the snow-blanket the North Sea rolled outward in parallel steely glints, merging so subtly with the ash-gray sky the horizon heaved. He pulled a face. He was wobbling badly enough, thank you.

  The tortured profile of the house ended at an ell whose stern stone walls, narrow windows, and slate roof were obviously medieval. Was that the priory, then? Had there really been a holy stone in these airts? His dad might have known. His dad wouldn’t be telling him, though.

  In the cold marble bathroom Mick brushed his teeth. But no toothpaste could clear away the sick-sweet reek in his nose and mouth. Only time could do that, and at present he wasn’t taking the long view. He tucked the sgian dubh into his waistband, beneath his jumper, locked his door, and chapped at the next. Rose opened it straightaway. “Your door locks,” he told her.

  “Yeah, but I bet this place has secret passageways.” She closed up her room and fell into step beside him, her freshly-brushed hair gleaming in the light of elaborate wall sconces.

  Beside her he felt puggled and travel-worn. “Did you see the old building at the end of the house? Like Thomas’s chapel…” A shape whisked through a darkened alcove. “Is that a cat?”

  “Looks like one,” answered Rose. “The food smells good—good for the soul as well as the body, right?”

  “Oh, aye.” She was doing her best to take him in hand after his bereavement, food being the equal of affection and all.

  They walked through the gallery, gawping at the moldings, arches, and cornices. Every space that could hold an ornament held two—Mick had never seen such conspicuous consumption in all his life. Along the walls hung portraits of people in period clothing, their eyes reptile-cold.

  The dining room seemed chilly as well, despite the fire blazing in an alabaster fireplace and a crystal chandelier glittering above a table fitted out with linen and silver. Soulis keeked in from the kitchen, her dress now protected by a ruffled pinnie. “Here you are then. Sit down.”

  They sat down. She brought out lukewarm plates laden with eggs, bacon, and sausage. The food wouldn’t do to fill the hollow beneath Mick’s ribs that was his heart, but it would do his stomach. He began scoffing the lot.

  Prince came poncing in and sat himself down at the head of the table. Soulis handed him a plate, then sat down with the teapot. “Kildare, is it, dear?”

  “Yes’m,” said Rose, her mouth full.

  “You’re Irish, then.”

  “American. My ancestors went there during the potato famine.”

  “Well then,” said Soulis, “if they wouldn’t shift for themselves it was just as well they emigrated, isn’t it?”

  “The crops died so they couldn’t eat and they couldn’t pay their rent,” Rose returned. “The landlords wouldn’t help.”

  “No need to encourage idleness in the lower classes. Oh no, dear, much better your family unburdened respectable people and made their way elsewhere. Although America’s quite the peculiar place, isn’t it? Those dreadful Hollywood films…” She clucked her tongue. “…what they force us to watch these days! But of course the producers and studio owners are after undermining our culture, aren’t they?”

  Rose stared up at her. “Excuse me?”

  Prince buttered a scone.

  “I’m from Scotland, myself,” Mick offered cautiously.

  “Are you then? I’d never have known, you seem a well-mannered young man.” Soulis passed the jam. “I suppose you’re looking for work? Better you stay at home, we already have foreigners taking the work from our own lads. I understand why you’d want to leave a frightful wilderness, but no fear, you’ll find work guiding shooting or fishing parties.”

  “Have you ever visited Scotland?” Mick asked, between a laugh and groan.

  Rose added, her brows atilt, “Or America?”

  “Oh no, why should I want to visit God-forsaken places like that? Although, to be fair, we aren’t half having our own problems here. My sister lives in Bradford, she says the blacks had the cheek to build one of those heathen temples there. Can you imagine, in the midst of a country built on good Christian principles?”

  And on neolithic stones, Druids, Mithras, and Woden, Mick thought.

  “My next-door neighbors back home are from Lebanon,” said Rose. “They’re of the Ba’hai faith.”

  “Are they now? What a shame the authorities cater to Satanists and cultists. In the old days they would have been moved on, and right smartly, too. Good job we have the Freedom of Faith Foundation to protect us. Politicians natter on about pluralism and multi-culturalism, moderation and tolerance, but we know the truth, don’t we? That God-fearing folk like us are under siege.” Smiling affably, Soulis added hot water to the teapot.

  Calum had attended Foundation meetings. Mick looked sharply at Robin. His lips were curved in a satisfied smile. Across the table Rose stopped eating and stared at her plate.

  Sou
lis leaned across to refill Mick’s cup. “My neighbors up the road, now, are proper moral folk. Their family goes back to the Conquest. Would you care for another scone? Milk? It’s the European Union, you see. Do you know that its bureaucrats will not allow our teachers to tell our children England is the best of the best? Why, I hear that now the Channel Tunnel’s open the road signs in Kent are printed in French and German as well as English! There’s a shocking erosion of values for you.”

  Prince leaned back in his chair. From his pocket he produced a long cigar. Leaping to her feet, Soulis offered him a lighted match. He puffed away like a dragon, the tiny flame of the match reflected in his uncanny green eyes. Swirls of pungent smoke rose upward.

  “God decreed that man have dominion over the Earth,” Soulis said, sitting herself down again. “The EU would have us save plants and animals that God has doomed to extinction, destroying our businesses and forcing us to live in poverty! Imagine that!” She turned to Rose. “You’re in England to learn proper ways, I expect.”

  Shriveling, as though she were trying to disappear, Rose murmured something about the study course and her university…

  “Now why,” interrupted Soulis with a puzzled look, “should a nice girl like you waste her time at university, reading books that would be better off for a burning, like as not. You’d best take care you’re not infected by these feminist sorts. Equal rights, they say, when everyone knows their true goal is to reject the authority of their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become lesbians. Another egg, dear? Fresh tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Rose said, half-strangled.

  “And for you, lad?”

  Mick laid his knife and fork across his plate and scooted back his chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Soulis. The food was right tasty.” It was the company that made his gorge rise. “I think I’ll have a rest now.”

  “Good idea.” Rose said. “Thank you.”

  Prince gestured with the cigar, leaving a blue vapor trail. “I’ll come and fetch you presently. Lydia, may we use the library?”