Lucifer's Crown (28 page)

"You didna see me with the illusion that looked like you."

Visualizing that scene sent a far from revolting quiver through Rose's stomach. “But you didn't actually, I mean..."

"Took me two minutes to see it wisna you. Two minutes you didna deserve of me. I'm sorry."

"So am I. I should've fought against Robin harder."

Mick's gray eyes were polished into silver by sun, snow, and emotion. “But this is what he's wanting, to keep us apart."

"Nothing can keep us apart.” The heat of his breath made her shiver. Rose took a solid grip of his shoulders and turned her lips up to his. He bent toward her. And they turned awkwardly aside and stared off in opposite directions.
Nothing except ourselves
. “Mick,” she said after a slow count of ten, “it's all right."

"Is it, then?” His eyes gleamed inches away from hers. Searching, but revealing as well.

It was only a kiss. They could handle it. She brushed her mouth gently across his. For a long moment they hung there, barely touching. Then Mick planted his mouth on hers.
Oh yes
. His lips and tongue were hot, supple, eager and yet delicate, working some alchemy of tenderness and passion that made her knees go weak. This was a hell of a lot more than a kiss.
Yes
.

Rose fell back the two inches to the wall. The sun-warmed stone was no less hard against her back than Mick's body against her chest and stomach. The miraculous medal purred on her suddenly sweaty skin. She could taste the salt-sweet of his tears on her lips. Unless they were her tears too. She embraced him all the tighter.

At last they separated and looked at each other, dazed. Beyond the mingled rhythms of their breaths and the sigh of the wind Rose could almost hear a voice very like the Lady's singing,
From the world, the flesh and the Devil make me anew
. “Yes,” she said.

And Mick said, “Oh aye."

They left the Abbey and walked up the street to where Thomas and Maggie stood waiting. Mick's face was pink and his hair was tousled. By the heat in her own face Rose knew she was bright red. Fine. One of the things she'd wanted was Truth.

"Take care, Mick,” said Maggie with a sympathetic smile. “Keep in touch."

"No fear,” he told her.

Thomas made the sign of the cross, then touched Mick's head. “May the blessing of Almighty God, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, descend upon you and remain with you always. Amen."

"Thank you kindly.” Mick released Rose's hand, leaving it cold. He looked at her, opened his mouth and closed it again. He climbed into the Fiesta and drove away toward the north.

Even as Rose waved, upper lip stiff as she could make it, she thought,
I might never see him again
. But the medal was warm beneath her sweater, her mouth tasted of his, and in her mind she could still hear the song,
Of one substance with the word, of one mind with the flesh, begotten not made by grace out of blood
.

The red car turned the corner and disappeared. A green one, not a Jaguar, pulled out of a parking place up the street and followed. Well no, it might not have followed, it might simply be going the same way.

Grimacing, Thomas opened the door of the van. Rose clambered in and sat on the back seat, alone.

She was scared. She was elated. She was heavy as stone. She was light as air. She'd disintegrated into fragments, each with its own flickering pulse. She felt the world and its history and every human belief centered in her own heart, whole.
The words made flesh in the world made true, and the Devil take his due from your hands.
“Amen,” she whispered.

Maggie drove away toward the south, past the Eildon Hills making a smooth triple curve against the blue cloak of the sky.

Slamming the door of the van, Maggie stared up at the walls and chimneys of Temple Manor. Just a few days ago she'd come here for the first time. If a few days could seem like years to her, what did years seem like to Thomas? She glanced at his sober face and answered,
purgatory
.

Rose retrieved her backpack and tramped off toward the house, her step firm, as though her center of gravity was lower now. The afternoon sun burnished her golden hair. The Virginia creeper waving against the ancient stone walls blazed a brilliant red. A strain of music in the distance announced that it was carnival night in Glastonbury.

Maggie hoisted her own bag and plodded beside Thomas through the archway and into the courtyard. “Have we just about worn you out with questions?"

"You've helped me collect my thoughts for the task ahead. We must find not only the Stone, but retrieve the Book."

"Easier said than done."

"Very much so.” He opened the door.

Maggie stepped into the dim interior of the house. Her nose wrinkled. She'd been hoping for one of Bess Puckle's lavish spreads, but the only odor she detected was that of disinfectant. It was Alf who loomed in the kitchen doorway. “Welcome back! Fancy your tea?"

"Yes please,” Maggie and Thomas said simultaneously.

"Rum bit of business with Calum Dewar, that,” said Alf, turning back to the kitchen. “There are some filthy beggars about, make no mistake."

"I pray that I don't,” Thomas said, half to himself.

From upstairs came Sean's voice. “...oh yeah right, like I'm supposed to believe nothing happened?"

"Even if anything did happen,” Rose replied tartly, “it wouldn't be any of your business."

"Hey, we Americans have to hang together. Some of these foreigners are way the hell out in left field."

"We're the foreigners here, Sean."

"And your point is?” Sean appeared at the top of the stairs, saw Maggie at the bottom, and said, “Hi. Welcome back already."

"Thanks,” Maggie said. “How are you doing?"

"Fine. Watched some movies. Did my reading. Went to a lecture. I'm heading up to town, the Carnival's starting.” Sean galloped down the stairs and out the door. Through the panes of the lounge window, each image in the old glass warped from the next, Maggie saw him walking away with Ellen Sparrow.

Rose came down the stairs more sedately. “Yeah, I saw Ellen in Salisbury with Robin."

"Funny,” said Maggie, “how her parents just happen to be here at Temple Manor."

"If she seduces Sean whilst spying on us,” said Thomas, “so much the better for Robin's purposes."

"I hope you mean ‘seduce’ metaphorically."

"I do, but never underestimate a young man's libidinous drive."

"Give him a chance,” Rose said.

"Your compassion does you credit,” Thomas told her. “I shouldn't wonder but that your good example will help him find his path."

"Me? I'm the one who led y'all on a wild goose chase halfway up the U.K."

"In the Celtic tradition, the wild goose is a sign of the Holy Spirit."

Maggie shared a wry grin with Rose. “Why am I not surprised?"

Footsteps sounded from the upper hallway and Anna stepped down the staircase. “I'm glad you're back safely, Maggie, Thomas. Rose said you had quite an adventure."

"Yes,” Maggie said, wondering whether Rose had edited the supernatural out of her travelogue. “I do intend to start teaching the course now."

"Did anything happen here?” asked Rose. “What about the Foundation rally?"

"Sean watched movie after violent and ugly movie, as though he were searching for some sort of validation. At the rally last night he seemed impatient and resentful. Ellen kept looking around, for Robin, I suppose, but stopped once she saw Inspector Gupta at the back of the room. She said something about police harassment. Neither she nor Sean has much imagination, I'm afraid, and that concerns me."

"Yes,” said Thomas, “a literal mind does make one vulnerable..."

Maggie realized Bess Puckle was standing in the kitchen doorway, balancing a tray of dishes. A tremor in her body set the crockery to ringing. “Thomas? Do you think Ellen's all right? She had a rough time as a girl, with her dad leaving and all, but I tried to raise her right."

"She has opened herself to an unhealthy influence, but there is hope for her.” Taking Bess's tray, Thomas carried it into the dining room and set it on the table.

Maggie had some sympathy for Ellen—she'd never known her own father. There but for the grace of God and so forth, she thought, and yet she knew only too well that God had nothing to do with the unhealthy influence of her mother's sexual guilt trip. Maybe she should be thankful for her instinctive skepticism, not irritated by it.

"Sit down, sit down.” Alf sailed into the room waving the teapot. “Sorry, Thomas. I know you're in the religion business—we've had some grand talks haven't we, nice and polite—but this Foundation lot, they're over the top."

"Did you go to their meeting Friday?” asked Rose.

"No, but what with Ellen joining up Bess and I thought we'd better check them over, and we got us some newsletters. Load of codswallop.” Alf distributed cups and saucers. “We have sandwiches and custard tarts from Safeway's. Bess didn't do the baking, another one of her headaches."

"The doctor gave me some tablets for my nerves. I'll bake a nice batch of scones tomorrow, see if I don't.” Bess positioned the cream pitcher and sugar bowl just so. Maggie was shocked to see how drained the woman looked, her pallor accentuated by two red splotches of blusher.

Alf poured, and steam wafted upward. “Bess, let's let these folk have their tea in peace."

Thomas took Bess's hand as she turned to go. “I've been praying for Ellen. I'll say a prayer for you, too, shall I?"

"Thank you, Thomas, but there's no...” She glanced at Alf. He shrugged. “Thank you."

Why did he bother asking?
Maggie thought. He was going to pray for Bess whether she wanted it or not. And Alf, too. If anyone had a direct link to the Almighty, it was Thomas. Maybe he even knew just what the Almighty was writing down in his book of the Story. She, though, she didn't have a clue.

Dunstan padded into the room and went from person to person, rubbing a welcome on each. Rose slipped him her last crust and pushed back her chair. “I think I'll call home. Not to spill my guts or anything, just to say hello."

"And,” Maggie teased, “to tell your sisters about Mick."

"You think?” Rose vanished out the door and up the stairs.

Smiling, Thomas stood up. “The parade will be starting soon. We might as well walk, we shan't find a parking place."

"I'll go get ready.” Maggie listened to his steady steps recede down the hall and out the door before she scooted back from the table.

"Are you all right?” asked Anna, perceptive as always.

"Tired. Tired and wired both. I'll be okay, thanks.” Not that she was too sure of that. But as Maggie went on up the stairs she told herself to stop checking her emotional dipstick every few minutes. She was only slowing down the journey. The pilgrimage.

Bathing and washing her hair served psychology as much as hygiene, and by the time they all set out for town she was looking forward to the carnival. A cold crystalline dusk cast a blue sheen over the countryside. Along Bere Street cherry bombs crackled and a group of children ran away laughing. The truncated towers of the Abbey leaped in and out of passing headlights. The Tor still loomed above Glastonbury, Maggie assumed, but the lights of Chilkwell Street were so bright she could see nothing beyond the thicket of trees where the Tor path started upward.

People thronged the sidewalks, carrying fragrant bundles of fish and chips. Anna struck up a conversation with a woman and her toddlers. Thomas, Rose, and Maggie found a place at the curb. Another string of firecrackers erupted in the Chalice Well gardens behind them. “Remember, remember,” intoned Thomas, “the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason, and plot."

"Guy Fawkes was caught piling up gunpowder in the basement of Parliament, right?” Rose asked. “Was it an anti-Catholic plot?"

"Fawkes and his companions were Catholic. King James—yes, he who sponsored that magnificent translation of the Bible—and his minister Cecil learned of the plot and used it to justify even more repression and more murders than were already taking place."

"Who was Robin encouraging?” Maggie asked. “Cecil or Fawkes?"

"Both."

"And you risked your life to celebrate Mass for frightened congregations in various hidey-holes."

"As Alf said, I'm in the business."

"I guess Guy Fawkes Day caught on because it was close to Samhain,” Rose said. “You could still light bonfires, but to be patriotic ... All right!"

A trumpet fanfare heralded the first float of the parade. The crowd surged forward.
All right
, Maggie repeated silently. Anybody who didn't enjoy a parade had an inner crab, not an inner child.

Thousands of tiny lights sparkled, outlining decorative curlicues, floral displays, castles and thrones. Some of the riders on the floats posed still as statues, others acted out scenes. Maggie cleverly detected a theme. Uther Pendragon leered at a simpering Igraine, ready, willing, and eager to beget Arthur. Merlin waved his magic staff. Arthur pulled the sword from the stone. Armored figures circled a round table. Lancelot bowed chivalrously to Guinevere in one scene, and in the next took her in a passionate embrace. Gawain battled the Green Knight.

The Arthurian legends, Maggie thought with a glance at Thomas's profile, a dark edge against the light, were popular at Henry II's court. During his century the Grail cycle merged with the Arthur cycle. And the other parts of the Story dating to the twelfth century? The identification of the Devil with the fallen angel Lucifer, and the veneration of the Blessed Virgin Mother. Talk about patterns in time and faith.

"Look,” said Rose, “it's the actors I saw in Salisbury. They've got a papier mache dragon. St. George, I guess. Or is it St. Michael? Like Mick.” She vanished into the crowd, following the strolling players.

"Rose...” The lights were hallucinogenic. So was the music, everything from madrigals to punk surging in waves through Maggie's head. The Lady of Shalott saw her fate come upon her and died of love. Galahad and Perceval beheld the Grail. Morgan le Fay and Mordred whispered not only lies in Arthur's ear, but also inconvenient truths. Three queens carried a dying Arthur to Avalon. Bedivere returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake.