Lucifer's Crown

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  Willie and Swenholt returned up the aisle, their faces going from disappointment to surprise to pleasure when they saw Mick. “I reckon he hid it,” Mick told them, “aiming to come back for it.”

  “Clever guess, Dewar.” Swenholt’s almost invisible brows arched up his forehead. “I’m told that Prince is using the art and antiquities trade to finance the Freedom of Faith Foundation. There’s a bit of hypocrisy, and no mistake. But then, I reckon the Foundation has as much to do with faith as Godzilla with paleontology.”

  Mick grinned. Willie chuckled.

  “A Canon O’Connell rang and asked if you’d take the Book to a chap named London in Glastonbury. Quite the scholar, O’Connell says. He’ll check it over, see that it’s the genuine article.”

  “No problem,” said Mick, his grin broadening.

  “I’ll give you a lift into Hexham. Let the doctor have a look at those bruises on your neck and you’ll be on your way.” Swenholt headed toward the outside door without waiting for an answer.

  Between the anemic light of the lamp and the dank smell, not to mention his own uneven breath, Mick’s head went spinning and his stomach quivering. He supposed the place needed tearing down, and the land spread with salt after, but he also supposed no place was beyond hope.

  Willie’s face was pale, light or no light. The bruise on his jaw promised a proper Technicolor display. Like the bruise on my throat, Mick thought. Good job he still had a throat.

  Side by side, he and Willie walked out of the chapel and into the house. In the kitchen, in the cold fresh draft from the broken window, Willie said, “All’s well that ends well.”

  It hadn’t ended, not by a long chalk, but Willie’s part had done. Clutching the parcel in one arm, Mick shook the man’s hand. “Thank you. Above and beyond the call of duty and all that.”

  “It was the right thing to be doing,” Willie said with a shrug, as though doing right was the most ordinary motivation in the world.

  “Armstrong!” shouted Swenholt from outside.

  “Merry Christmas,” Willie said, and was gone.

  Even the atheists celebrated Christmas, Mick thought, the stories were that inviting.

  He’d phone Thomas or Rose from Hexham—no, they’d be in their beds. He’d ask Swenholt to tell them he was on his way. If he stopped only for petrol he’d be in Glastonbury in the morning—he wasn’t at all tired, just nervy, like—the drive would be long and dark at first but if he pressed on he’d soon find Rose and the dawn waiting for him.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Rose stood in the door of Thomas’s chapel, tracking the rising sun as it ducked and dodged behind lumps of cloud—there, the sunlight warmed her face—nope, dark again.

  They were three for three. Mick was on his way. Rose told herself she should be dancing with joy, but no, her chest was tight and her nerves squirmed. Calum Dewar had disappeared on the road, hadn’t he?

  Going back into the chapel, she sat down on one of Thomas’s chairs and hoped that he and Maggie would hurry—they were changing clothes and eating breakfast after their long night sitting up. But it was Anna who walked in the door and gazed quietly up at the rood screen.

  A ray of sun picked out the vivid colors of the row of saints. Above them the carved faces of John and Mary Magdalene looked up at Our Lord, asking for reassurance and receiving it … Somebody was talking loudly outside. Rose stood up. Anna turned around.

  Sean blasted in the door. “Who the hell does that guy think he is? Ellen and I were minding our own business and a car pulls up and two people get out—I saw them at the Foundation rally—then here he comes himself in that Jaguar and takes her arm, like,” Sean used a prissy accent, “‘Come along, we’ve work to do, you and I.’”

  No. No! Every neuron in Rose’s body fired at once. She started toward the cottage. Anna started toward the door. Sean exclaimed, “What’s up with…”

  “Rose,” said Robin’s voice, slick as grease.

  She stopped, braced herself, and made an about-face.

  Holding Ellen’s upper arm in his left hand, Robin brushed past a red-faced Sean and a tight-lipped Anna. His glittering eyes grazed the rood and the cabinet of relics. He spat on the flagstones Rose herself had swept clean. “Idols,” he said. “You should be ashamed, going against God.”

  He wasn’t forcing Ellen along. She was smiling, smug, like she was on a date with her favorite rock star. Rose wished she could have had hope enough for Ellen that she was surprised, but she didn’t and she wasn’t … Robin threw something down at Rose’s feet. Her throat clamped itself shut and her eyes bugged out. It was Maddy Dewar’s Celtic cross. Mick’s necklace. The catch was broken, like it had been torn off his neck. Rose snatched it up. It was ice-cold. No.

  When she looked up Robin was holding a sgian dubh. “Do you recognize this? No matter. If you say one word, if you make one gesture, I will kill her.” He pressed the point of the knife against Ellen’s throat.

  “Hey!” Sean started forward, then stopped.

  The color drained from Ellen’s face. Hadn’t she expected that? She was on Robin’s side, it was all just pretend. Rose said, “In the names of all the saints gathered here…”

  The knife pricked. Ellen gasped. Blood trickled down her throat. Robin’s smile was curled at one edge, like a leaf with blight. “Mick tried and failed to take back the Book, Rose. He’ll not annoy me ever again.”

  He was just yanking her chain, Rose told herself. When Swenholt called Thomas this morning he said the Book was safe. The cross, already warm in Rose’s hand, didn’t have any identifying marks. Maybe it was Mick’s. Maybe it wasn’t. That sure wasn’t Mick’s sgian dubh—his was a relic, too, so how could Robin even hold it? That one was Vivian’s. Robin took it from her body.

  Ellen had not only not blinked, Rose didn’t think she’d breathed. Ellen didn’t believe it was all pretend.

  Sean looked from face to face, obviously hoping for either a clue or a cue. Anna edged toward the door. “Stop just there,” Robin said. “Your sort causes quite enough trouble as it is. Now, Rose. Go into Thomas’s cottage and fetch the Cup. Don’t tell me it isn’t there. I have a witness.” Again the knife pricked. Ellen squeaked.

  Pocketing the necklace, reminding herself to breathe, Rose stumbled toward the door. Robin was clever, all right. If he held a knife on her she’d grit her teeth and tell him to get it over with before she chickened out, but to threaten somebody else, even Ellen—especially Ellen … Prayers whirled through her mind and winked out before she could grasp one.

  Dunstan was sitting just inside the cottage, the hair on his spine making a serrated edge. Rose skirted around him and opened the desk drawer. Maybe she could take out the Cup and only give him the box—no, either he’d just know it was gone or he’d make her show him. Maybe she could lock the door and sit tight … “Rose!” shouted Robin, and Ellen emitted a cry of terror.

  Trembling, nauseated, Rose carried the box into the chapel.

  Again Robin smiled. This time his eyes glinted with amusement. “You, boy, give this to my disciples waiting in the car park.”

  Sean grabbed the box from Rose’s hands, stamped past Anna’s set face, and went outside. Robin angled himself and Ellen so he could watch through the open door as Sean made the delivery. Rose watched the blood run down Ellen’s throat and onto her sweatshirt. Her hand was bleeding too, and her skin was a nasty shade of green.

  A car started up and sped away. Robin gave Ellen a little shake, reminding everyone who was boss. “Now, Rose, kneel before me. Admit that your faith is false. That I would not be here if God hadn’t sent me to punish you for the errors in your belief. And whilst you’re about it, anticipate what Thomas and Maggie will feel when they hear what you’ve just done. They trusted you, didn’t they? But now you’ve betrayed them. You’ve failed. You can’t rationalize it all away, saying that God will forgive you, for he hates a hypocrite like you, with your all-too-conspicuous virtue.”

  Rose gulped
down something between a sob and a scream. She had betrayed Thomas and Maggie, that was the truth. She had failed. And Robin was here, in spite of all Thomas’s prayers.

  “Kneel before me,” Robin repeated. “Show forth your shame.”

  A sour taste filling her mouth, Rose dropped onto one knee. Footsteps raced across the lawn and Thomas catapulted through the doorway, Maggie and Sean at his heels. Painfully Rose stood up again, horrifyingly not sure if she was glad to see Thomas or not.

  “Thank you, lad,” Robin said. “You saved me the effort of looking out Thomas myself.”

  Sean flushed an ugly purple. Anna set her hand on his arm.

  Robin tightened his hold on Ellen. “Her life is in your hands, Thomas.”

  Thomas’s eyes burned, but he said nothing.

  “I have the Cup,” Robin said. “I have the Book. I’ve sent Mick Dewar to join his father.”

  Maggie’s eyes widened and then narrowed cautiously.

  “In nine more days, Thomas, I shall win. You and yours cannot withstand my strength, just as you could not withstand your own weakness. But this time your failure will be for all time.” He twisted the knife and Ellen whimpered. “William de Tracy. Reginald Fitzurse. Hugo de Morville. Richard le Bret. You know those names.”

  Becket’s murderers, Rose thought. Robin was talking about…

  “Canterbury. The holy blissful martyr for to seek. Except he isn’t holy, he isn’t blissful, and he certainly isn’t a martyr.”

  Thomas’s expression hinted of thunder and lightning. Of the storm the night Arthur was born. Of the comet the night Caesar died.

  “Forty-eight hours after your feast day, Thomas. After the day you celebrate your fraud. New Year’s Eve, when the people of the world will be open to signs and wonders. The passing of the last millennium and the end of time.” Robin threw one last sneer at the rood and started dragging Ellen toward the door. She stumbled. He jerked her up again, forced her across the lawn, and piled her into the Jaguar like a bundle of laundry. The car took off in a spatter of gravel and vanished down the road.

  Rose’s knees gave way and she sat down hard on the nearest chair. Tears gushed from her eyes, scalding her face. “I gave him the Cup and if he does have the Book we’re road kill—maybe he didn’t really murder Mick but I betrayed you just like he said. And he came in here, I thought it was safe here, but it’s not. Wasn’t I praying hard enough?”

  “You did not betray us,” Thomas said through his teeth. “So long as Robin has friends, no place is safe from him but your own heart.”

  Swearing under her breath, Maggie sat down and put a shaky arm around Rose’s shoulders.

  Sean flapped his mouth open. “What the hell was all that about?”

  Thomas asked Anna, “Would you be so good as to ring Inspector Gupta yet again? And you’d best explain the importance of the relics to Sean, I see he’s a bit bewildered.”

  “No shit.” With several skeptical backward glances, Sean walked off toward the house with Anna.

  “I gave away the Cup,” sobbed Rose. “I betrayed the faith.”

  “Don’t allow Robin to lead you into pride. To lead you into assuming what happened here is on your head and yours alone.” Thomas laid his hand on Rose’s shoulder. The firm clasp steadied her, mind and body. “God made us many promises, but never that His path would be an easy one.”

  Maggie bounded to her feet and paced toward the door. “I hope Robin was meant to have the Cup. And yes, I know hope is the point, but damn it, Thomas…”

  “Rose did the right thing in giving it up. If she had let Robin kill Ellen—and have no doubt he would have done, and taken the Cup in any event—that would have betrayed the faith.”

  That made sense. Rose looked up at the face of Our Lord, filled with compassion and wisdom, and down at the face of Our Lady with her serene smile. Neither of them had changed, no matter what Robin said, no matter what he did, even here. “Yes,” she said with a sniff.

  Maggie peered out into the sunshine, the set of her shoulders saying make my day. “So it all comes down to a duel. A pitched…” She stopped, stared, and waved her hands like a traffic cop. “M—M—Mick—Mick just pulled into the driveway!”

  Mick! Rose jumped up and ran, wobbly knees and all. Behind her came two sets of footsteps. Thomas called, “Have a care, this might be another illusion, intended to turn the knife in the wound.”

  Mick was opening the trunk of the car. His grin went lopsided when Thomas, Maggie, and Rose galloped up to him and stopped dead a few feet away. Thomas raised his hand and sketched a cross six inches from Mick’s face. “In nomine patris et filii et spiritu sancti, ite.”

  “What’s happened?” Mick said hoarsely.

  She threw her arms around him. It was him. Crumpled and frayed, but him. How could she ever have doubted God’s mercy? Thank you. “I tried to call you!” she said into his shoulder.

  “Ah, that sod Robin’s had three mobiles off me now.”

  Thomas and Maggie joined in the affection frenzy, banging Mick on the back and hugging him from the side. “You saw Robin?” Thomas asked.

  “Saw him? He came within a gnat’s eyelash of murdering me.” Mick pulled at the neck of his sweater, baring an expanse of purple and puffy skin that made Rose wince. “And he stole my mum’s necklace to boot.”

  “Oh!” Rose fumbled in her pocket. “Here. I bet Thomas can fix the clasp.”

  Mick clutched at the necklace. “He was here, then. He told you he’d murdered me and taken back the Book. Is that it?”

  “That’s it,” said Maggie. “Except for the part where he stole the Cup.”

  “Where I gave him the Cup,” Rose confessed.

  “He threatened to kill Ellen,” explained Thomas, “unless Rose brought out the Cup and gave it to him.”

  “Filthy sod,” Mick said, and instead of shoving her away he snugged her even more tightly against his side. “Still messing with your mind, is he? And here I was thinking we were three for three.”

  “Every solstice celebration must have its Lord of Misrule,” Thomas stated firmly. “Is P. C. Armstrong all right?”

  “Oh aye, just. Mountjoy slipped clean away, I thought Swenholt was after chewing off his moustache.” Mick’s disappointed expression softened. “Still, when Robin had me round the throat he said, ‘Like father like son, stubborn to the end, save I’ll have to do this job myself.’”

  “Ah,” said Thomas. “Someone else struck the blow that killed your father.”

  “So I’m thinking. I told Swenholt, and he’ll have another go at Stan Fenton.”

  “Good. Let us hope, Mick, that Fenton will give the secular authorities something to go on.”

  “Oh aye.” Mick considered Rose, then the house and the surrounding hills, like he was afraid they were the illusion. “I’m knackered, and no mistake. But the Book’s in the boot.”

  “Well done, Mick. Superbly done.” Thomas hoisted a paper-wrapped parcel out of the trunk of the car. “Let’s have a look.”

  They moved off toward the cottage, Rose hanging on to Mick for dear life, not that he was shoving her away. Dunstan was waiting on the doorstep, and escorted them inside. There Thomas untied strings, unwrapped paper, and unrolled a red and green tartan cloth. Gently, he laid the Book on the table.

  Rose leaned closer. Parchment glowed. Colors danced. Patterns changed subtly from abstract shapes into living images-the intricate patterns through which she and the others were walking, and the knotwork of flesh that bound their spirits to the world. Through them all wound the exquisitely written letters of the Word. The cramp in her throat finally eased. “Oh yes.”

  Dunstan stretched, his chin brushing the floor. The deep lines in Thomas’s face eased in the glow of the vellum and its rainbow hues. “Robin held the Book for much too long, but he was not yet, thank God, moved to defile it.”

  Maggie touched the Book and then looked at her fingertips, as if that Otherworldly glow was paint she could rub off. “Is
this why Mick didn’t get the Book back at the end of November? So he could show up with it now, when we needed a jolt of hope?”

  “I should believe so,” Thomas told her.

  “We have two of the three,” Rose said.

  “And I still have my own wee relic.” Mick lifted his sweater to show his sgian dubh safe at his waist. “But Robin’s won a round.”

  “He succeeded only in setting the place for the revelation of the relics,” Thomas told him.

  “Only?” Maggie made a face. “We’ve been playing musical relics. Now it’s time for the tug of war, winner take the future.”

  “A pitched battle,” said Thomas, “on New Year’s Eve, at Canterbury. Robin thinks my guilty conscience will weaken me there, and so it might.”

  “No,” Maggie told him. “By the time New Year’s Eve gets here you won’t have a guilty conscience, not any more.”

  Thomas’s eyebrows tightened into doubt and then so obviously threw that doubt away Rose could hear it shatter on the floor.

  “Taking the Book and the Stone to Canterbury will be delivering them straight into Robin’s hands,” Mick protested.

  “Since we do not have the Cup, we must take the other relics to it,” answered Thomas. “Robin is taking as great a chance.”

  “Can he waltz right into Canterbury, the holy of British holies?” Rose asked.

  “Robin can venture even there if his true believers carry him in their hearts. For the cathedral, like my chapel—like your necklace, Mick, and yours, Rose—is but a symbol of the faith we hold in our own hearts. It is when we show that faith from our hearts, passionately, in word and deed, that he is repelled. For our words, our stories, are the greatest relics of all.” Thomas’s stern face cracked into a smile. “Let us remember that Robin’s stories, his lies, are more likely to divide his forces than our own.”

  “Yeah,” said Maggie, “may the Force be with us.”

  “It is.” Thomas’s long, elegant fingers began folding the Book into its tartan wrapper. “Maggie, we must carry this to Salisbury straightaway.”