Lucifer's Crown (8 page)

Rose sat on the bench by the garden gate, writing in a blue copybook. Her cheeks were pink, her hair tousled, her eyes shining like a glimpse of heaven. It might have been autumn on the calendar, not to mention in Thomas's soul, but this vision of spring made his heart leap with joy. He would have knelt at her feet, but Dunstan was already there, grooming his sleek black flank as though visions were an everyday occurrence.

And yet Rose was no angel. She would come down from her pedestal, sooner rather than later—a pedestal provided very little room to move, after all, and the mud beneath was the source of life. But how and when she descended had to be her own choice. He could only pray that she'd taken his veiled warning about Robin to heart, for it was Robin, he felt sure, who'd seen her with his eyes of adamant in the Abbey yesterday morning.

"Hi,” she said.

"Hello, Rose. You're hard at it, I see."

"I'm trying to recreate the notes I took and then lost. Maggie says she free-associates when she lectures, but between us we'll get most of it."

"Maggie's a good teacher, is she?"

"Oh yes. She even knew why there was a bell ringing last night."

Did she now?
“And why was that?"

"Ringing a church bell on the night of All Saints’ Day wards off evil spirits. Like throwing salt over your shoulder, except that's superstition."

"One man's sacrament is another's superstition."

Rose grinned agreement. “Were you ringing a bell in the chapel?"

"Yes. A replica of St. Bridget's bell."

"Once a priest, always a priest, I guess."

"Yes. Even so, I've been—inactive—for many years now."

"Did you leave the church,” asked Maggie's voice, “or did the church leave you?"

Thomas looked round.

"Sorry,” Maggie went on, “I was eavesdropping."

"My faith is no secret.” Thomas replied. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Rose?"

"I promised Sean I'd play basketball,” she answered. “Thanks anyway."

"Please don't break anything,” Maggie told her. “I'd like to get y'all back to your parents intact."

"No, ma'am,” said Rose with her brightest smile. Dazzled, Thomas managed to escort Maggie toward the outside door of his cottage without tripping over his own feet.

"That smile is like a flash bulb going off in your face,” she said.

"Breathtaking,” Thomas replied. “What a shame there are—shall we say vandals?—who would spoil such beauty. But I would assume from your Freudian slip you know that."

"Freudian slip ... Oh no.” Maggie's face went, appropriately enough, the magenta of a
Rosa gallica
. “Return her to her parents intact. Like a girl that age is going to be a virgin. Sorry."

"Your concern does you credit. Jivan—D. I. Gupta—expressed concern as well.” Opening the door, Thomas ushered Maggie into the house that had once belonged to the chapel's priest, two minuscule rooms up and down.

The staircase to the bedroom was little more than a ladder. A medieval hooded fireplace contained soot-blackened andirons and a pile of ashes. Bits of shabby furniture stood upon a threadbare carpet. A computer and an audiotape player were conspicuously anachronistic. Lancet windows in the massive stone wall admitted a modicum of afternoon light.

Maggie set her laptop computer on the table. “Yeah, I feel responsible for the kids. I don't have kids of my own. I'm—ah—I'm divorced.” She turned toward the nearest bookcase, presenting Thomas with her knotted shoulders. Choosing a book, she ran her fingertips down its spine as though she were stroking a lover's body.

Her windblown hair made an auburn halo that softened her angular features. A steadiness in her gaze testified to an exacting intellect, and a tightness at the corners of her mouth suggested unresolved regrets. Her rounded body carried itself with the nervy poise of a thoroughbred horse. Thomas filled the kettle and set it on the electric ring. “You must find the students stimulating as well as worrying."

"The campus in the fall is downright intoxicating. The changing leaves. The smell of new books. All those bright young faces.” She replaced the book and combed her hair with her fingers. “I like the way you write, putting the religious and social aspects into context. Most historians use past events to beat their own ideological horses."

"St Bernard said, ‘Every word one writes smites the Devil.’ Mind you, it's fashionable nowadays to consider religious faith either a psychological idiosyncrasy or a deficiency in character. We rationalize away evil and medicate away visions."

Maggie glanced back at him. “I wondered if religion was your horse."

"One to ride, not to beat."

"Do you ever question your faith?"

"Frequently. And it always answers. To paraphrase Plato, the unexamined faith is not worth believing."

"Your faith answers? Not the church? Is that why you left it?"

"As with any event, there were many reasons.” The evasion came smoothly to his lips, but this time left a bitter aftertaste. Again he felt strong as any physical appetite the need to speak the entire truth. And yet how, when the truth would appear the most bare-faced of lies?

"Not that I know anything about it,” Maggie told him. “I was brought up Episcopalian, and would probably be a Unitarian, except..."

That would require belief
, Thomas concluded for her.

She considered two stitchery samplers hanging above the books. One was in Latin, the other in Greek, both illuminating St. John 1:1: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Below them stood a lead cross covered with misshapen capital letters. “
Hic jacet sepultus inclitus rex arturius in insula avalonia
, Here lies buried the famous King Arthur in the island of Avalon. This is a copy of the cross which turned up in 1191 in Arthur's grave in the Abbey, isn't it? Not that the grave really was Arthur's, but if you can't prove it was you can't prove it wasn't, either. The cross was probably a twelfth-century forgery...” Maggie spun round. “This can't be the original!"

"Can there be an original of a forgery?"

"Sure. If this cross was made in 1191 it would be an important antiquity. It would be a truth, just not the truth you expect."

"The cross was given to me. I couldn't say whether it's the original or not, to tell you the...” Thomas busied himself with the tin of tea. “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free."

"To thine own self be true,” she replied, “thou canst not then be false to any man."

Speaking with this woman was like speaking a litany. “Sometimes the truth depends upon your point of view."

"From the Bible and Shakespeare to
Star Wars
?"

"Every age re-writes the old myths, but they remain valid."

"Yes,” Maggie said, but her brittle tone said,
maybe
. Stiff as a crab, she sidled past the fireplace to another bookcase, where she stared into a flat box. She groped in her pocket for her glasses. “Good Lord, you've got a set of his seals."

The kettle whistled. It took Thomas a moment to realize what the shrill noise was. He rinsed the pot with boiling water, then added a spoonful of tea leaves and more water. Steam wavered upward and caressed his cheeks, but his face was already warm.

"Beautifully preserved,” Maggie went on, her nose almost touching the two oblongs of gold. “In the official one you can see each wrinkle in the robe and the ribbons on the miter. And each little letter is perfect:
Sigillum Tome dei gratia archiepiscopi cantuariensis
. The seal of Thomas by the grace of God archbishop of Canterbury."

Odd, his hand was trembling. Still, Thomas managed to pour milk into a pitcher without spilling it.

"And the second one here, with the Roman figure in the middle—Mercury?"

Mercury
, thought Thomas. The patron of alchemists. And liars.

"This one says
sigillum Tome Lund
big as anything. ‘Lund’ being short for ‘Londoniensis.’ Thomas of London, which he was before he became a V.I.P. I bet there have been lots of Thomas Londons over the years, not just the ones in your family."

There's only ever been one Thomas Maudit
. He placed cups and saucers on the table.

"But we know him as Thomas Becket. Becket was his father's name, a place name, ‘Le Bec’ in Normandy maybe. Or a nickname, ‘Beaky,’ like a prominent nose, you know?"

Thomas knew.

"I always liked the Norman ‘fitz,’ son of, from the Latin
filius
. Often the bastard son, although you have Henry FitzEmpress, who was thoroughly legit. Good old Henry II. Or, in this context, bad old Henry II. Have you seen the movie
Becket
? The one based on Anouilh's play? Terrible history, but a good story, even though Becket himself is played way too detached. The real man had to have had ambition and the guts to match to rise from merchant's son to Chancellor of England. You have to feel sorry for Henry, he thought if he put his buddy the Chancellor into the Archbishopric he could manipulate the church. But Becket turned against him, whether out of a higher loyalty or an excess of pride is hard to say."

Yes
, Thomas thought,
that is hard to say
. The pride that was self-respect all too easily became the pride that was arrogance.

Again she spun round, her enthusiasm loosening the defensive set of her shoulders. “I doubt if Henry meant for his knights to kill Becket, let alone inside Canterbury Cathedral, he was just so frustrated he went into one of his rages—the story was he was descended from the Devil—and off they went, swords drawn, thinking they'd make points. No pun intended,” Maggie added. “There's only one imprint of Becket's personal seal known, no one's ever found an official one, and you've got both. These are genuine, right? As the kids would say, that's too absolutely cool for words."

Any moment now Maggie would notice that she was performing a monologue. Clearing his throat, Thomas said, “One of the joys of owning an old house is that the most amazing objects turn up in the lumber rooms."

Maggie tucked her eyeglasses away. With a positively post-coital sigh she collapsed into a chair. “So what else do you have? The Holy Grail?"

Thomas's face relaxed into a most unaccustomed grin. With a flourish he set the teapot on the table.
Yes, by all things holy and a few that are not.

Maggie's body was tautening, again taking offense at his manner. “Nothing like telling a scholar what he already knows. Less than he knows—I don't have a doctorate."

"Nor do I.” He sat down, poured the tea, strong and fragrant, into her cup, and pushed the sugar bowl toward her. “You're the first person to recognize those seals for what they are.
Memento mori
—souvenirs of death."

"My Ph.D. dissertation was on the tangle of politics and religion in twelfth-century England. I never finished it, though. I got married. You wouldn't think those would be mutually exclusive, but they were.” She spooned sugar into her cup. “In Mexico today is
El Dia de los Muertos
, the Day of the Dead."

"All Souls’ Day,” Thomas said. “A time to remember that death is not in and of itself evil."

"The bell-ringing last night was—evocative. So was the music you played."

"Music? I rang St. Bridget's bell is all."

"Oh. I thought I heard a flute or ... Never mind."

Yes
. He chose his words carefully. “Perhaps the ringing of the bell serves less to drive away evil spirits than to attract good ones."

Maggie looked up. Her brown eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate. He was reminded of what Rose had said about wanting romance and magic. But what in the girl was an exciting itch of possibility had in the woman become the ache of needs unfulfilled. What in the girl was a desire for knowledge was in the woman a desire for truth. Did she, too, have need of a new friend? Even when he bent his head over his own cup he could feel her gaze probing him. She thought he was a bit cracked. Yet her bearing was more bemused than critical, and her posture was almost relaxed, like a sentry setting his sword to the side but still close at hand.

The tea filled Thomas's mouth with hints of new-mown hay, blackberry jam, caramel. “Yes, Anouilh's Becket was too cool, never revealing the passion and the pride searing the man's soul. I prefer Eliot's version."

"
Murder in the Cathedral
, yes. How does it go? The last temptation is the worst treason, to do the right thing for the wrong reason."

Closing his eyes, Thomas felt his heart swell painfully, like a long dried fruit at last blessed with moisture. Patterns of coincidence and harmony. Rose, faith, and grace. Thanks be to the merciful hand of God, and to the quick tongue of Magdalena Sinclair.

He opened his eyes. She was watching him, demanding the truth. He inhaled ... And was interrupted by a smart rap at the door. Thomas exhaled. “Come in!"

"Ms. Sinclair,” said Jivan Gupta, closing the door behind him. “Thomas."

"It's Maggie,” she told him, and added sugar to the cup she'd already sweetened.

Thomas said, “Good afternoon, Jivan. Sit down. Have a cuppa."

"Thank you.” Jivan sank into the third chair at the table. His moustache drooped, and a faint gray tint to his complexion hinted of too many meals eaten from takeaway containers and too little sleep anywhere, let alone in his own bed. He accepted the cup of tea and drank deeply. When he spoke, his consonants were tightly clipped. “A preliminary toxicology report shows no drugs and only a trace of alcohol in Vivian Morgan's body. There are, however, petechia, broken blood vessels, in her eyes, and very faint bruising about her mouth and nose."

"She was suffocated?” asked Maggie.

"It seems likely.” Jivan cradled the warm cup between his hands. “The pathologist also found signs of sexual activity, whilst the forensics chaps turned up three sets of footprints entering the Abbey grounds from Chilkwell Street."

"Three sets?” Thomas asked.

"One set matching Morgan's slippers crossed a muddy patch in the choir. That was overlaid by the prints of a shoe or boot in a larger size, which was overlaid in turn by the prints of a man's heavy shoes. They—he—stood there for a time."