“Old stories. Rubbish.” Ellen grimaced at the camera, maybe thinking her expression was a smile.
“Thank goodness she’s lost the hooker outfit,” Maggie said as Anna walked up. “I’ve got to hand it to Sean, he doesn’t seem to miss it. He’s really protective of her these days.”
“He says Ellen is dysfunctional,” replied Anna, “but with the proper environmental conditioning maybe he can pull her through.”
Maggie dared hope that Sean had absorbed something of her riposte to his “That’s just the way it is” comment. By Thomas’s approving nod, she supposed he did, too.
Just where the track bent upwards and disappeared into the trees, Thomas indicated a circle of brick clogged with dead leaves. “This has been called Arthur’s Well since the fifteenth century, when the folk identification of Cadbury with Camelot was first recorded.”
Maggie prodded them all into the gloom beneath the trees. After a steep but short climb over roots and around muddy spots, they emerged onto another high place, an expanse of grass that glowed bronze in the uncertain light. They jogged around the rampart, the strengthening wind blowing Thomas’s lecture into sound bites. “…Neolithic, Late Bronze, and Early Iron Ages … the hill fort begun in the fifth century B.C…. Romans destroyed it during the first century A.D…. human remains … a large temple … defenses rebuilt at the end of the fifth century against Saxon invasion…”
“When it was Camelot,” said Rose. “Sweet.”
“Archaeologists found what they believe to be the foundations of a cruciform church,” Thomas concluded.
To the northwest a forest covered the slopes, branches tossing and creaking. Brambles choked the depressions between the concentric embankments. Maggie squinted. Yes, barely discernible on the shadowed horizon rose Glastonbury Tor. At this distance the tower of St. Michael’s was no larger than an apostrophe—a punctuation mark in the language of history. Even as she looked the sky darkened to charcoal and the Tor disappeared.
Ellen pulled the hood of her coat over her head. Sean checked the meters on his camera. A hint of sulfur on the wind made Maggie’s nostrils close like gills. Thomas gestured toward the land below. “The ancient track running toward Glastonbury is King Arthur’s Causeway. Tradition says he hunts there on winter nights. This ties his story to that of the Wild Hunt—Gwyn ap Nudd, king of Annwn, pursuing a stag with a pack of hounds.”
“The hounds of hell,” Rose said, “hunting for souls.”
Maggie glanced around. The girl was looking off to the north, probably thinking of Calum Dewar chased down not by Gwyn ap Nudd’s minions but by Robin’s.
“Let us move on,” Thomas said. They moved on, toward the south edge of the hill, where a gap in the trees revealed four great defensive walls of earth and a depression, the site of the fort’s principal gateway. “This is one of Britain’s many hollow hills. Like Glastonbury. Like the Eildons. Cadbury’s fairy traditions no doubt pre-date the Arthurian.”
Ellen was urging Sean toward the path down. Anna, Maggie, and Thomas turned to follow. Behind them Rose said quietly, “Look.”
A horse stood where the ancient gateway had been, its mane and tail floating in the wind, its chestnut coat glowing in the gloom.
“Where did that come from?” Anna asked.
Great, thought Maggie. Think of the Devil…
In the next instant Robin was sitting astride the horse, wearing a tunic, cloak, and malicious smile. The brass lilies of his crown gleamed dully. Four of them were set with green emeralds, ice-cold as his eyes. The fifth setting, above his brow, was empty. On his upraised wrist, fitted with a leather gauntlet, sat a falcon. It twitched, half opening its wings, jingling the bells on its hood. The horse shook its head, setting its bridle and bit to an echoing tinkle. The sound was not a joyful noise but the harsh clatter of swords drawn and lusting for blood. Or for souls.
“Oh my,” Anna said. “I see what you mean by supernatural.”
Thomas stood quietly, not reacting.
Lightning struck suddenly down from the clouds. Thunder rumbled. In one smooth movement Robin pulled the hood off the falcon’s head and launched it into the air. It rose shrieking toward the clouds, wheeled, and dived. A mighty rush of wind threw Maggie against Thomas. Anna and Rose ducked. But the bird was gone. So were the horse and Robin.
“As much as I appreciate the natural world,” Thomas shouted over the roar of the wind, “I think the time has come to flee from it.”
Close together, they hurried to catch up with Sean and Ellen. Another bolt of lightning hissed down the sky. The eaves of the forest leaped into stark relief, steel etched on steel. So did the human figure standing at the head of the path, a man wearing a leather jacket and boots, hands thrust into his pockets, red head tilted to the side, green eyes glistening.
The light winked out, leaving the darkness tinted green. Ellen fell to her knees, gasping, “He’s called down the wrath of the heavens because I’ve been going about with you unbelievers.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” said Rose. “He told you to spy on us.”
Maggie took one of Ellen’s arms while Thomas took the other. They pulled her to her feet and dragged her along. The next lightning flash showed the path like a black tunnel beneath the thrashing limbs of the trees, empty. Maybe Robin was lurking in the underbrush, planning to jump out at them—fine, they could trample him.
The wind howled like a pack of dogs. Hailstones thudded into the ground like hoofbeats. Shapes rushed across the sky, wraiths mingling with and yet separate from the clouds, the flicker of lightning resembling spear points. Like a dense column of smoke a funnel cloud extended almost lazily down from churning sky and struck the farmland below, throwing up a bow wave of debris. “Oh, shit,” Maggie said. A hailstone bounced off her head.
Sean raised his camcorder. Ellen was hyperventilating. Thomas handed her to Rose and Anna and shoved them toward the mouth of the path. Taking firm hold of Sean’s collar, he spun the boy around and down. “Maggie!”
“Here I am.” She slid into a drift of wet leaves and lay prone. Thomas threw himself down beside her. The noise of the storm made Maggie suspect a giant reaper was moving through the woods. She didn’t look up. If a tree was going to fall on her she’d just as soon it was a surprise. “Let me guess,” she shouted to Thomas. “November is tornado season here.”
“That it is.”
“You don’t want to lecture us on how Neolithic people would interpret a tornado as a male fertility principle? You know, Sky Father, Earth Mother?”
He looked at her, his eyes pale gold. “Would you like me to do so?”
“Never mind.” Maggie laid her face on her forearm and reminded herself to breathe, until at last the wind died down and the thunder faded. Creaks and rustles sounded from the woods. Feeling furtive, like a cockroach in God’s kitchen, she stood up and took inventory. Did her eyes look as much like porcelain saucers as everyone else’s?
A bit of leaf mold clung to Thomas’s cheek. She wiped it away. Ellen’s face was dirty, streaked with tears. Sean, wearing his best, “Shucks, tweren’t nothing” expression, put his arm around her. Anna brushed leaves and dirt off her jacket while Rose brushed them off her jeans. “No,” she said, her voice quavering, “he can’t control the weather.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Thomas, “but he appreciates special effects as much as any film director. Shall we go?”
No one argued. They felt their way down the path and across the field, now scattered with debris that had probably been a barn. The sky was the color of tarnished silver. The wind blew raindrops into Maggie’s face. She expected to see the sheep laid out with heart attacks, but no, they were huddled in a corner of the pasture, baaing their grievances.
Ellen babbled about Judgment Day, Armageddon, the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. Sean and Anna between them kept up a soothing commentary. Rose trudged through the puddles, her shoes muddy. “Rats. I thought we could deprogram her.”
“Have f
aith,” Thomas told her, and, to Maggie, “Before you ask, a natural disaster is not evil, but chaos.”
Chaos, Maggie thought. The romantic poets used nature to reflect emotion. Her emotions had been chaotic—seven deadly sins and psychological dysfunctions and the story with its kaleidoscopic patterns—but the story wasn’t chaos, just complicated … No, she couldn’t control the weather either. “Right,” she said, and opened the gate for the others.
A broken tree limb lay alongside the green, but only one hail ding blemished the van. Maggie was about to prescribe food and drink in the pub when a green Jaguar came down the street, swishing through the carpet of leaves like the death coach from a nightmare. The car passed so close beside the van she had to press herself against the door, but all she could see through the tinted windows was a dim shape in the driver’s seat.
With a squeak of terror, Ellen scrambled into the van. Thomas stepped up beside Maggie and watched as the car turned a corner and disappeared. A few more raindrops fell, and thickened, and became a steady rain.
Right. “That’s the lesson for the day,” Maggie said. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Ellen stopped at the top of the stairs and pressed her fingertips into her temples. She’d taken aspirin after lunch and pinched Bess’s Xanax after dinner, but still her head beat like a bloody drum.
Time was running out. She’d seen the wrath of God on a sinful world, two days ago at the place called Camelot. She’d seen Robin standing there, all calm and quiet like, whilst the heavens went to pieces about him. That was just a hint of what was to come, soon, at the end of the year. At the end of the world. If she did what Robin told her, she’d be saved.
Hard as it was to go about with the unbelievers, she had to be strong. They were only pretending to be kind, they were laughing at her behind her back. But then, people of faith were always persecuted, weren’t they?
Sean came out of his bedroom. “How’s it going?”
She tried to shrug, but her shoulders were too stiff.
“Here.” He started rubbing her back. “Just relax.”
He was always going on at her about relaxing. She’d never get past her sexual issues, he said, until she learned to relax. He understood why she’d been coming on to him so strong at first. She was acting out, expressing the abused inner child.
Rubbish, all of it. Still, Sean wasn’t a bad sort, considering the company he kept. Even considering what he’d said about Robin’s speech. A pity, that he was condemned to hell.
“Maggie’s watching TV,” Sean whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “Let’s get her laptop and go web-surfing. There’s an awesome new interactive game. Or we could hit the Torrid Tales site again, remember that one?”
Ellen remembered. His probing fingertips made her tighten up all the further. She pulled away. “I’ve got a whacking great headache.”
Once or twice he’d looked at her like she was having him on when she said that, but this time he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Later, eh?” Ellen patted Sean’s bum. Odd, how good her hand felt against the back pocket of his jeans.
“Okay. Hope you get to feeling better.” He kissed her forehead and for half a tick her headache eased off. Maybe in time she’d learn to like this sex rubbish … That was just it. There was no time.
Ellen walked down the stairs, her boots thudding on each tread, her head throbbing at each thud. She found Bess sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of sherry close to hand. Her garden magazine was open to the same page as an hour ago, when Ellen had cried off drying the dinner dishes because of her headache, and Rose with her flowery perfume stepped in.
She pulled out a chair and sat down. “Where’s Alf, Mum?”
“In town. Lodge meeting.” Bess took Ellen’s hand. “That plaster is filthy. And your skin’s red—that cut’s gone septic.”
“Mum, don’t fuss.” Ellen pulled her hand away.
“I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you.”
“I only want what’s best for you. If you believe in Robin, he’ll save you. Just as it says in Holy Scripture, he’s the redeemer who’s come in the last days.”
“Have you actually read the Bible, Ellen?”
“I’ve one of the Foundation editions, haven’t I, updated for the End Times. And Robin explains a passage in every newsletter…” Suddenly Ellen saw how to bring her mother round. She lowered her voice. “I’m not to tell anyone this, Mum, but you’re not just anyone are you? I’m the chosen one. Me, of all women. I’m to be Robin’s bride.”
“Bride? You haven’t gone and slept with him? And him always going on about morality?” Bess’s face squashed up like an apple kept too long in the cupboard. “I never raised you this way. I did my best with you, but now—now you’re scaring me to death.” She hid her face in her hands.
Ellen stared at her mother’s bowed head, the light glinting off the gray hairs amongst the brown. The stinks of sherry and disinfectant gummed her throat. At least she couldn’t smell Rose’s scent, not now. “Mum, please, you have to come round before it’s too late. I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’ve already lost you,” Bess said, her voice smothered.
Ellen’s hand hurt. Her head hurt. Neither hurt as cruelly as her heart. She blundered away, leaving her mother, the unbeliever, behind.
Rose scurried through the rain toward Thomas’s cottage, Maggie at her side. At least this Sunday it was only raining. “You know, we’ve only been here for three weeks.”
“If we were cats, we’d be down several lives by now.” Maggie pushed open the door of the chapel.
Thomas stood by the rood screen, haloed by his light bulb, his cell phone pressed to his ear. “Merci beaucoup. A bientot, Genevieve.” The off button chirped. “Rose, Maggie, good evening!”
“My French doesn’t go much farther than hors-d’oeuvre,” said Maggie, “but I gather by your tone of voice she couldn’t help.”
“Very few of my friends and fellow guardians can help with anything other than their prayers, but I have gleaned some important information.”
“Which you’ll tell us when you’re good and ready,” Maggie said.
“So I shall.” Smiling inscrutably, Thomas picked up a brush.
The ancient chapel was a safe place, a sanctuary in a storm. Rose genuflected before the carved Jesus. His eyes were alive with wisdom and pity. The eyes of the saints in their niches below glowed with a serenity she envied. Had Bridget or the Virgin ever been tempted, not by the senses but by the brink of darkness just beyond? Or was that the story of Mary Magdalene? “You’re working on the Blessed Mother today,” she said.
“November twenty-first, the Presentation of the Virgin.” Thomas applied another gold flake to the portrait’s background. “To say Our Lord was born of a virgin is a symbolic way of saying he was born of compassion.”
“He was born of the heart chakra,” a voice added from the outer door. Closing his umbrella, Inspector Gupta picked his way past the extension cords and the space heater. “Am I late?”
“We’re early,” Rose told him, grateful to get the topic away from virginity. “Are you all right? Thomas told us last night someone painted racial stuff on your garden fence.”
“I’m afraid so. Calling my daughter a ‘mongrel’ was over the top.”
Maggie shared an outraged glare with Rose. Thomas put down his brush. “I’m sorry, Jivan.”
“I’d rather have the threatening phone calls—they’re directed at me personally. The last one called me a ‘godless jack-booted thug.’”
“Because you want to question Robin?” asked Maggie.
“He’s playing silly beggars with us. We’ve taken out warrants, searched Foundation offices … I can’t explain to the chief constable why he keeps giving us the slip. And Mountjoy in Hexham keeps telling us to leave Fitzroy alone, he has important work to do.”
“Perhaps he’s visiting his co-workers in Russia,” said Thomas, “where th
e Orthodox church is celebrating its liberation from Communist exclusion by warning their congregations off evildoers such as Jesuits, Baptists, and Seventh Day Adventists.”
“Of course,” Maggie said sarcastically.
Rose felt less sarcastic than sad. “Mick says the inquest on his father’s death brought in a verdict of murder by persons unknown—Mountjoy kept going on and on about ‘just the facts,’ and they never even considered a Foundation connection.”
“Now Mountjoy’s asked me to take your finger and footprints to compare with those at the crime scene, Thomas. Sorry,” Gupta apologized, although he sure wasn’t Mountjoy’s keeper.
“I did walk about the crime scene,” said Thomas. “I’ll stop by the station tomorrow.”
“But what about Calum’s journal?” Maggie asked. “All that with Robin and Vivian?”
“I take it as evidence against Fitzroy. Mountjoy takes it as evidence Calum was cracked. The Foundation’s solicitors had most of the material disallowed as hearsay, but D. S. Mackenzie in Edinburgh is keeping an open mind.”
Gupta eyed the paintings but didn’t quite see them. “We’ve asked Inland Revenue for an audit of the Foundation’s books—Fitzroy’s pulling down a huge salary, for one thing. The governing board says he deserves that, for his contribution to the Foundation, and is threatening to sue the Somerset Constabulary for official repression.”
“Tax evasion is better than nothing,” said Maggie with a sigh, “but it’s awfully small beans, considering.”
“Ah, but even Goliath fell in the end to David’s pebble,” Thomas said.
Rose looked again at the figure on the cross. Calum and Vivian were sacrificed, in a way. Not that they’d volunteered, the way Jesus had. “There are parts of the Story that just don’t seem fair.”
“In the words of my fictional brother Cadfael,” said Thomas, “‘every now and then I like to place a grain of doubt in the oyster of my faith.’”
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