Lucifer's Crown

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  “So she died?” Rose asked.

  “The defenders of Montsegur walked down the mountain singing, and were, to a man—and to a woman and to a child—burned to death in the field below. Robin stood amongst the Inquisitors that day, truly powerful, as two hundred twenty souls were butchered in the name of the Prince of Peace.”

  “That didn’t wipe out the Cathars, though,” said Maggie, turning onto the Beckery roundabout. “Or the Inquisition, which is still with us in many different forms.”

  Thomas shook his head. “The Cathars, steeled by violence and injustice, survived. That they eventually faded away is due partly to St. Francis’s example. Through his love of birds and animals, of the sun and moon, he demonstrated the goodness and joy of God’s material world.” The mini-bus turned through the gates of Temple Manor. “Speaking of the goodness of the material world, would you care for a nightcap?”

  The main house was dark. He had left one small light burning in his cottage, where they found Dunstan having a wash and brush-up in the chair. “And what’ve you been up to?” Rose asked, tickling his ears.

  A note lay on the table. “D. C. I. Swenholt called about the B. He’ll call back tomorrow. Anna.”

  “I hope that means Mick and Willie pulled it off.” Maggie reached for the bottle of whiskey and set out three glasses.

  “You didn’t have your cell phone with you?” Rose asked Thomas. “What if Mick tried to call?”

  Reverently Thomas set the box on the table. It was like removing an iron filing from a magnet to take his hands away from it. But it was not his alone.

  He retrieved his mobile from the desk. “I didn’t think it appropriate to carry something so relentlessly contemporary on the evening’s quest, Rose.”

  “I guess not,” she said. “Can I call Mick now? Just to see if he’s okay, and on his way.”

  “By all means.” Thomas handed over the mobile and accepted a glass of whiskey from Maggie.

  The small electronic instrument chirped as Rose played its buttons. She put it to her ear. She frowned. She replayed the same melody and held it again to her ear. “He’s turned off his phone,” she announced.

  “Trying to get a good night’s sleep?” suggested Maggie, her slightly forced smile refusing to admit any other conclusion.

  Her brow furrowed, Rose put away the mobile and accepted a glass of whiskey. The three glasses clinked lightly together. “To the solstice,” Thomas said, “the rebirth of the sun and the hope of the future. May Christ, the light of the world, illuminate our path, and Mick’s, and Willie’s. In the name of the Father…”

  Dunstan leapt from the chair, raced to the window, and bounded onto the sill. His bottle brush of a tail swished back and forth. Thomas peered out between the drapes. He saw nothing, but he could imagine any number of things.

  The fur settled down on Dunstan’s back and tail. “He could’ve seen a dog,” offered Rose.

  “Yeah, right,” Maggie said.

  Firmly Thomas tugged the drapes closed and turned back into the room. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

  “Amen.” Rose sipped at her whiskey. Her cheeks, already burnished pink by the cold, flushed a glorious crimson. Maggie drank, and the fault lines in her face eased.

  Thomas let the bright, hot liquid warm his mouth before he swallowed. How could anyone, he thought, reject the felicities of the material world? And yet love of the material world could lead terribly astray.

  Putting aside his glass, he said, “Well then. A preliminary revelation is in order.” He opened the box. Inside, nestled in rich red velvet, sat the gold reliquary in the shape of a chalice he himself had fashioned long ago.

  “You made that, didn’t you?” Maggie said. “It’s beautiful.”

  Even in the dim light the gold glowed, and the filigree knotwork with its morsels of color on handles and base seemed to ripple gently, like a flowing stream or leaves shifting in a spring breeze. “It looks like the Ardagh Chalice in Dublin,” said Rose.

  Thomas lifted the chalice from the box, and the upper half of the chalice from its base. Inside gleamed a common Roman drinking vessel, a flat cup made of thick glass.

  Rose genuflected. Even Maggie was speechless for a long moment. At last she asked, “May I?” She set her fingertips against the rim of the glass. “Should I be feeling something?”

  “I sense a harmony emanating from it. From each of the relics. But then, I’m not exactly of this world myself. Rose?”

  First wiping her hand on the tea towel, Rose ran a forefinger round the rim of the glass. “Maybe there’s a sort of vibration, like a bell after it’s been struck.”

  Dunstan leapt down from the windowsill and onto a chair, so that he, too, could see. For a long, silent moment they watched the play of light along the uneven surface of the glass, so that the Cup seemed to be filled with a palpable radiance.

  Then Thomas closed the chalice, replaced it in the box, and fitted the lid in place. “Tomorrow, Maggie, I’d like to borrow the mini-bus and take this to Edith Howard in Salisbury. We’ve removed the Cup from the most secure hiding place possible, which is what the Lady instructed us to do, but we have also done what Robin wants us to do.”

  “He said if he had two of the three relics,” said Rose, “then they would call to the third. Maybe we were supposed to get the Stone and the Cup to rescue the Book.”

  Thomas could only say, “All will be revealed in time.”

  “We’re almost out of time,” Maggie pointed out.

  “In your patience is your soul.”

  “The devil’s in the details.”

  “Okay, okay,” Rose told them both. “What about tonight?”

  “Tonight, I shall keep vigil.” Emptying the largest desk drawer, Thomas put the box away. “I shall go so far as to lock the doors of the cottage. Dunstan may indeed have seen a dog. He may not.”

  “I’m staying, too,” Maggie said, with that stubborn a set of her mouth Thomas knew he’d be wasting his breath trying to dissuade her. “After I walk Rose back to the house.”

  Yawning, Rose pulled her hat and gloves back on. Dunstan was already sitting by the door. “Good night,” she said, and went out into the darkness, both cat and teacher at her side.

  Thomas shut the door behind them and turned to the fire. Flame licked at the tinder, casting light and warmth into the room. Maggie opened the door, shut it, and locked it. “Funny how quickly I’ve come to accept the raving supernatural as perfectly normal.”

  “You were searching for it.”

  “Yes.” She set her hands on his chest and turned her face up to his. The cross he’d given her dangled between them, a bond and a barrier both. “Happy birthday, Thomas.”

  “Thank you.” He kissed her, lightly and quickly. How better to end a year of endings than by loving, even if that love had a razor’s edge of regret?

  Smiling ruefully, she turned away to take up her own vigil.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The headlamps of the car raked the sides of Holystone Priory like a searchlight raking a prison wall. Mick had never seen the place in broad daylight. But even a braw summer’s day wouldn’t make the place look couthy, it was that heavy-handed and dark.

  “Get down,” Willie said.

  Mick crammed himself as best he could into the footwell of the Nissan. He glanced at his watch. Half past ten. Again he cursed himself for not phoning Rose before he came away from Edinburgh. When he’d tried the number of Thomas’s mobile from Hexham no one answered, and the line at Temple Manor was engaged. But Willie had told him to come quick if he wanted to help rescue the Book, so he’d gone quick as he could.

  Now Willie peered up at the house. “So Prince brought you here, did he?”

  “Oh aye. Rose and me, some six weeks ago now.”

  “The same day he was going about coshing the odd muggins of a constable.” The car bounced across rutted mud and gravel and stopped.

  When the headlamps went dark
Mick lifted his head. Holystone Priory’s turrets and towers cut black angles from the charcoal gray of the overcast sky. The two windows either side of the porte-cochere were faint lighted squares, one ice-blue, the other little warmer.

  “Prince said there’d be two others to shift the artifact,” Willie went on. “But he wasn’t after telling me where we’d be taking it.”

  “If he was an open and honest sort he mightn’t have believed you when you told him you lied to us,” Mick said. “You chap at the door and I’ll slip round the back.”

  “Have your mobile, do you? Though I’m not signaling Swenholt till I have the Book in hand. No good charging Prince with thievery and not recovering what he thieved.”

  Mick knew that no one would be charging Robin with anything. But recovering the Book would put his wind up, and no mistake—especially with Thomas, Maggie, and Rose fetching the Cup this very night.

  Willie strode purposefully into the porte-cochere. Mick heard the thud of the knocker, the grate of the opening door, and a mutter of voices. When the door slammed he slipped out of the car. The frosty air prickled his scalp. From the darkness came the sough of the sea. The snow seemed gray and tired. When his foot went through the surface with a crisp crack, he stood off-balance, waiting. No one came.

  Round the corner he went, and saw two more lighted windows. Steps and a porch signaled the kitchen door. Beyond them rose a wall gashed by spear points of sickly light—the windows of the chapel. A clear light blinking on the horizon was St. Mary’s Lighthouse.

  Mick peeked through the window. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, the dustbin needed emptying, and the floor hadn’t felt a mop for a wee while. All the posh appliances and ornaments looked to be tarnished and dusty. At the table sat Mountjoy, his face sullen, his eyes hard between narrowed lids.

  The kitchen door swung open. Reg Soulis’s thickset body filled the opening. “He’s here.”

  With an obvious effort, Mountjoy pulled himself up and followed Soulis into the dining room. Mick tiptoed along the wall and tried the door. The knob was so cold it almost took the skin off his palm, but it wouldn’t turn. So then, a bit of housebreaking wouldn’t go amiss.

  With the heel of his mobile he rapped smartly at a pane of glass in the door. Shards rattled down. Again he waited, and again no one came. Protecting his hand with his sleeve, he reached through the broken window and turned the dead bolt.

  Easing inside, Mick shut the door behind him. The chilly air smelled of mildew and old fry-ups. He tiptoed across to the door, listened, and pushed slowly through.

  The dining room was lit only by the light leaking round the closed gallery doors. Empty cups and plates sat on the table, next to a tea cozy … The cozy sat up and opened golden eyes. Mick almost jinked back into the kitchen, then recognized the gray cat. He extended his hand. The moggie sniffed at his fingertips, yawned, leapt down, and vanished beneath the tablecloth.

  Mick put his ear against the gallery doors. Save for a distant television laugh track he heard nothing. No, there was Willie’s voice, pitched loud, coming up the hallway behind him. “We can take my Nissan, I reckon.”

  “We’ve got the boss’s Humvee,” Soulis retorted. “Just goes to show how important our mission is.”

  Footsteps approached. Mick dived behind the table, ready to join the cat beneath the cloth if needs must. But the men walked through the room without putting on the lights. Willie was lumbered with a large parcel, tawdry red and green tartan peeking through rips in the paper.

  The gallery doors slid shut behind the men. All they had to do was keep walking straight on to the car park. Mick reached for his mobile.

  “Well now,” said a soft, silky voice from the gallery. “I see we’re all getting on famously.”

  Damn. Robin was here. If you could trust him at all it was to be the spanner in the works. Mick wrapped the mobile in one corner of the tablecloth, muffling the chirps of the buttons. “Swenholt,” said the surprisingly mild voice in his ear.

  “Willie has the parcel. He’s in the gallery with Prince.”

  “How many others?”

  “Two. I reckon the woman’s in the television room off the entry. I’ve unlocked the kitchen door.”

  “We’re moving in.”

  Mick glanced at his watch. It had gone midnight. The witching hour, eh? He crept to the gallery doors and put his eye to the crack between them. Robin stood casually, one hand in the pocket of his khakis, saying “…the Tyne tunnel and then the A1 south…” Mountjoy, Soulis, and Willie nodded.

  Light burst in Mick’s eyes—no, it was only the yellowish glow of the chandelier. Lydia Soulis stood in the far doorway, permed white curls and all. Damn and blast. She’d popped out for quick stir at her cauldron—must be time to add the eye of newt. “You!” she exclaimed.

  With a crash the door slid open. “Mick,” said Robin. “Incapable of leaving well enough alone, are you?”

  Behind Robin’s back, behind Soulis’s staring face, Willie clutched the parcel to his chest and took silent steps toward the front door. Mountjoy looked round. Fast as an adder his fist struck Willie’s jaw, making a nasty crack of bone against flesh. Willie’s eyes rolled up and he crumpled to the floor, Mountjoy pulling the parcel from his hands as he fell. “So they’ve corrupted you, lad. Pity.”

  Soulis went for the parcel as well. Snarling, he and Mountjoy tugged it back and forth. Robin shouted, “Leave it, the both of you!” Mick leapt for the kitchen doorway, reaching for the sgian dubh at his waist.

  With a ghastly simper, Lydia Soulis pushed a chair into him. He jinked to the side, but Robin was on him. An arm like a cold steel bar pressed into his throat. The smell of moldering gardenias choked him. The satiny voice murmured, “Like father like son, stubborn to the end. Save I’ll have to do this job myself, I see. Goodbye, Mick.”

  Mick tried to wrench free. Robin bent him back so that his feet slipped out from under him. With both hands Mick tore at that rigid forearm. He might just as well have tried to shift the entire house.

  Christ behind me and before me … The words sieved through his mind and vanished. His lungs burned. Robin’s free hand pulled the necklace, Maddy’s necklace, from inside his jumper and ripped it away.

  Stars spun behind his eyes. In each one Mick saw a wee bittie picture: Calum lying hurt and scairt amidst a tumble of cold stone—Thomas cut down by four knights with long swords, his brains spilling out—Maggie tormented by demons—Rose kneeling before Robin, eyes downcast.

  Through the gathering blackness Mick felt Robin pull the mobile from his coat and the sgian dubh from his waistband. His last trace of consciousness convulsed into the sound of his mother’s voice, and he sang along with her, Oh God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come … sufficient is thine arm alone, and our defense is sure. With a shriek of pain and rage Robin dropped the knife. The arm across Mick’s throat loosened. He drew one deep shuddering breath and the darkness ebbed.

  Mick’s feet found purchase. He heaved himself backward, but Robin was gone. He crashed to the floor, landing so hard on his right elbow pain shot up his arm and out his ears. Voices were shouting. Policemen. Blessed be the policemen, who came when called.

  He lay on the gritty carpet, filling his lungs and emptying them again. Before his eyes feet ran to and fro. A pair of lop-eared slippers was caught between two pairs of shiny black shoes. They had Lydia, then. Two muddy boots were spread against the wall. In the next room Willie was sitting up, rotating his jaw experimentally. A constable knelt beside him.

  The sgian dubh lay on the floor. A hand picked it up. A trench coat folded itself into Mick’s vision. Swenholt’s voice said, “Mountjoy’s away with the artifact. Are you up to showing us about the house?”

  Mick sat up. The walls danced a reel, then settled. His neck stung—Robin had jerked the cross away so violently the cord skinned his neck—well then, let him have it, let it sap his strength…

  Swenholt was waiting, his rabbity moustache dr
ooping. Mick croaked, “Oh aye.”

  “Prince was here,” the detective went on, “and then he was gone. Slipped away in the confusion, I expect. Here you are.”

  Mick took the sgian dubh from Swenholt’s hand and clasped it tightly. Robin had taken Mum’s cross, but the knife had—what? Burned him? It was a relic itself, Thomas had said. Or was it the hymn that hurt him? From beneath the edge of the tablecloth Mick caught the clear amber gaze of the cat, the cat that had led him to Rose. Oh. Thank you kindly. The cat blinked and disappeared.

  Mick slipped the knife from its sheath. The wee blade was glimmering and humming, like when it had led them to the Stone. His watch read half past twelve.

  With Swenholt’s aid, he stood up. Several constables were taking the Soulises away, the man glowering, the woman screeching about official repression. In the next room Willie was standing as well. “Mountjoy legged it,” he said thickly, “towards the back of the house.”

  “The chapel,” said Mick. “I reckon there’s an outside door.”

  “You and you, round the side,” Swenholt ordered.

  “This way.” Mick led Swenholt, Willie, and two constables to the chapel. The place hadn’t grown any couthier. Thick pillars cast even thicker shadows in the colorless light of the lamp. A cobweb dangled listlessly from the cross on the slab of rock. Shards of history and myth lay scattered across the floor like petrified tears.

  Something scrambled in the shadow of a pillar, and a human form ran down the aisle. The constables ran after, Swenholt and Willie just behind. A door slammed, then slammed again. Shouts filtered through the windows.

  Hang on … Mick considered the song of the sgian dubh, rising and falling as though it were trading song and refrain with another voice. The Book was still here.

  Skirting the stone debris, he knelt in the dense shadow behind the altar. His fingertips touched a parcel wrapped in paper. He sheathed the knife, tucked it away, and gathered the Book into his arms. It wasn’t at all heavy, just solid. Weighty, with all the symbols inside. Relief flooded his body. Thank you.