The relics anointed, the cat sat down to wash her face. Rose extended her hand. “She might be a cat, you know. Kitty, kitty?” The cat graciously allowed herself to be petted.
Maggie blinked. The air was hazy. She smelled smoke. Is that what she kept hearing, a tourist’s smoldering cigarette butt growing into a fire? Thomas’s nostrils flared. Rose and the cat looked up. Mick said, “He’d not set the place on fire, would he? To flush us out, like?”
“I think not.” Thomas turned in a slow circle. “Stop playing games, Robin. Show yourself!”
As though to his command, both doors, north and south, opened. From one side came Reginald Soulis and a white-haired lady—his mother, Maggie realized. The anti-Madonna, who’d taught her child very well indeed. From the other came ex-Inspector Mountjoy and Ellen Sparrow.
Maggie jerked to her feet. She, Mick, and Rose ditched their coats and formed a line beside Thomas. The cat dived beneath a chair.
Now what? Maggie waited to see a hundred more people walk in. She could have listed the ones she expected, religious leaders, politicians, terrorists. But Robin had summoned only four of his followers. Four of the people who mirrored his own lack of completion. Four people to carry him onto hallowed ground. That was pride, Maggie thought, to think so few … She glanced at Thomas’s taut white face. Four knights had been more than enough to murder David’s body and wound Thomas’s soul. There were, after all, only four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
“The lions entering the arena,” Mick muttered. Rose elbowed him.
Like schoolchildren the Soulises and Mountjoy jostled for precedence. Ellen hung back, shoulders hunched, hands hidden in the pockets of her coat. Her eyes were the huge, dark, hollow holes of an Oxfam poster child’s.
The other three made Maggie feel underdressed. Reg was wearing a yellow power tie with his pin-striped suit. He might have been on his way to a business conference, except for the sledgehammer in his hand. Lydia wore a maroon suit and ruffled white blouse decorated with a gaudy emerald-green brooch. She held the olive wood box in her white-gloved hands, pinkie extended just so. Mother and son’s eyes were cold, their noses raised as though they smelled something bad, their smiles thin slits of self-righteousness.
Mountjoy wore his dark police inspector’s suit, right down to the spit-polished shoes. His eyes were narrowed as suspiciously as they had been the day Thomas and Maggie first met him, but his chin and cheekbones were sharper, as though he’d been sucked dry of everything but that fear of fear that was malice.
Upstairs the choir sang on, waves of words and music flowing across the hostile faces. “Vergine madre, figlia del tuo Figlia…”
Lydia snorted. “Can’t even sing properly in English, can they?”
And by those words of arrogant prejudice, Robin was called from the darkness at the far end of the crypt. He strolled down the aisle, dressed to kill in a three-piece suit and paisley tie. Had he been there all along, Maggie wondered, laughing as Thomas blessed them all? Or had he materialized out of sight of his true believers?
Mick eased his sgian dubh from beneath his sweater and held it beside the seam of his jeans. The medal gleamed as his chest rose and fell. So did the blue cross against the gentle curve of Rose’s breast. Maggie glanced down to make sure her knotwork cross was front and center on her red sweater. Time for the faithful to choose their faiths freely, with passion … Suddenly she was chilled to the bone with fear, wondering what hope they had.
Reg began, “You lot are heretics, you are. You need sorting out.”
“It’s folk like you, with your secret agendas, who cause all our problems,” said Mountjoy.
Ellen stared at Robin. Robin’s hooded eyes stared at Thomas. His pink tongue passed between his lips and they parted into a smug smile.
Thomas stood straight and tall. All he needed, Maggie thought, was the dented armor, the long sword held upright between his hands, the white tunic with the splayed red cross of the Templars. “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
“We’re proper moral people,” Lydia retorted. “It’s our right to express our beliefs.”
The music stopped. In the sudden silence the shifting of Mountjoy’s and Reg’s feet echoed against the low ceiling like the tread of a marching army. The cat resembled a hedgehog, all spiky fur and bright green eyes. The air was thick with the stench of overripe gardenias, expensive cologne, and no doubt equally expensive alcohol—so they’d started partying in advance. Pride goeth before a fall, Maggie thought wishfully.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit,” sang the choir, “for the kingdom of heaven is theirs. Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the land.”
Reg considered the altar, the votive candles, the relics. “Idolatry and superstition.”
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be consoled. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice, for the justice of God shall be theirs. Blessed are the merciful, for mercy shall be shown unto them.”
“It’s up to us to restore public morality,” Mountjoy said.
“Blessed are those who bring peace,” sang the choir, “for they shall be called children of God.”
Ellen swayed, caught herself, braced herself upright. She was clutching something in her pocket, Maggie saw. If Reg was carrying a sledgehammer to deal with the Stone and the Cup, Ellen probably had a butane lighter for the Book. And then Lydia would come out with broom and dustpan and sweep all the shards, all the ashes, into a bleak future.
Robin raised his arms, palms up. His voice was satin-cold. “Thomas, by your treachery you condemned yourself to my hands. I have held you for many years now, despite your occasional wriggle like a fish on a hook. Like that day at Sarum, when I let you think you had released yourself, the better to take you back tonight.”
Rose and Mick stepped closer together, so that they were shoulder to shoulder. As much as Maggie wanted to throw herself in front of Thomas and shield him—sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can break my heart—she knew she couldn’t protect him.
“Tonight,” Robin went on, “your soul shall at last be damned.”
“I think not,” said Thomas. “My soul belongs to God.”
“Does it? That’s rich, when you betrayed him in this very place.”
“You twist theology, as always,” Thomas replied. “I never rejected my faith. I chose to ignore its teachings. I sinned in this very place, yes. I have done penance for it.”
“Oh well, that’s all right then. David’s come back to life, has he?”
Thomas’s jaw tightened.
“All these years you’ve buried your head in your faith, thinking God has forgiven your faithlessness. Thinking you know His will. And you accuse me of pride! Has it never occurred to you, Thomas, that God’s judgment is betrayal in return?”
Thomas seemed to shrink. Maggie frowned, the persuasive voice sucking the strength from her body.
“If you had ever had the courage of your own worst nature you would have realized that your Lord was setting you up. But no. You went on, sweeping others along in your folly, until now. Now, at the cusp of time, the moment of destiny. Thomas, your pride has led you into the greatest folly of all, and your piety has brought you naught.”
Robin made a sweeping gesture over the relics. Our Lady’s candles guttered. “It’s you who brought the Stone and the Cup from their hiding places. It’s you who brought the Stone and the Book here. Why? Because you trusted what she told you? This is your penance, Thomas. The knowledge that God has betrayed you and delivered you and yours into my hands. I now have the three parts of the Grail. When the door opens on the hinge of eternity I shall destroy them. You have betrayed your Lord again, this time for all time. I have won. Thanks to you and your faith, that like you is utterly false.” Robin’s voice hissed the last word, and it slithered like a snake down Maggie’s spine. That actually made sense, that Thomas was the one with the wrong end of the stick. With the blind faith.
Th
e glow in Thomas’s eyes, in his skin, guttered like the candlelight. Rose bent her head against Mick’s shoulder. He sagged, the knife dangling uselessly at his side. The Soulises shared a self-satisfied nod with Mountjoy. Ellen looked hungry and yet nauseated.
“Submit to me now, so that your friends may survive to know my power. Accept that I and mine are your superiors, and you’ll have peace. Place your hands in mine. Through me pay homage to my master, and he will care for you. You need never make choices again, for I shall lead you in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”
Maggie choked on her despair. After Robin destroyed the relics the sun wouldn’t die, or the moon fail, nothing so conspicuous. No, the world would go on, unsupported by stories, without hope. The proud and the greedy were the stronger after all, and their vindictiveness was rewarded.
“Thy will be done,” Thomas whispered.
It was over. Maggie bowed down, beaten.
Chapter Forty-three
“Thy will.” Slowly, painfully, Thomas gestured toward the statue of Mary and her son. He straightened. His face hardened and his eyes flashed. “If I risk everything here tonight, so do you,” he said to Robin. “Your greatest power is in deceit. Your lies are all the more effective for being cunning perversions of the truth. But they are still lies.”
Robin’s expression curdled from smug to spiteful.
With a start, Maggie awoke from her evil dream, and followed Thomas’s gesture toward the calm face of Our Lady. Of her statue, a symbol of faith. Be it unto me according to thy word, she repeated silently, and her heart swelled with emotion. She turned on Robin. “You’re lying. You’re really good at it, but you’re still lying.”
Rose and Mick shook themselves. “Yeah,” said Rose. “You’ve told us enough lies already.”
“We’re not listening to you, not any more,” Mick added.
Reg muttered, “Been brainwashed, I expect.”
A shimmer began to gather in the air above the relics. Ellen slouched against a pillar, rubbing her hand across her face as though she could wipe it off. Change a few words in Robin’s little speech, Maggie thought, and it could have been her own confession, all her piety brought to nothing. Come on, Ellen, don’t do this to yourself.
The voices of the choir stirred the heavy air like a cool breeze. “…spare us, good Lord, spare thy people whom thou hast redeemed with thy most precious blood.”
Maggie did a double-take. Sean stood at the foot of the stairs, his hands hanging at his sides, his mouth gaping open. She thought of racing past him and grabbing Ivan or Stavros or someone. But more bodies wouldn’t help. Beneath the chair, the cat’s tail switched back and forth.
Reg hoisted his sledgehammer and Sean retreated partway up the steps. Ellen looked at Robin, her face utterly blank, inhuman. Robin circled the relics, each footfall echoing. “Do you have the time, Thomas?”
“It’s getting on for midnight,” Thomas answered.
This time Robin’s smile was fierce and bright. A wave of his hand, and two of the votive candles winked out, trailing ghosts of smoke. Turning to his people, he ordered, “Get on with it.”
Mountjoy started forward. Reg fell in beside him. Lydia followed, smiling. She probably would have thought an execution jolly good fun. Ellen, too, began to walk toward the relics. The others looked at her like they’d look at toilet paper stuck to their shoes. She didn’t seem to see them. She moved like a zombie, her right hand deep in her pocket.
“Have a care,” said Mountjoy, “this is a church.”
“Not my church, it isn’t,” Reg retorted. Lydia shook the box tauntingly. The chalice rang.
Time to put her body and blood where her words were, Maggie thought, and braced herself. Mick raised his knife. Rose whispered, “Blessed Mother conceived without sin pray for us.” The air itself shone, as though sunlight leaked into a dark room around a partly opened door.
“Move aside,” Mountjoy ordered Thomas. “You’re alone.”
“We’re not alone,” said Thomas. “We are here with our friends, in the company of saints.”
“I gird myself with the might of heaven,” Mick said. “I gird myself with the power of God…”
“In all his names and all her forms throughout the history of human thought,” Rose concluded.
All Maggie could think of was, “Now I lay me down to sleep.”
Robin waved Lydia and the Cup to the side. Mountjoy seized Thomas’s wrist and he pulled it away. Reg grabbed at Mick, only to fall back when he saw the knife. If both men attacked Mick, thought Maggie, they wouldn’t get nicked too badly before they wrestled him down—assuming he’d actually cut anyone … Ellen screamed. The harsh, shrill cry echoed through the vaults and disappeared into the thunder of organ and choir. Robin turned, eyes glittering. “How dare you interrupt!”
She had a knife, a sgian dubh—probably the one Robin had used on her in Thomas’s chapel. Calum’s replica. The one Vivian had been holding as she died.
Sean ran back down the stairs. “Ellen, don’t!”
“Lies! Every bleeding one of them, lies!” She lunged. The knife sliced Robin’s sleeve. His face contorted into rage. She struck again. Sparks flew from the Stone. Mountjoy stepped toward her. She stabbed at him and missed.
Rose and Mick went after Ellen, Maggie close behind, her mind moving a heck of a lot faster than her body. What was the girl trying to do? Get revenge on Robin? She couldn’t hurt him, could she? Was she trying to earn points by killing Thomas? Could she hurt him?
Now she could.
Ellen stabbed at Rose. Mick grabbed her arm. She wrenched herself away. She was striking out at everyone who had hurt her, Maggie realized. That was Robin’s Story, wasn’t it? Your inadequacy was always someone else’s fault.
Ellen stabbed at herself and the knife blade bounced off her belt buckle. Maggie grabbed for her arm. She struck again at Robin. Again Mountjoy clutched at her. She shook him off. He sat down hard in the chair sheltering the cat. It scraped. The cat bristled and hissed.
Reg brandished the sledgehammer but didn’t seem to know what to do with it—this wasn’t what Robin told him would happen. Lydia edged around behind Robin, clutching the box to her bosom, her red mouth still smiling. Maggie and Thomas reached toward Ellen but only managed to shove each other aside.
Again Ellen turned the knife on herself. Okay, so she was blaming the right person this time. She ripped her jacket—there was blood on her shirt—no, it was the cut on her neck opened up—Mick, Rose, and Maggie closed in but she threatened them all, the knife flashing in every direction. Tears glistened on her sallow cheeks.
“Ellen,” said Thomas, opening his arms, “the grace of God is with you. He wants you to live, and heal.”
Sean danced back and forth like a prizefighter. “Ellen, let me help!”
“How touching,” snarled Robin. “But all the likes of her can understand is strength.” Stepping forward, he seized Ellen’s forearm. She jerked and then dangled from his grasp like a rag doll, her breath sobbing.
Time stopped. Mick, Rose, and Sean stood petrified in attitudes of alarm. Thomas offered his embrace. The air shone in faint whorls of light. Maggie imagined Michelangelo’s white-bearded God leaning forward, fingertip extended, ready to intervene in history, but His door was locked because the gatekeepers were scuffling.
Robin was turning Ellen’s hand, the hand that held the knife so tightly its knuckles stood out hard and white. He was turning the knife back toward her chest—she’d already tried to stab herself, he was only helping her out—funny, she seemed to have changed her mind and was pushing him away.
Thomas extended his hand, trying to deflect the knife. Don’t, Maggie screamed silently, but her body wouldn’t move.
The infernal green glow of Robin’s eyes swerved toward her. In them Maggie saw the future, how her warning, her push, saved Thomas from the descending knife. So what if it condemned Ellen to death, that was like putting a dumb animal to sleep, no great lo
ss.
Together she and Thomas walked out of the cathedral. The events in the crypt faded into memory and vanished, because they’d made new memories to take their place. The world might be hopelessly dark, but they had each other, soul-mates. Nothing and no one else mattered.
Maggie’s entire body spasmed. Thomas loved her, yes. It was a measure of his integrity that he’d told her the truth. But the larger truth was that he’d chosen God. The only way she could be unfaithful to him was by taking away his choice, now, at this moment.
She looked up into Thomas’s face as she’d looked into it the night of her confession. She surrendered her love to his radiant true self, and stopped even trying to move. God help me!
Robin’s gaze released her. He pushed the knife in Ellen’s hand toward her own chest. She struggled, but he was strong. Thomas leaped forward, arms spread, his embrace encompassing not only Ellen, pitiful sinful humanity, but Robert the Devil himself, who was, after all, a poor excuse for a man.
Robin’s hand holding Ellen’s drove the blade into Thomas’s chest. He gasped, his face going stark white. Maggie heard her own voice cry out in pain.
Rose emitted a strangled scream. Robin dropped Ellen. Ellen dropped the knife. Picking it up, Maggie seized Thomas’s arm. He touched the wound and looked at the blood smearing his fingertips, for once at a loss for words.
Someone was swearing. Mick? No, he was struck dumb. It was Reg or maybe Mountjoy, who still sat in the chair above the bundle of irate cat … No. It was Robin, his voice tearing into ragged ribbons. “You stupid cow! You’ve gone and done the one thing he wanted!”
“I never,” Ellen wheezed, “I never…”
Sean waded in, pulling her back against his chest. “Fitzroy, you’re full of crap. You did it, not her. We all saw you.”
Maggie held the hot, hard little blade in her free hand. Beneath her other hand Thomas’s arm, his mortal flesh, was perfectly steady. He stood straight and tall as ever despite the rip in his sweater and the blood spreading outward from it. She balanced on her own knife blade between hope and horror, telling herself that the knife was a little one, that it had bounced off one of his ribs and caused only a flesh wound. That maybe the shedding of his blood would be enough.
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