Lucifer's Crown

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  The woman who emerged from a door in the corner of the transept could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy, with short gray hair and a stylish purple sweater and skirt. “Good to see you again, Thomas. And this must be the student group from America.”

  Maggie introduced herself and the others, concluding, “Thank you so much for letting the students use the library, Mrs. Howard. They all know their topics. If you could just show them the references, they can take care of themselves.” She punctuated her sentence with a severe look. “Right?”

  “Don’t leave the cathedral,” Thomas directed.

  All three faces, Anna, Rose, and Sean, nodded agreement.

  “I’ll sure we’ll get on famously.” Mrs. Howard led them toward the door. Rose shot one last smile at Mick and was gone.

  “I’ll be having a wee dauner down to the police station.” Mick swayed back and forth, like a magnet caught between positive and negative poles, then fell into a brisk walk that carried him around the corner.

  Maggie saw that a stringy-haired girl was watching them from the ranks of wooden chairs. Well, Mick and Sean were almost as eye-catching as Rose, in a more terrestrial way. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Thomas. “You said you’d answer some questions.”

  “Yes, I did. Although the answers may be more than you want to hear.”

  The word made flesh, in the world made true, and the Devil take his due from your hands. The words, the images crowded together in Maggie’s head, beating out time, beating time itself. She was caught between medieval fantasy, soap opera, and the Twilight Zone. She was caught in Thomas London’s eyes, their embers flaring into a fire so hot and strong she felt sure she was casting a shadow on the gray stone of the floor.

  The issue, she thought, was not only what he wanted from her, but what she wanted from him. Maggie reached for her keys. “Try me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Park in the farmyard,” Thomas told Maggie.

  She had driven the three miles from Salisbury without speaking, but not, he thought with a glance at the sun-dappled highlights in her dark eyes, without thinking. Now she parked in the farmyard and leaned over the steering wheel to look as skeptically up at the vast mound of Old Sarum as she looked at him.

  What were the children singing last night? From the deceits of the Devil deliver me? An appropriate motto for the day’s work—assuming the day’s work went as it should. As, please God, it must. This time he would not betray his own decision.

  The slams of their doors echoed from the looming earthen ramparts. Thomas climbed the gate across the path and offered Maggie his hand. She took it. Her flesh sent a wave of warmth up his arm, as though the same swift palpitation of hope and dread pulsed in her body as in his.

  They walked toward the mound of the Norman stronghold that rose above the hub of the Iron Age hill fort, past the ruined gatehouse and up to a track atop the highest earthen battlements. There they stood, braced against the rush of wind, not quite side-by-side, not quite back-to-back. A landscape sculpted by time and man rolled away before them, the cathedral city of Salisbury looking like a child’s model in the valley below. Catching his breath, Thomas smelled not only smoke but a teasing odor of incense. The Otherworld, then, did indeed interlace itself with this one, here and now.

  Maggie’s nostrils flared. Her expression of skepticism deepened into suspicion, but all she said was, “Okay, we’re here. How about those answers—you know, who, what, when, where. Why.”

  “Today is the feast day of St. Winifred of Wales. The story of her martyrdom is yet another echo of an old Celtic tale. Her shrine, Holywell, draws pilgrims to this day.”

  “That’s the when. And the where?”

  “Celt, Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Dane—the many peoples of Britain have all been familiar with this place. Sarum was once the site of a great Norman castle and a greater cathedral. But by 1164 secular and spiritual rivalries had driven Sarum into decline. King Henry II preferred his hunting lodge at Clarendon, just beyond that hill.”

  “The Constitutions of Clarendon,” Maggie said obligingly, “were a compromise in the power struggle between church and state. Becket as Archbishop of Canterbury signed, but the next day retracted his signature. His allies mocked him, saying, ‘Only our leader fled the field.’”

  Thomas’s jaw tightened, sending a ripple of tension down his spine. Waves of grass rose and fell like sea-swells around the massive earthworks. Hares gamboled up and down the slopes.

  “Going beyond history to legend,” prompted Maggie, “Sarum is one of the places that might be Camlann, where Arthur was defeated.”

  “Like Glastonbury, Sarum is older than the legions, older than the Celts. Look there, beyond the spire of the cathedral—can you see the mound of another hill fort, Clearbury Ring?”

  She squinted toward the southern horizon. “Oh—yes.”

  “Stand atop Clearbury and sight north, and the line will pass through the cathedral, across Sarum, and into the circle of Stonehenge. Close by Amesbury, where Guinevere did penance after Camlann.”

  “Ley lines are more wishful thinking than real.”

  “Mostly, yes. Not this one. Nor the line through Glastonbury, which begins at St. Michael’s Mount off Cornwall, passes through other high places devoted to St. Michael, and ends at Avebury stone circle.”

  “Those lines must cross somewhere, like x marks the spot.”

  “They cross at Liddington Castle, another ancient hill fort, reputed to be the site of the battle of Mount Badon, Arthur’s greatest victory.”

  “Where he won a generation of peace…” Maggie’s brows cramped. “By the time the Saxons reached Glastonbury they’d become Christians, and didn’t destroy it. Are you trying to tell me that Glastonbury is so important that supernatural forces, God, whatever—arranged history around it?”

  “All I can tell you is that Sarum is a place of conflict and exclusion,” Thomas answered. “The Waste Land of Arthurian myth. Whilst Glastonbury is a place of inclusion, growth, and renewal. Avalon.”

  “So inclusion is your answer to life, the universe, and everything?” For a long moment she considered his words, her expression indicating an emotion between incredulity and impatience. “That’s great. I like it. But where do Vivian and Calum come in?”

  “They are but the tip of the iceberg. Its body is a pattern which was laid down in deepest antiquity by those supernatural forces we call faith. But I can’t play my role in that pattern, or lead anyone else into his—hers—without confronting Robin Fitzroy.”

  Maggie’s gaze raked him like a cannon salvo. “I wondered when we were going to get to him. Have you arranged to meet him here?”

  “I hope to attract his attention.” Thomas set off along the path which followed the top of the battlement.

  Below lay the foundations of the cathedral, its crossed arms diagrammed in concrete, the arc of the ancient earthworks making of it a Celtic cross. Another symbol almost filled the square of the cloister, the whorls of an immense fingerprint drawn upon the green grass. Across it cut black bars, as though canceling it out.

  “A labyrinth,” Maggie said, catching him up. “A Cretan spiral. Another pre-Christian survival.”

  “Yes,” said Thomas, as much to himself as to her. His senses itched like skin wearing a hair shirt. The word made flesh, feet of clay … Here and now, it had to be here and now. He led the way down a flight of muddy steps so quickly Maggie had to run. In moments they stood inside the cloister.

  She brushed her fingertips across the stiffened grass. “The labyrinth is paint, but the bars are burned. Did the Foundation people try to break up a labyrinth ceremony here? If all this is about freedom of religion, then you can count on me.”

  “Thank you.” Thomas considered her intelligent and demanding face, her cheeks burnished to the crimson of a ripe apple by the cold wind. She was more than a pawn if not quite a queen—a knight, perhaps, leaping at unexpected angles. The queen waited at the center of the labyrint
h, whether Mary the Holy Mother or Ariadne the Great Mother didn’t matter. The journey mattered, and the defeat of the beast who blocked the way.

  Maggie stood up, brushing off her hands. “Have I passed the historical trivia test? Are you going to tell me what’s really going on here?”

  His smile was taut as a bowstring. “It’s not your test, but mine. Until I tell the truth about who and what I am, I cannot move freely against Robin.”

  “Is he blackmailing you?”

  “In a way. You see…” Thomas’s ear caught the step behind them. He turned. Maggie stared.

  Robin stood just outside the cloister walls, his hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side, the sunlight gleaming on his red hair but not touching the cold depths of his eyes. As usual, he was fashionably dressed, thick shoes, denim trousers and jacket, a heather-green pullover.

  So then, as he had gambled, Robin could not resist the chance to crow. Thomas pretended indifference, even as his heart pounded loud as a snare drum beating a call to arms. “Maggie, may I introduce Robin Fitzroy?”

  Robin looked her up and down. He smiled, his eyeteeth glinting between his pink lips. “Ah yes. You were lecturing your students in Glastonbury Abbey Sunday afternoon. I was tempted to join the group, you were expressing yourself so beautifully.”

  Maggie’s chin went up. “You did join the group, didn’t you? But not because of me. You were harassing Rose.”

  “Now, now, did she say ‘harass?’ I think not. I was merely offering her my help and protection against Thomas here, a well-known liar and seducer. It’s not too late for you, is it? What lies has he been telling you?”

  Maggie looked sharply from Robin to Thomas and back.

  “If you were an honest man,” Thomas told him, “you would speak with Inspector Gupta about Vivian Morgan’s death.”

  “I’d be happy to talk to him,” Robin returned, voice like silk. “I have no reason to protect Calum Dewar.”

  “I very much suspect Calum is an innocent man. So innocent he almost fell into your trap. But he’s thwarted you, hasn’t he? You may have the Book, but you don’t have the Stone.”

  “The Book?” Maggie repeated. “The Stone?”

  Robin’s smile faltered. His eyes flicked toward Maggie. Thomas dared to interpret his expression as doubt. And yet the silky voice went smoothly on, “My people have the Book, yes. We’ll soon have the Stone. And we’ll have your artifact as well, for I have long held you as my vassal.”

  “You have never been my lord, only my jailor. But I cannot defend the honor of God when my own honor is in doubt. Therefore I shall confess publicly—to a woman, Robin. To a woman.”

  “That’s what you’re playing at, is it?” Robin demanded. “She’ll not believe you if you do tell her, you fool.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “In all these years you’ve never had the bollocks to tell anyone the truth. Balls, to our American friend here. Or has she already discovered their absence for herself?” Robin’s voice frayed.

  Maggie’s face was a study in bewilderment, but for once she held her tongue. It took an exceptional person to realize when she was out of her depth, and silently Thomas saluted her.

  “To believe you is to despise you!” Robin hissed.

  “Maybe so. Still, I hereby reject you and all your deceits.” Stiffly Thomas unfurled his full height. He raised his hand, fore and middle fingers pointed upward. “Pax domini sit semper vobiscum,” he said, and traced up and down, left and right.

  “How dare you wish me the peace of God!” Robin’s face contorted, and suddenly he was no longer handsome. “If you want so badly to suffer, then do so, and the both of you be damned!”

  Thomas had only a moment to brace himself. To throw a quick apology toward Maggie. To pray, Blessed St. Winifred, let her witness!

  Robin gestured, two fingers down, in mockery of Thomas’s blessing. The movement drew darkness from the bright sky, darkness split with lightning and the screams of tormented souls.

  Unless it was his own scream, of pain far worse than any physical agony. Falling, Thomas landed hard inside the all-too-familiar memory, inside the all-too-familiar illusion that illustrated the memory, not on grass but on stone flags covered with rushes. Darkness encompassed him—no, there was light, guttering torchlight, and the face above him wasn’t Robin’s but Henry’s. Henry, who had been the friend of his soul, until, in their pride, they betrayed each other…

  The parchment lay before him. His gold seal touched the wax. The watching eyes gloated. He knew then that to compromise was to put aside pride. And yet pride was knit into every sinew of his body. Pride sustained him from Clarendon to Northampton across the Channel and so to exile in France. There eyes looked at him with respect, even love, love he did not deserve. For seven years he endured those eyes, and at last made his decision.

  The towers of Canterbury cathedral were gray against gray December skies. His clerk’s sober voice told him that for once he should unbend far enough to take advice. But it was too late, he’d pushed Henry too far. And now their quarrel would end at the sword’s point, with him assuming a martyr’s crown, with Henry at last on his knees in penitence.

  It was night in the cathedral. The monk’s voices quavered as they sang Vespers, and the words—magnificat anima meum Dominum—resonated eerily amongst the columns. He turned as the knights rushed clattering through the cloister door, and went down to meet them. Edward, go, David, go with him. But in their love the monks stayed beside him, even as swords glinted in quick red reflections of the altar lamp.

  Outside the lamp’s feeble gleam the shadows thronged thick and black, concealing everyone and everything—except for Maggie in her jumper and jeans, her fist pressed to her mouth, her eyes huge, amazed, horrified, seeing…

  David stood blocking the crypt staircase, his arms raised like a priest welcoming his congregation. Thomas stood behind a pillar in the musty chill air of the crypt. It was David’s voice that called upon St. Denis, one of Thomas’s patrons. It was David’s voice that was stilled suddenly by blows of metal first upon bone and then upon stone.

  The mailed footsteps fled into silence. He stood in the darkness, cold sweat streaming down his back, as above him the monks crept forward. The Archbishop’s face was shattered, they said, and the bony crown of his skull lay like a chalice on the bloody pavement. His face—David’s face—was shrouded with blood, holy blood, the blood of the martyr.

  Thomas’s pride dissolved in that blood. The greatest courage, he realized, wasn’t pride but humility. Darkness spiraled past his eyes, dark and flame, blood and sweat swirling in a vortex, not sucking him down but pushing him up, as the mouth of Hell spat him out.

  Tears burned his cheeks and stone cut into his shoulders. The light was so bright he turned away—they’d found him, hiding in his shame … No. Clear blue sky arched overhead. The wind sang cold and clean. This was Sarum. The ruined cathedral lay behind him, its stone patterned in the body of Christ, its cloister anointed with the ancient spiral path.

  Always before he’d waked from the memory-illusion to find himself lying unmanned at Robin’s feet, Robin’s laughter acid in his ears. But not this time. This time Maggie’s dumbfounded face peered down at him, her eyes small labyrinths. This time Maggie’s voice stammered, “Are you—you all right?”

  That, Thomas told himself, is the question.

  Chapter Twelve

  Every fiber of Thomas’s body ached fiercely and his stomach churned. That was nothing new. What was new was the sudden hope that he was no longer alone in his agony. He set his hand on Maggie’s cheek and lightly brushed her lips with his own. “Pax domini sit semper tecum.”

  “Yeah, sure, peace be with you too.” She sat back with a thump. “I’ve stopped wondering if you’re crazy. Now I’m wondering if I’m crazy.”

  “You’re quite sane, I assure you.”

  “Yeah. Right. So what was all that—that—I could see the stone and the grass and you righ
t through it but you were in it, too.” Maggie took a shuddering breath. Her eyes darted up, down, to the side and back to his face, wild surmise beating against the borders of rationality. “Okay, I don’t see any projectors or whatever, and if I did, I’d still want to know why you were playing tricks on me.”

  “What you saw was no trick. It was the memory of my guilt. In the words of St Bernard of Clairvaux: “This is the worm that dieth not, the memory of things past.”

  “Oh yes,” she said emphatically. “But—but—why did you goad Robin into—into doing that? So I could see? Was that your truth? If I know the truth does it set you free?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough, I expect.” Thomas sat up. He fumbled through the grass, found his eyeglasses, and put them on.

  Maggie’s features resumed their angularities, each sharp enough to pare away doubt. Her front teeth sank into her bottom lip. Her eyes remained fixed on his face. “You’re not trying to tell me you’re Thomas Becket, England’s greatest saint.”

  “No, I’m Thomas Becket, England’s greatest fraud. Thomas Maudit, Thomas the Cursed.”

  “Other than the small detail that all that was eight hundred years ago, the knights sure as heck killed somebody!”

  “They murdered David, a monk of Glastonbury Abbey who’d come to me only the day before with a message from his abbot. My clerk mentioned how much he looked like me, tall, fair of face and dark of hair. And so did my spiritual son David play Galahad to my Lancelot.”

  “Succeeding where you failed, you mean?”

  “I’d spent years making my decision, but at the last second turned tail and ran, betraying every principle I so loudly declared I believed. In that same second David made his decision and stepped into my place. My sin of omission murdered him as surely as if my hand wielded the sword.”

  “Weren’t you wearing your archbishop’s robes?”