After what? Rose pushed the door almost shut but not quite, in case the miraculous medal was peeking, and sat down at the head of the bed. Mick sat at its foot and pulled the chair closer.
Rose watched him eat, feeding her eyes while he fed his stomach. He was frayed around the edges. Even his voice was a burr. But frayed was more appealing than silky smooth. It was probably more honest, too.
She looked down at the bed, where a wooden instrument resembling a small clarinet lay like a bundling board between them. “Is that a bagpipe chanter? Were you playing it?”
“Aye, to both questions.”
“I’ve never heard that tune before. Is it traditional?”
“I dinna ken. I heard it years ago, near Melrose, on holiday with my mum and dad. Never heard it since, but it stayed with me.”
“I’d like to hear you play the pipes.” Rose knotted her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry you missed the play outside the cathedral. I enjoyed it, even when Robin Fitzroy made fun of it.”
“Who’s this Fitzroy chap, then?”
“Good question. He keeps warning me about Thomas and Thomas keeps warning me about him. I don’t know who to believe. Robin was here yesterday, but I first saw him in the Abbey Monday morning, just before I found Vivian. He has the strangest green eyes.”
Mick set his teacup down with a crash. “Green eyes?”
“Oh yeah. He looks like a model, almost too handsome, you know? Perfect hair, perfect beard, sort of a coppery red color.”
“He—he,” Mick swallowed and began again. “He’s watching out for you.”
“Who? Robin?”
“He’s scairt for your safety, if you must know.”
“I don’t know anything that’s going on around here,” wailed Rose, “and I’d lot rather have knowledge than safety!”
“It’s a matter of life and death,” Mick insisted. “I can only be telling you if you’ll promise not to go telling Thomas or Maggie.”
Rose would have thought he was being melodramatic, but she’d already discovered the death part. She gulped down her protest. “I won’t tell them.”
He leaned forward. “I met with a copper in Salisbury. Robert Prince, Scotland Yard. Red hair, green eyes. I reckon he’s gone undercover as Fitzroy. Robin’s a nickname for Robert and Fitzroy means ‘son of the king.’ Prince.”
“An undercover cop?” Rose repeated incredulously.
“He was telling me that Thomas is a criminal, after stealing an antiquity. Prince is working with my dad to protect it. It fits what my dad told me afore he went missing. Prince said Thomas has seduced Maggie—in both meanings of the word. You canna trust her, either.”
“I can’t believe it—Thomas is a priest…” Rose’s mind flashed like a strobe light, dark to light to dark again. Robin a policeman? Thomas a criminal? “Something sure happened between him and Maggie this morning.”
“Thomas is a priest?” Mick shook his head. “That makes it worse, eh?”
“If it’s true, it does,” Rose told him. “What about your father?”
“He’s okay. He gave Prince a letter for me. Here.” From his jacket Mick took a sheet of paper.
She snatched it from his hand. “This came from the notebook I lost Sunday! See, in the corner, a doodle I did. Robin told me he took it, yeah—but, but—if Robin’s a policeman, why is he avoiding Gupta?”
“Because Gupta’s bent, or so he hinted.”
“Gupta’s the one who seems like a real cop, kind of tired and worn. Not Robin, he’s so slick, he’s like an actor playing a cop. No soul.”
“Aye,” Mick conceded with a grimace.
“And he told you just exactly what you wanted to hear about your dad, didn’t he? That he’s okay. That he’s doing important work.”
“Oh aye.”
What am I trying to do? Rose asked herself. Convince Mick his father wasn’t all right? But she had to say it. “If Robin’s the bad guy then he’d want us to distrust Thomas, wouldn’t he? And he’s picked a damn funny way of protecting me, coming onto me and everything.”
Recorded explosions sounded faintly from downstairs. Mick said, “Oh Rose, how can a man with any blood in him at all not come on to you?”
Funny, she’d never realized how the prolonged “o” of “Rose” shaped your lips into a kiss. She held out the letter, murmuring, “You’re not so hard on the senses yourself, you know.”
Mick took the paper, his fingertips lingering against hers. A tingle spread up her arm and filled her body. The sag of the mattress tilted them together, so that she sensed the warmth of his body and rich scent of cheese on his breath. The room went soft focus around the edges.
“What are you going to do, M…” The “m” of his name also made a kiss. She managed to say, “Mick?”
He smiled, a radiance in his eyes, a flash of teeth, and crescents cut into his cheeks. Suddenly she realized why people always seemed to be stunned when she smiled.
Then the gloom fell over him again. “I’m away to Housesteads to meet with my dad. My mum’s dead, I’ve no brother or sisters. He’s all I have.”
“You’ll be in danger,” Rose said with a frown.
“I’m already in danger. So are you. I couldna go without warning you.”
“I’m in danger from Thomas? Or from Robin?”
“I dinna ken. I only know what needs doing. Having an early night, and making a start tomorrow morning.”
The front of Rose’s body, facing Mick, was still warm. Her back was cold. Last week she’d known who she could trust. Now she didn’t. Well, she could probably trust Sean, but what could he do? And Anna was a nice lady, but ditto. As for the Puckles … She didn’t know the Puckles.
She’d known Maggie for several months. Maggie had never told her wrong. And like Gupta, Thomas seemed more real than Robin. The question was whether she could trust her own perceptions.
Mick. She didn’t know him, either, but if she had to make a leap of faith and trust someone, then it was going to be him. “Be careful, okay?”
“Okay.” A glitter in his eyes made Rose think of the old word “fey,” fairy-ridden, enspelled, doomed. “You as well, Rose. Have a care.”
She stood up. “I will. Good night.”
“Good night.” Mick shut the door.
That sounded like “goodbye.” Rose looked down each separate corridor and up and down the stairs, but it was night, and the different paths were dark. Sirens wailed like banshees in the lounge. No way. She went into her and Anna’s bedroom, leaving the door half-open and flopping down on the bed without turning on the lights. Mick wanted answers. She wanted answers. That gave them the same goal.
A door opened. Stealthy footsteps pressed a creaking floorboard. In one bound Rose was at the door. Mick stood at the top of stairs, his backpack flung over one shoulder. It was like a freeze-frame in a movie, Mick balanced on one foot and the sirens’ wail drawing itself out thinner and thinner. He was going into the dark, now, alone. Something in his face, the shadowed eyes, the parted lips, reminded Rose of Vivian Morgan. Who’d been left alone, in the dark, to die.
She was standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down, holding her breath. The melody Mick had been playing twined through her mind. Then Nevermas’s guitars and drums and pipes flooded in, The flesh is willing when the spirit is weak, the last shall be first and the proud shall be meek, on earth as it is in heaven.
The music stopped. Time plummeted. Sirens howled, punctuated by the gunshots of Mick’s feet on the stairs. Rose seized her backpack and shoveled some things into it. She tore a page from her new notebook, scribbled a message, and left it on Anna’s pillow. Grabbing her coat, she sprinted out of the room, down the stairs, through the door, and across the courtyard.
Lights glowed in the windows of Thomas’s cottage. Maggie must be there. Rose couldn’t deal with them, not now.
The headlights of Mick’s car came on, striking her across the face. They went out again and he shot out of the door. “Rose!
”
She grasped his arms. “Didn’t you think my promise was any good, telling me you weren’t leaving until tomorrow?”
He grasped her back again, so that they braced each other. “No, lass, it’s not that, I dinna want you to be in danger.”
“I’m in danger here—you said so yourself. I’ll be better off coming with you. Don’t worry, once we’re at Housesteads I’ll call and let everyone know I’m okay.”
He stared at her. The wind moaned. Trees flailed. Cars passed. And just which one of us is fey? Rose asked herself.
“We were brought here for a purpose, were we now?” Mick asked.
She knew just what he meant. “Looks like it.”
“Let’s get to it, then.” He released her arms, leaving warm handprints on her sleeves, and opened the passenger side door. “In you go.”
Rose stopped dead. Two small dots of light hovered close to the ground at the edge of the gravel parking area. Oh, it was Dunstan, almost invisible in the night except for the gleam of his eyes and his white fur collar. Tell them I’m all right. She climbed into the icy interior of the car and fastened her seat belt for what she fully expected to be one hell of a bumpy ride.
Ellen cursed her high heels. They weren’t fit for anything, let alone for walking across the bleeding cobblestones of the courtyard. Trust Alf to keep the cobbles instead of putting down a proper pavement.
The tights cut into her waist, and even though the bra made her breasts jut out, its strap creased her back. But the discomfort was worth it. She had work to do. Pressing her lips together on their coating of lipstick she opened the door to the back hall. “Mum?”
The corridor was empty save for the cat, who gave Ellen a sarkey look and vanished round the corner. From the lounge came the sound of squealing tires and gunshots. The Yanks were watching a video. May she have joy from it, the one named Rose.
Robin would never fancy such a gormless little bird as Rose. She was working with them, was all. He had to seduce her to their side. Everything he told her would be a lie, he assured Ellen. Lying in defense of the faith was no sin.
Ellen pushed through the door to the kitchen. Alf sat at the table, a newspaper crumpled in his lap as he sagged forward, snoring. Prat, she thought. “Mum?”
Bess looked round the pantry door. “Ellen!”
Alf woke up with a snort. “What’s all this … Blimey!”
Ellen tried a demure smile. “Here I am, just as you wanted.”
“Thank God.” Bess’s face broke into a relieved smile.
Ellen looked away, pushing down a spurt of shame. Poor Mum, not a clue.
“Welcome home, Ellen.” Alf’s grin was almost frightening.
Bess pulled her daughter into a hug. She smelled of sherry. Ellen had no stomach for sherry. Robin now, he liked single malt whiskey. She turned sideways in the embrace. “Can I have me old room?”
“Oh, no dear, the Scots lad’s in it. We’ll put you on the z-bed in the lumber room for now. My, don’t you look a treat!”
“I’ll go on up then, shall I?” She picked up her carrier bag, full of new clothes and cosmetics. Robin had given her a handful of tenners, more cash than she’d seen in a year, and sent her off to Salisbury High Street. The shop assistants had been right shirty at first, until Ellen showed them the wodge of notes. They’d get theirs, soon enough now.
“Have you had your tea?” asked Bess. “There’s a plaster on your hand, did you hurt yourself?”
Odd, how the cut had opened up again. She was too clumsy by half. “Don’t fuss, Mum,” she said, and escaped out the door and up the stairs to a crash of theme music from the video.
Chucking her bag into the lumber room, she tiptoed—easy to do in the bloody heels—to the door of her old room and set her ear to it. Nothing. She turned the knob. The room was dark and empty. The bed was made, if rumpled. On the chair sat a tray of dirty dishes.
So then, the Scots git was doing as he was told. Robin was brilliant, dead brilliant. And she’d already seen the trout—the teacher—and the traitor London, the degenerate priest, together in the cottage. They weren’t having it off as she’d expected, though. Past it, most likely.
Footsteps bounded up the main staircase. The dishy American lad. Better and better. She knew what to do to turn the unbeliever to the truth. Ellen thrust one leg forward, shortening her skirt, and looked up through her stiffened lashes.
The lad came to an abrupt halt on the top step. “Oh, hi.”
“I’m Ellen Sparrow, Bess’s daughter. Haven’t seen you before, have I?”
“Er—no. Sean MacArthur. I’m with the seminar group from Texas.”
“Aren’t you the clever one, then? Which is your room?”
“There, with the slanting ceiling.”
Ellen linked her arm through his. “Let’s have a dekko, shall we?”
“Yeah, sure.” Flushing, he let her maneuver him down the hallway. When she stumbled over her shoes—no accident, that—he caught her. She nestled against his side. Thought he’d struck lucky, did he? Not bloody likely. A bit of snogging, that was all, to keep him hungry.
Ellen remembered Bess’s joyful smile. Then she remembered Robin’s voice, and Robin’s eyes, and Robin’s hands. The end justified the means, didn’t it? She’d do Robin proud, and no mistake.
Sean opened the door, walked her inside, and shut it behind them.
Chapter Fifteen
Maggie stepped out into the twilight and shut the door. Its solid thunk was reassuring. She could believe in the reality of the wooden door and the cobblestones beneath her feet. Whether she was actually hearing the music dwindling behind her was another matter.
When she’d heard that melody the night of the All Souls’ Bell, the instrument had been a flute, and the music so high and clear that even in memory she ached with longing. Mick was playing a chanter. Its tendency to squawk only made the music more compelling, transforming it from ethereal to physical, deepening the ache to ravenous hunger.
Stopping on the doorstep of Thomas’s cottage, she knocked. He didn’t answer. She walked around to the door of the chapel and looked into its dim interior.
Thomas lay before the altar, forehead to the cold stone floor, arms extended, glasses folded to one side. His hands were splayed as though embracing the earth itself.
He lay in the pose of penitent. Maggie made a swift about-face. Surprising someone at prayer seemed more disconcerting than surprising someone naked. Emotion revealed the soul—not the cheap and easy soul used to peddle self-help books, but that kernel of the Unseen lurking in every human body, making it more than a piece of meat. The soul that she wanted to believe in.
Maggie turned her face toward the west. The land fell away into a ruddy golden haze, as though El Dorado gleamed just beyond the horizon. But she lived beyond that horizon. She knew El Dorado was nothing but illusion. As was Camelot and other human—dreams? mirages? aspirations?
To the south, inside Temple Manor’s boundary wall, a tangle of bushes marked the site of St. Bridget’s well. With St. Joseph’s well in the crypt of the Lady Chapel at the Abbey and Chalice Well in its modern garden below the Tor, St. Bridget’s well made a triad of ancient holy places. A Celtic triple spiral as well as the Christian Trinity. Was holiness inspiration or illusion? Maggie wondered. Could holiness really bring healing?
Darkness rolled across land and sky alike. Orange vapor lights sprang up like tiny campfires, tracing roads and parking lots. The cold wind hinted of car exhaust, dinners cooking, and farm animals safe in their barns. The Tor stood up hard and black against the deep indigo of the eastern sky, marking the entrance to the Underworld. No wonder St. Michael’s church had been planted on top of it, the archangel’s spear transfixing the pagan dragon—a depressingly male image.
But then, Arthur, devotee of the Virgin, was also identified with the red dragon of Wales. Faith as metaphor, Maggie told herself, literally false but symbolically true. Was it both literal and symbolic truth that Thoma
s was really Thomas Becket, born in 1120, died—more or less—in 1170? Could she afford to believe him? Could she afford not to? The melody of flute and chanter swelled inside her mind—the words made flesh in the world made true.
Stars appeared, one by one, in the vault of heaven. A Sunday school teacher once told the child Maggie that stars were God’s lighted windows, telling us He was home. And if He was at home anywhere, it was here, in this place, where the past welled upward through the weight of time. Where pilgrims drank deep of belief, and healed.
Maggie’s sigh was a frosty cloud that blended light with dark. She could no longer feel her feet, and she suspected her ears were going to break off her head. Either she had to go inside or … The door of Thomas’s cottage opened, emitting a soft ray of light. A small four-footed shape slipped inside. The door closed.
All right, then. She blundered toward the cottage. The majestic peals of Mozart’s Requiem filtered through the door as she knocked. Thomas opened the door so quickly she hadn’t time to lower her hand. She waggled her fingers in a wave. “Ah—you may be sick of me by now…”
“I was expecting you,” he said. “Come in.”
She went in. A fire leaped in the fireplace, spilling a warm radiance into the room. Dunstan reposed on the hearth in the feline version of prostration before an altar. The taped choir sang the Dies Irae, the day of wrath. The End Times. Judgment Day.
Thomas’s face seemed freshly scoured, less deeply lined. His eyes, which this morning had been the scorched brown of fields burned before an advancing enemy, were now warm and calm. There is something to be said for the power of prayer, Maggie thought. Of confession. And of the courage to make both.
He took her coat. “Whiskey?”
“Oh yes, please.”
“Lovely evening, isn’t it? One understands why many ancient peoples saw the natural world as God.”
“Yeah, we’ve lost touch with Creation.” She stretched her hands to the dancing flames. “Mick was playing the same melody I heard outside, here, when you rang the All Souls’ bell.”
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