He stopped.
“Blessed Virgin Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.” Something popped like a soap bubble. Robin released her. The barrier behind her broke open. She lurched back, and leaped toward the center of the shattered labyrinth. “My soul doth magnify the Lord,” she said, her voice gaining strength, “and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”
Robin stared at her, eyes blazing and fists clenched.
“For he that is mighty hath magnified me, and holy is his name and his mercy is upon them who fear him.” Something moved in the darkness at the end of the nave. Rose grabbed up her medal and spun around.
Mick, the real Mick, walked slowly up the aisle holding his knife in front of him. Its tiny blade reflected the feeble light. So did his eyes as they looked from her to Robin and back. How long had he been standing there? Not that she’d done anything … She’d stood there not doing anything, that was the problem.
Mick was beside her. His knife scraped along the tiles. His shoulder braced hers. His voice spoke: “I gird myself today with the power of the Trinity…” A warm breeze wafted up from the encircling furrows. The tiles shifted like blowing leaves.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Robin, but still he retreated a step. “Take what I offer you. Choose the easy way. Or else I’ll have to…”
“No,” said another voice, a strong, clear voice that rang through the chapel. The bright beam of a flashlight sent the shadows reeling.
Thomas came walking down the aisle, Maggie at his side. No, Maggie was in front of him and he was holding her back. That’s what the light in the windows had been, the headlights of a car coming along the driveway. They’d found her note. Thank God and the Blessed Mother and all the saints in heaven, they’d found her note.
Robin sneered, “Give over, Thomas. You’re not strong enough to confront me.”
“I am now,” Thomas said.
With a vicious curse, Robin made a slashing gesture.
Sparks swirled around Thomas and then winked out. He stopped, shook himself, and smiled. Rose had never seen such a brilliant smile, joy radiating so brightly from his face that it repelled the darkness.
Maggie looked up at him with a grin of her own. “All right! Yes!”
“Always the vandal, aren’t you, Robin?” Thomas started walking again. “You can’t create, so in your jealousy you destroy. But some stories are too strong for you.”
Robin’s face was stark white with rage. He lifted his hands. Cold flames licked upward from his palms and shredded into nothingness. “Stories? My people reject stories, and take pride in their ignorance. A fine jest, isn’t it, that their pride leads them to me.”
“Not a jest,” Thomas said, “but a tragedy.”
Sarcastically Robin bowed, accepting the compliment.
“Stories illuminate the dark corner in which you hide. For the ancient language, the ancient images of our Stories, are the most powerful relic of all.” Thomas’s hand traced the sign of the Cross. “In nomine patris et filii et spiritu sancti, ite. Depart, begone!”
The last word fell as heavily as a stone over a tomb. Tiny lights like corpse-candles played in the folds of the green cloak. It swirled, and man and cloak vanished, leaving random sparklings that slowly, one by one, winked out. The scent of rotting flowers welled outward and disappeared on a gust of cold air. For a long moment the chapel was filled with a profound silence. Then, distantly, Rose heard again the murmur of the sea.
“What?” Maggie asked Thomas, “Does it work better in Latin?”
“Force of habit,” he told her.
She turned to Mick and Rose. “Are you all right?”
Mick managed a stunned nod. So did Rose.
“I knew you could withstand him,” said Thomas, lifting and pressing each of their hands in his own warm grasp. “But you’ve taken damage, I fear.”
After Housesteads, Rose had thought she and Mick had fused together, one mind, one heart. Now they turned away from each other. The last hour was like getting kicked in the stomach—it didn’t hurt now, but it was going to.
Frowning, Maggie looked around. “Look at that sculptured stone. And the labyrinth, ruined.”
“He knows that a tree without roots is weakened,” said Thomas.
“Who is he, then?” Mick asked, his voice husky.
“My nemesis. Our nemesis. Both enemy and fate.”
“That crown,” said Rose. “He said it was his father’s.”
“Robin finds it useful to evoke Lucifer’s name. But he claims other antecedents as well, ancient principles of darkness and evil.”
Maggie shoved Rose and Mick down the nave. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What about Mrs. Soulis?” Rose asked.
“Soulis, is it? I’m not surprised.” Thomas turned the flashlight so that it lit up several stone plaques set into the walls beyond the pillars. Each was carved with a name and two dates: “James Soulis, 1742-1791. Francis Soulis, 1765-1837. Emeline Soulis Dashwood…”
Mick asked, “They were all his?”
“No. Some of them chose to reject him, as you did.” Murmuring, “Dona eis requiem,” Thomas shut the door.
The gray cat sat in the hall, beside two coats and backpacks. “We walked right in the front door,” said Maggie, “but the cat led us to the chapel.”
“Me, too.” Mick gathered up the packs and handed Rose her coat.
Thomas extended his hand toward the cat, who blinked gravely and then faded into the shadows. “Well, then,” he said, and set a brisk pace through the house.
A line of pale light leaked from a doorway off the entry hall. Inside, Lydia Soulis sat in front of a TV. A voice was declaiming, “These people are woodworms gnawing away at the institutions built by good Christians like us! It’s time for a godly extermination!” She nodded eagerly, eyes glittering in the cold blue light of the screen.
Rose’s stomach squirmed. “We ate her food.”
“Food is the gift of God,” answered Thomas, “to sustain that flesh which binds us to God’s creation. Appetite isn’t shameful.”
She got the message, but she wasn’t sure she agreed.
Maggie opened the outside door. The wind swept past them and into the depths of the house. Rose heard things falling and breaking even as Mick’s hand propelled her toward Maggie’s mini-van. “Go with her, Rose.”
She wasn’t surprised he didn’t want her with him any more. She went with Maggie, letting Thomas drive Mick in the Fiesta.
The cars accelerated up the drive. The bulk of Holystone Priory receded into the darkness until it became darkness itself. Rose slumped against the seat, no longer thinking, no longer feeling. The last thing she saw before falling asleep was the clouds thinning and stars throwing a faint gleam across the silent face of the snow.
Chapter Twenty-one
The newsreader was a flash git with a fruity public-school accent, the sort thought he was better than the likes of her … Ellen realized what he’d just said. “Edinburgh businessman Calum Dewar was found dead at Housesteads Roman Fort this afternoon.”
So Calum was dead, too. That’s what happened when you betrayed Robin, which was the same as betraying God. No reason for the words on the telly to make her stomach turn over.
She remembered Calum’s doubtful half-smile lit by the nutter’s bonfire, and Vivian laughing. Robin had said to humor Vivian, she wrote for a newspaper, she could help spread the message. They’d gone off together, Vivian in her stupid cloak and Robin elegant in his posh suit. He told Ellen he was giving Vivian a special interview. She knew what that meant. The thought of him bonking Vivian made her sick.
Calum went off into the dark after them. He’d always been too curious by half. Is that how he betrayed God? No matter. She didn’t need to know. Robin told her what she needed to know, didn’t he?
That night Ellen had joined in the cleansing with a will, picturing Vivian dead. What she’d never pictured was Calum dead. He’d been good to h
er. She’d trusted him. But she’d been wrong. She didn’t like being wrong. It made her feel small and weak.
“That’s Mick’s dad,” said Sean from the settee beside her. “Sh—oot.”
Anna Stern looked up. She was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, the moggie curled on her lap. Ellen wasn’t keen on cats, they were too bleeding sure of themselves.
“Dewar was a member of several service clubs and the Church of Scotland as well as the Freedom of Faith Foundation. He’s survived by a son, Michael. Now this word.” An advert came on, all bright lights and thumping music, “Time is running out to buy your year 2000 Tshirts…”
“Shoot,” said Sean again. “I bet Calum was carrying a lot of money around with him. They love to get guys like that alone and rip them off.”
“Who is ‘they?’” Stern asked him.
“Huh? Oh, criminals. The police ought to just dump them in jail and throw away the keys.”
“It’s easier to punish after the crime than to prevent it happening,” said Stern.
A woman reporter, hair just so, cosmetics just so, began to natter on about refugees from Eastern Europe forced into prostitution, and the trade in little girls in Thailand. That’s just the way it is, Ellen thought. Some people were strong, and some people were weak. The scab on her hand itched. She picked at it.
Robin hadn’t been wrong about Calum. Calum was simply a good liar. He’d never been a believer at all. He never changed his mind. How could he change his mind? Robin was the truth and the path, he was. If you believed in him and his word, you’d never die. Calum didn’t believe, so he died. All his kindness to her had been a lie. Robin hadn’t protected her from Calum’s lie … Her hand was bleeding again.
“…just human nature,” Sean was saying. “Everybody’s got the Devil in them.”
“Everyone has God in him or her as well,” replied Stern. “We shouldn’t blame a Devil for our own bad choices.”
Sean’s face went wrinkly, as if he were thinking that one through.
Stern went on, “We experience God’s presence in other people. He is never absent from a truly good act, and never present in a truly evil one.”
“Like the Holocaust?” Sean asked. “That was evil.”
“Yes. A great evil that grew from many little ones.”
“The Holocaust is Zionist propaganda,” Ellen said. “It never happened.”
The moggie stretched, flexing its claws. Stern’s cool blue gaze made Ellen shrink against Sean’s side. “It did happen, Ellen. I was there.”
Robin said it, I believe it, and that’s that. The woman was daft. Or a liar, most like.
“Gee,” said Sean. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. Still, many of us experienced good as well as evil during those times. I learned the meaning of an old Hebrew saying…” Again Stern’s eyes targeted Ellen, bright, clear eyes that made her feel like a bit of rubbish. “Always look for the truth, but God help those who think they’ve found it.”
Tripe and onions, Ellen retorted silently.
Sean put his arm around her. He was a prat, but the circle of his arm wasn’t half bad when she was feeling so sick and small.
“…in the Borders,” said the news reader, “clearing skies will bring sunshine and an end to the unseasonably early snowfall.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Thomas gestured a farewell to the black car as it turned onto the road. Beyond the driveway the snow-covered fields were cut by walls into segments like those of a stained-glass window, tinted delicate shades of rose and gold by a glorious dawn.
The gray stone of the hotel blushed in the light. In an upper window a curtain twitched. Maggie? Thomas went back inside, thinking that the Hotspur Arms’ scent of coffee and old books was positively inspiring. No wonder the place had long been a sanctuary in the burnt and bloody Borderlands.
Caterina Shaw came through the kitchen door, a loaded tray held before her. A blond Labrador was making its best effort to retrieve any crumbs. “Breakfast, Thomas?”
“Bless you,” he told her.
“Here, use the sitting room, have you and your friends some privacy.” She set the tray on a low table before a chintz-covered settee and pulled forward a couple of chairs. “There you are. Shall I light a fire?”
“No need. We shan’t be stopping much longer. Thank you.” He stroked the dog’s sleek head. It was that warm and smooth, he wondered how anyone could choose fur dead, stitched, and buttoned.
“Cheers.” Caterina hastened into the dining room, where plates and cutlery rang like chimes amid the sweet voices of children. Thomas poured himself a coffee and picked up a bacon roll. One benefit of immortality, he thought, was the opportunity to enjoy many breakfasts.
“Coffee, yes!” Maggie strode into the room, sat down on the end of the settee, and poured a cup for herself. “Was that Mountjoy in the black car? Why didn’t he just call?”
“Like Jivan, he realizes there’s more going here than two mysterious deaths. Unlike Jivan, he’s suspicious of the role we’re playing.”
“You said he’s not necessarily one of Robin’s minions.”
“No. But it worries me that he made do with my version of Mick’s and Rose’s adventures instead of waiting to speak to them.”
“Don’t bother me with the facts, my mind’s made up?”
“Yes.” The coffee, at least, was dark, rich, and honest.
“What about Holystone?” asked Maggie.
“Mountjoy says they interviewed Lydia Soulis, who was very helpful.”
“That’s it? What if she told Mountjoy the same story Robin told Mick, about you being an antiquities smuggler?”
“That is quite possible, even likely.”
“Great.” Maggie took a bite of a bacon roll, chewed, and swallowed. “Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Anna says she, Ellen, and Sean are going to the Foundation rally this evening.”
“Good.” Thomas bit into his own roll.
“Not necessarily,” Maggie said, and then, “Robin tried to zap you last night and couldn’t do it, could he?”
“If by ‘zap’ you mean enspell me in my own memories, no, thank God.”
“So I guess if a demon can’t get you, you don’t have to worry about all the fat in that bacon.” Her grin was broad, and for one blessed moment, unguarded.
Thomas laughed, and reveled in laughter until a haggard Mick walked in, followed a few moments later by Rose, who appeared if not haggard at least unfortunately wilted.
Maggie vacated the settee for them. They sat several feet apart and ate their breakfasts with fair appetite. Thomas read Maggie’s thoughts in the angle of her chin and mouth: Mick and Rose made a handsome couple, worthy of each other in flesh, in mind, in spirit, and yet the same circumstances that had brought them together could well, in the end, drive them apart. “Chief Inspector Mountjoy was here this morning,” he said. “P. C. Armstrong is expected to make a full recovery, thank God.”
“Amen,” said Rose. “I can’t believe he was lying down there…”
“…when we could have helped him,” Mick concluded.
“You had other concerns,” Thomas assured them. And, as gently as he could, “Your father’s body will be sent home tomorrow, Mick. It appears as though he died on the Monday, of a blow to the head. Mountjoy has alerted a Superintendent Mackenzie in Edinburgh, who would like to interview you.”
“Oh aye, I’d best be getting myself home…” He didn’t look at Rose. She didn’t look at him.
“Did you know your father was a member of the Freedom of Faith Foundation?”
“I suppose so, aye. He was lonely after Mum died and did work for charities and such. But he said nothing about Vivian Morgan or Ellen Sparrow.”
“You know, Robin was talking to a woman named Ellen at Salisbury. Hard to believe anyone would…” Rose bit her lip. Mick shot her a swift glance.
“He is a compelling figure,” Thomas told the young woman. “Deliberately so. But you are not the i
nnocent he took you to be. The dark side of innocence is gullibility.”
“Yes—no,” Rose said, and went quickly on, “I can’t imagine Mick’s dad saying hateful stuff like Mrs. Soulis did.”
“Psychic poisons are the more deadly for being subtle,” said Thomas. “Calum, I expect, never fully comprehended just what Robin was about until it was almost too late.”
Maggie leaned forward. “Vivian’s death opened his eyes?”
“I should imagine so, yes.”
“Robin killed her,” Mick said rather than asked.
“She was suffocated by the same cloak Robin was wearing yesterday, but which was hers to begin with.” Thomas paused, looking from face to face. “Vivian’s death had a purpose, to awaken Calum from his evil dream and warn you, Mick. And to bring us all together.”
Rose shot Mick a sharp glance of her own. Maggie rolled her eyes, but said only, “Robin might have thought Vivian’s sgian dubh was your family heirloom, Mick.”
“Why’s that so important, then?”
“The knife,” Thomas said, “is a clue to the whereabouts of the Stone of Scone, also known as the Stone of Destiny.”
“Our ancestors may have kept the Stone, but Dad didna ken where it was,” Mick protested. “All he ever told me is that the Edinburgh stone is a fake, that Edward the First didna steal the true Stone in 1296.”
“The Edinburgh stone might well be a double fake, if the one left by the thieves-cum-patriots at Arbroath Abbey in 1951 was not the stone stolen from Westminster Abbey in 1950. What Calum believed, I expect, is that the Arbroath stone was a second, similar, red sandstone building block. The Westminster stone remained hidden in a mason’s yard until Calum’s father and Alex Sinclair the elder carried it elsewhere in 1959.” Thomas emptied his cup and set it down. “Calum’s car was found amongst the farm buildings at Housesteads. Have you any idea why he’d go there?”
“He said once it would make a grand defensive site,” said Mick. “And he was right keen on all the building stones scattered about.”
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