Lucifer's Crown (27 page)

"Presumptuous, yes. But when does the humility I seek become the cowardice I once displayed? No man can stand alone, least of all I. I need these friends, as they need to see you now, because I am asking them to do more, to risk more, than other mortals."

"And have they chosen freely to come here? Have they chosen freely to commit themselves to your task?"

Thomas looked at the others. His eyes didn't plead, they didn't command, they asked.
Have you
?

The Lady turned to Mick. For just a moment her face solidified into features that resembled his—something in the shape of the chin, the angle of the cheekbones, the coloring. Mick's mouth fell open. His mother, Maggie thought. The Lady had taken the image of his mother.

"She is with me always, Michael. As is your father, resting in my eternal embrace."

Mick's voice caught and burred. “I dinna suppose you slipped some sort of drug into our coffee, Thomas?"

"We're all seeing the same thing,” Rose told him in an urgent whisper.

"Believe in me as you will,” said the Lady. “I am inside your belief, I am beyond it, I am above it. I am within you and without you, whether you believe in me or not."

Mick stared at her, fists clenched at his sides. Then, slowly, his hands opened and raised, so that he offered her his defenseless palms. “Oh aye,” he whispered. “Aye."

The Lady's smile turned to Rose's thoroughly disconcerted face.

The Lady's cloak became a brilliant blue. “I heard you calling me."

"As Bridget?” asked Rose. “Because Mary was a human being..."

"Through Mary I hear your prayers. Through Mary I intercede in the world.” The horse disappeared. The Lady stood before them, her belly swelling beneath the cloak. Then she held an infant in her arms. She lifted him upward and opened her hands, and he vanished into a glory of light. “The Lord is with me. The Lord is in me. The Lord is of me. And of Mary."

Rose frowned slightly, then her expression eased. “Yes."

It was at Beckery, thought Maggie, that Arthur had a vision of Mary celebrating the Eucharist with the body of her son. And yet Mary was human, the ultimate saint. She shut her eyes, dizzy again. Seeing visions was hard work.

When Maggie opened them the Lady was looking at her. Her cloak flushed red. “I have worked through Mary of Bethany. Mary of Egypt. Mary Magdalene, the beloved of Christ, the sinner redeemed. For man does not live by bread alone but by the word of God, and by my blood and that of Mary's son."

The words fell past Maggie's mind into a deeper part of her being. That frantic little pulse that beat in her viscera slowed and evened into the cadence of waves upon a shore:
In the name of the Mother, the daughter, and the holy spirit
... Beyond the Word, beyond the Blood, lay silence.
Be still
, went the psalm,
and know that I am God
. Maggie opened her mouth, but found only one word inside it. “Yes."

The clear morning light became the gilded glow of evening. The fruit trees thinned, and beyond them rose the great trees of the wild wood, the eyes of birds and animals peering unblinking from their shadow. The Lady was sitting on a seat of living roots, branches, and tendrils. A crown of roses rested on her head. Her voice was wind and water, leaping like flame and steady as the earth itself. “Thomas."

"Many years ago,” he said, “I sat with my head against your knee, and you opened my eyes. You told me that my task is to guard the Cup, and to assist the guarding of the Book and the Stone, and to attend the other relics in my prayers. But Robin has stolen the Book. He threatens the Stone."

"Robin profanes my green cloak. He leads my people to deny my presence and that of my saints.” A long green serpent coiled at the Lady's right hand, head swaying, scales glinting like jewels. It grew clawed feet and wings the colors of a peacock's tail. As a dragon it flew away into the forest and vanished with a rustle of leaves.

The leaves became red, orange, yellow in the honeyed light of sunset. Clouds thickened, darkness rolled down the sky, and a flicker of lightning illuminated the Lady's demanding face. At her feet, the stream turned to blood.

Snow fell across Maggie's upturned face, the flakes so cold they burned. Beside her Mick and Rose stood like statues.

"Lucifer went to mankind after his fall,” said the Lady, “and by mankind was made strong again. You have called Robin from the darkness. Only you can defeat him.” The clouds parted. Stars shone out, jewels spread across the indigo of heaven. “But I shall strengthen you in your battle, as I have done since long before Arthur rode to Mount Badon with Mary's image upon his shield."

"Should I offer battle?” Thomas asked. “How do I know whether I choose Badon or Camlann?"

"You must offer battle at the cusp of time, not with your sword but with the Grail. For at your Badon, those who believe in peace may choose a peace lasting not for a generation but for a millennium."

A radiant full moon rose from behind a distant mountain. In its light Maggie saw Thomas's face, stark white and stern.

"Mankind stands now at the Apocalypse, the time of revelation. If you raise the Grail, one in three, three in one, at the beginning of the new millennium, it will draw the veil aside. Only then may I lift my lamp beside your path into the future. Only then can your wounds be healed."

Thomas's eyes filled with radiance and terror both. “I am not worthy to reveal the three relics."

"When does your humility become cowardice, Thomas? When does it reveal your lingering pridefulness? The Grail is a moment of eternity become time. You alone amongst men are a moment of time become eternal. If you don't reveal the Grail, then who will?"

"But if I remove the relics from their hiding places,” Thomas protested, “Robin might take them for himself and destroy them. Then your portal will be closed, and men will no longer know that light is theirs to choose."

"You will guard the relics, Thomas, you and your friends. Through you the proud will be scattered and the greedy put down from their seat."

Thomas blinked. His lips tightened and then parted. And he said, on a long sigh, “Thy will be done."

Maggie laid her hand on his arm. His body vibrated like a plucked harp string. But when the night paled and flushed in a delicate pink sunrise, she saw that his face was as tranquil as an effigy on a tomb.

Thomas went on, his voice steady, “My help cometh from the Lady who made heaven and earth. In her hands are the deep places of the earth, the strength of the hills is hers also."

The Lady smiled, slowly and sensuously, as Mary might have smiled to hear the archangel Gabriel's sweet somethings in her ear. Sunlight washed over the garden and flowers bloomed. She raised her hand. “I bless and keep you. The light of my face shines upon you and brings you peace."

Maggie felt her consciousness being pulled out through her toes. She winced. Sunlight streamed from a blue sky. Snowy fields glistened. She was clutching Thomas's arm in both hands. Mick and Rose looked around, stunned. A cold wind bent the pines into genuflections.

For a long time no one moved, no one spoke. Beneath Maggie's hands Thomas's arm stopped trembling. When she at last let him go and looked at his face, he was either grimacing or grinning. Shaken, probably, and stirred as well, after his little magical mystery tour through time and space.

"The Grail?” asked Rose in a very small voice.

"Yes,” Thomas answered.

"Some saint you are,” said Mick, “worshiping the mother goddess."

"I do not worship her. I render her due reverence as the female aspect of God."

"Shows you the limits of pronouns,” Maggie said. “We sure got our marching orders, didn't we?"

"It is not enough merely to keep the faith,” said Thomas. “We must show it forth."

The wind freshened, growing warmer and softer. Mick's ponytail and Rose's scarf waved like flags. Maggie could hear water dripping. It was probably the snow melting, not her brain leaking. It wasn't that she didn't know what she was getting herself into. It was that she didn't know if she could carry it out.

She defaulted to the mundane. “There's no reason we can't have a meal first."

"Oh aye,” said Mick, and Rose's brows tightened. Together they headed back toward the cars. After a few paces he took her hand and she leaned her face briefly to his shoulder.

Maggie and Thomas fell in behind them. “The days of the end hasten to their completion,” he said.

"You said that before you went back to Canterbury.” Maggie stumbled. Thomas caught her arm. “Sorry, someone just walked over my grave."

"I should imagine someone just walked over
my
grave. Or perhaps David's grave in the crypt of the cathedral. The crypt dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary.” His voice was warm, his hand steady. Whatever elation he'd felt, whatever fear, had ebbed into consent....
I have consented
, said Eliot's Thomas as the knights raised their swords.

Something warm and fragile swelled inside Maggie's chest—grief, pain, love, blessedness, she didn't analyze it. Twining her arm with Thomas's, she walked with him down from the sacred place.

A calendar by the door of the pub read November 5. According to Rose's watch, it was just past three. She hadn't been in Faerie for seven years.

Over the last couple of days she'd experienced seven years’ worth of emotions and about a century's worth of ideas. She wasn't sure whether she was closest to a migraine, an upset stomach, or a screaming fit. She'd just met the mother goddess, the genuine article, up close and personal.
Be careful what you ask for
, Rose told herself.
You might get it
.

Across the booth sat Thomas Becket, a saint, an immortal being, drinking his tea like an ordinary man. Her teacher, Maggie, sat beside him, still as a mountain right before a landslide. Sex wasn't the issue with them, although honor was. Not only personal honor, but that of the Story.

Mick sat close beside Rose but was miles away, staring out of the window. Sunlight reflected off snow wavered across his face, reminding her of cold water wearing away stone. Revelation, the Lady had said. That was the issue, too. Rose asked, “You guard the Holy Grail, Thomas?"

"I guard the Cup of the Last Supper,” he answered. “With it the Book and the Stone make the Holy Grail."

"Oh boy. So that's why there are legends saying the Stone of Scone is the Grail."

"Quite so,” Thomas said, and to Mick, “Are you now convinced that the world has gone mad?"

"You know what you're about,” he replied with half a smile. “Mere mortals like us have to take the evidence we're given and get on with it."

"I'm afraid that we must be getting on with it now,” Thomas told him. “The days are short this time of year. In more ways than one."

"Yeah, and Robin's got the Book.” From her pocket Maggie produced two index cards and a pen. “Time to coordinate phone numbers, y'all."

"This here's the phone number of the flat, this the office. I'll get me another mobile.” Mick had the long, slender fingers of a musician, Rose noted.

Thomas's hands were large but deft, the hands of an artist and a warrior both. “The number of my mobile phone. Inspector Gupta. Temple Manor, although if you ring there, remember that Ellen Sparrow might be listening in."

"That I'll do.” Tucking the card away, Mick looked tentatively at Rose.

"D. C. I. Mountjoy will be contacting you, I expect. Be very cautious. Whilst I believe in inclusion, I also believe in common sense, and I'm not sure but that Mountjoy has the wrong end of the stick in his investigation."

The bar maid turned on a television mounted above the shelves of bottles and glasses. An announcer described a battle between Moslems and Hindus in India, then went on, “Freedom of Faith Foundation rallies will be held tonight in Glastonbury, Hull, Manchester, and Dumfries. Coordinator Charles Mather says the Foundation's growth proves that all people of faith want a return to traditional morality."

"And what traditional morality is that?” Maggie asked as she slid out of the booth. “The one that degraded women, exploited people of color, and murdered anyone who was theologically incorrect?"

Thomas stood up beside her. “History is struggle of mankind to learn compassion. Or so I hope."

Rose followed Mick from the booth. She'd given up all hope of Maggie saying, “This is just a test.” But it was a test. And she had only a few more minutes to get one section of it right. What she hoped was that Mick agreed with her. “How about a quick tour of the Abbey?"

"Oh aye,” he said, with the other half of the smile.

Mick ushered Rose out the door and down the street, toward where the red sandstone shell of Melrose Abbey looked like dried blood against the snow. She waited until he took her hand, then squeezed his. “Everything that's happening is part of a pattern. Of a Story."

"It helps thinking it is,” Mick said.

"You're one of the younger knights, like Galahad or Perceval. The ones who were still pure enough to see the Grail."

"I'm not so sure about purity, lass."

"Thomas is part Merlin, part Arthur, part Fisher King."

"Aye, that he is.” Mick opened the gate in the low wall around the Abbey. They stepped onto a walk wet with melted snow.

"But Maggie's not really Guinevere, is she? Unless you take those stories where Guinevere was a queen in her own right."

Mick nodded agreement. “So who are you then, lass?"

"Dandrane, Perceval's sister, one of the Grail bearers?"

"You're not my sister.” His eyes swept across her face, down to her toes and back up again.

"No, I'm not.” That tiny pilot light in Rose's gut flickered and grew.
Appetite isn't shameful
.

"I owe my dad a proper funeral,” Mick said. “And to see to the business. But I owe it to him to bring Robin down as well. You'll be seeing me again, whether you're wanting to or not."

"As long as you want to see me,” she told him.

He squeezed her hand. She took that as a yes.

They walked past the arched arcades and the vaulted ceiling of the sanctuary. Each stone in the cemetery beyond cast a small shadow on the snow. Beyond the far wall creaked the bare branches of an orchard. There, by that wall, bathed in the light of the westering sun, Mick and Rose stopped and faced each other. She took the plunge first. “There at Holystone, Robin looked like you to begin with. Then he turned into himself, and—and damn it, he knows just what scab to pick."