A tarnished saint and a polished devil sweep several
ordinary people into a struggle for the holy grail, winner
take the future.
When Maggie Sinclair walks into myth-haunted Glastonbury
Abbey, she intends only to teach a group of students the
stories of King Arthur. But she can't escape her mid-life
crisis, which soon leads her to answer a spiritual call to
arms that will change her world forever.
Maggie's student Rose Kildare is looking for romance and
adventure. What she finds is murder and a crisis of
faith. In searching for his missing father, a young Scot
named Mick Dewar finds not only Rose, but his family's
long-lost identity. And Ellen Sparrow thinks she's
already found certainty but instead loses almost
everything.
Over them all looms Robin Fitzroy. In the eleventh
century he was Robert the Devil, father of William the
Conqueror. Now immortal, secure in his pride, he serves
Lucifer himself. Only Thomas Beckett, the great English
saint, knows who Robin really is. Thomas let another man
be martyred in his place in 1170. Since then he's lived
as a humble scholar, seeking redemption for his sin. But
now, at the end of time, he discovers that it's up to him
to save the souls of mankind from Robin's clutches. He
risks making allies of Maggie, Rose and Mick, even as he
wonders whether not only his scholarship but his character
is strong enough to meet the challenge.
Read Behind the Scenes of Lucifer's Crown
While this title is officially out of print, many copies
are still available. If you would like an autographed copy
of the trade paperback for only $8 (including postage), or
the hardcover for $14 (ditto) please contact me.
June 2004
Five Star Trade
ISBN 1-410-40193-6
September 2003
Five Star Hardcover
ISBN 0-786-25348-7
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Reviews
"Lillian Stewart Carl's latest fantasy novel, Lucifer's
Crown, effectively combines Arthurian legend, Grail myth,
and British folkways to create a powerful novel. Ms. Carl
takes the ideas of good vs. evil quite seriously and
probes deeply into the idea of redemption. She does not,
however, take her themes lightly, instead giving them a
vigorous shaking down before she's done, resulting in a
gripping spiritual thriller. One could easily call
this 'in the tradition of Charles Williams (a colleague of
Lewis and Tolkien)'--which it certainly is--but it more
importantly moves beyond that master of the spiritual
thriller. It succeeds where Williams always failed: it has
believable characters."--Matthew Scott Winslow, The Green
Man Review
"Carl's strongest point by far is her character creation
and development. Thomas Beckett, the sinful saint who let
someone else die in his place and has lived with this
moral flaw for centuries, is simply fascinating. He is
sinner and saint, scholar and warrior, human and
angelic ... all in one. The author manages to combine all
these traits into what has become one of my favorite
fictional characters ever. The plot is fascinating as
well, a classical good vs. evil story set in modern-day
Britain. The author manages to include enough new ideas,
interpretations, and twist into this 'old' story that it
is a joy to read it all over again. Every page is a
pleasure to read, and I could not put the book down until
I was done in one night."--Anika Leithner, Amazon.com
"Lucifer's Crown is a densely-packed narrative of uncommon
complexity and richness. Superficially, it's contemporary
fantasy, with magical elements intruding on modern life,
but it is also equal parts historical tour-de-force,
murder mystery, quest fantasy, romance, Arthurian epic and
alternate history of Wagnerian scope. Carl has taken half
a dozen or more traditions and genres, mixing them
together to forge an alloyed novel of unexpected
strength."--Jayme Lynn Blaschke, SF Site
"Blending historical mystery with a touch of the
supernatural, the author creates an intriguing exploration
of faith and redemption in a world that is at once both
modern and timeless."--Library Journal
"... uses the archetypes from many different cultures,
legends, and myth to create an original good vs. evil
story line. The characters are what make this plot so
unique because all the protagonists are fatally flawed yet
reject evil again and again even when they are tempted
beyond measure. Hearts will go out to Becket, a man who
has lived eight centuries and never loses faith even
though he has yet to find his own ease of heart." --
Harriet Klausner
Top of Page
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Excerpt
The gate stood open beneath its ancient stone arch. Maggie
Sinclair walked through it into the grounds of Glastonbury
Abbey. Turning around, she began, "When you see
Salisbury . . ."
Her tiny flock was no longer at her heels. Muttering, "I’m
a teacher, not a border collie," she doubled back. In the
dank shadow of the archway two people passed close by
her. "I’m telling you, Vivian," the middle-aged man said
in a Scottish accent, "there’s no good will come of it."
The woman laughed. "Leave it, Calum. No harm in having a
bit of a giggle with the group tonight. I’ll have a story
for the paper."
"Ah, you and your stories for the paper," he retorted.
"I’m a journalist," the English woman said. "Writing
stories is what I do."
What’s going on tonight? But the couple went on into the
Abbey, leaving Maggie’s curiosity unsatisfied.
Emerging into the thin October sunlight, she looked right
and left along Magdalene Street. Yeah, she thought, there
were a lot of things no good would come of. This trip
might be one of them. But it wasn’t that she was running
away. Teaching was what she did.
Her students were ranged around the corner into Silver
Street, taking in the signs and the shops: the Rainbow’s
End Café, the King Arthur Public House, the National
Federation of Spiritual Healers. The Brigit Healing Wing,
Pendragon, The Goddess and the Green Man, and the Library
of Avalon. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.
The ten-foot-tall gateway of the medieval George and
Pilgrim Inn looked like a mouth shaped in an O of
astonishment, mirroring the expression on the faces of the
three students. "Hello?" Maggie called.
Rose Kildare, the Botticelli angel, smiled. Beefy campus
jock Sean MacArthur, Rose’s shadow, looked casual. Senior
citizen Anna Stern, who seemed fragile but had set the
pace on their trek up Glastonbury Tor, said, "Look at the
books in this window. The Holy Grail. Astrology. Standing
stones and earth energy. Feminism. Ecology. Celtic
Revival."
"That’s Glastonbury," said Maggie. "It’s surrounded by
sacred sites dating back thousands of years. During the
Middle Ages pilgrims came to see England’s most famous
collection of Christian relics. Now anything goes."
"The shop owners may sell crystals and aromatherapy
candles along with the crucifixes," said Rose, "but the
pilgrims are still coming."
Sean shook his head. "Pilgrims? Some of these people are
weird."
"Most of us," Maggie began, then amended, "many people are
looking for a capital-S Story that will transcend the
limits of their own lives. This is why we’re doing the
legends of Arthur, right? Come on—here you take advantage
of the sunshine, you don’t hide from it like we do back
home in Texas."
She herded the students into the vast expanse of the Abbey
grounds. Broken walls and amputated arches sliced through
the smooth green lawn. A sixteenth-century manor house
rose from its far rim. Medieval slate roofs made a
serrated edge beyond the encircling walls. The grassy bulk
of Chalice Hill closed the horizon to the east, hiding all
of the Tor except for the tower of St. Michael’s church at
its peak. Billows of white and gray cloud sailed overhead,
trailing shadows across the ruins. The last time Maggie
had been here, during the summer, tour buses belching
diesel had lined up outside the gate. Now the crows,
strutting across the grass like smug prelates, outnumbered
the people.
She spotted the couple she’d passed in the archway. Vivian
was sitting cross-legged inside the chained-off rectangle
where the high altar had once been, probably meditating. A
typical Glastonbury moment, both innocent and
presumptuous. Calum stood nearby, so still he might have
been meditating, too, although in Maggie’s experience, men
were as likely to meditate as to read instruction manuals.
She said to the students, "When you see Salisbury and
Canterbury cathedrals you’ll get an idea of what
Glastonbury once looked like. Towers, vaults, carvings,
colored glass. So much wealth and power concentrated in
the hands of a not-always-holy church helped motivate the
Reformation."
Pointing, she went on, "Most medieval churches were built
in the shape of a cross. Here’s the nave in front of us,
the long upright where the civilians hang out. There are
the transepts, the two short horizontal arms. Beyond them,
in the short upright, is the presbytery or chancel, which
is priest territory. And the choir, where the monks sang
the Office."
Anna and Rose looked toward the arches that had once
supported the main tower, now tall stumps. Sean
shrugged. "This was in the required reading."
"But we’re here now," said Rose. "It’s different when it’s
for real."
What isn’t? Maggie called Sean’s bluff. "Okay, so what was
in the north transept there, and why?"
"The chapel of St. Thomas Becket," he returned with a
smirk and a sweep of his camcorder. "These buildings went
up right after he was killed at Canterbury."
"All right!" said Maggie. "Go sit down in the choir and
we’ll get beyond the required reading."
Jostling good-naturedly, Sean and Rose settled next to
Anna against the north wall and produced paper notebooks
from their backpacks. Maggie had banned individual
computers, knowing the lure of chat rooms and games. They
could use her laptop to check their e-mail, and their
papers weren’t due until after they got home in January.
Here in the choir she didn’t hear any echo of plainchant,
just the thump-thump of a boom box. The guilty party was a
kid with spiked purple hair. He’d have a long wait if he
was here for the yearly rock festival, known as much for
mud as for music. A man with red hair and a classy leather
jacket sauntered across the shadow of the south transept
arch. Nice body, Maggie thought, but his walk indicated
self-absorption. Was he watching Vivian? No. From the
angle of his head Maggie deduced he was looking at Rose.
Like any male with enough testosterone to merit the
definition would not look at Rose.
Two priests in black cassocks strolled along in deep
discussion, of the nature of God, perhaps, or the nature
of Sunday dinner. Beneath the russet-leaved trees across
the way, three figures dressed in white robes raised their
arms in prayer. Neo-Druids, guessed Maggie, modern
Glastonbury being nothing if not ecumenical.
A wind scented with baking bread and either incense or
cider blew her hair across her forehead and impatiently
she scooped it away. "The Lady Chapel there was built over
the oldest church in Britain. Legend says the Virgin Mary
herself was buried here. So many other people had
themselves planted nearby, Glastonbury came to be called
the graveyard of the saints. "The well in the crypt of the
Lady Chapel may date from an ancient earth mother
religion, with its stories of her dying and reviving son.
Ditto Glastonbury Tor, and Chalice Well just below. Funny
how this is the only spot for ten miles around that you
can’t see the Tor. Makes you think the first Christians
built here to hide something."
"Or from something," said Anna.
Maggie nodded. "Exactly. Legend says the Tor is the
gateway to Annwn, the Underworld. Tonight, Halloween, is
the old Celtic holy day of Samhain, when the gate opens,
the veil between the seen and the unseen thins, and
spirits walk among us." She glanced at the couple by the
altar. Was Vivian’s "bit of a giggle" a Samhain ceremony
staged by born-again pagans? "The fire of 1184 destroyed
buildings dating back to a seventh-century Saxon church or
an even earlier Celtic one. By the twelfth century
Glastonbury was Roman Catholic. There was bloodshed when
the Normans moved in, but that’s the Normans for you,
settling arguments with swords—Becket’s martyrdom being an
example. You could make a case for him getting himself
killed, seeing martyrdom as a good career move."
Anna’s brows quirked. Rose grinned. Sean was looking at
something behind Maggie’s back.
"When the monks were rebuilding they found what they
believed was the burial place of King Arthur." She
gestured toward another chain-enclosed area. "The stories
about him were originally pagan, but Glastonbury claimed
them about the same time the stories of the Holy Grail
were grafted onto them.
"During the sixteenth century Henry VIII threw the Roman
church out of Britain. His troops looted the monasteries
and sold the rubble. The eighty-year-old abbot of
Glastonbury and two of his monks were accused of hiding
treasure and were executed up on the Tor. Religious
principles in the service of avarice, or the other way
around?"
The students listened, Rose mesmerized, Anna taking notes,
Sean’s eyes wandering away and then returning. The
afternoon faded as the clouds clotted into gray lumps. The
wind went from damp and cool to wet and cold. Finally
Maggie emerged from the far side of the historical
thicket. "Let’s hit the museum. Then we’ll find a pub and
have supper. The local cider comes from that old Celtic
cauldron of inspiration—it gives you an inspiring buzz."
With enthusiastic murmurs the students pulled themselves
to their feet, Sean helping Anna as well as Rose. They
shouldered their packs and headed off like a hip
grandmother and her polite grandkids. Good, Maggie
thought. She had enough to worry about without adding
group dynamics to the list.
The grounds were deserted, leaves swirling across the
turf. In the metallic light the ravaged walls gleamed like
tarnished silver. The place still had its dignity—and its
secrets, Maggie told herself.
She laid her hand against the north vault. At first the
stone was warm. Then a cold deep as time kissed her palm
and sent a shiver up her arm. Gazing up the trajectory of
the arch, she imagined a current flowing through flesh and
stone alike, connecting earth and sky.
Tonight was All Hallow’s Eve, when the church sent its
saints to sweep lingering pagan spirits under its rug.
Tonight was Samhain, the pagan New Year’s Eve. In two
months another New Year’s Eve would end the year 2000. For
sixty days the past and the future would possess the same
metaphysical space and time, just as the old and new
millennia had done this entire year. And then? Maggie
thought of Dante’s Inferno: "In the middle of the journey
that is life, I came to myself in a dark wood where the
straight way was lost." And I have miles to go before I
sleep, she concluded with a grimace. Her hand wasn’t cold
anymore, just gritty, as though her morsel of flesh had
warmed the ancient stone.
She tucked both hands into her pockets and hurried after
the others, telling herself that the only ghosts haunting
the twilit ruins were her own.
*
Rose felt like one of those air-headed kids who couldn’t
remember what socks were for. The third morning of her
first trip overseas and she couldn’t find her notebook.
She must have left it at the Abbey. Unless Sean had taken
it. But it wasn’t her notebook he wanted.
Her steps thumped loudly in the mist. The buildings along
Magdalene Street weren’t indistinct enough to be illusion,
but weren’t solid enough to be real. Lighted windows made
smears of pale yellow, like the haloes Rose used to paint
around saints and angels. The George and Pilgrim was five
hundred years old, she thought. The Abbey—the newest Abbey—
was eight hundred. The oldest building in Dallas was a log
cabin from the 1840s, set on a concrete plaza hot as a
pancake griddle.
Here the sky seemed smaller and the horizon closer, even
though the houses and shops were so little Rose felt like
Gulliver in Lilliput. The air smelled different, soft,
damp, hinting of smoke and mildew. Aged air, well-used.
And cold. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been
cold.
Beyond the Abbey wall, the truncated towers looked like
the ghosts of huge cowled monks pacing toward the choir
for Matins. Maybe they were going to turn and look down at
her as if she were the Lilliputian. Rose had expected
Glastonbury to be a place of mystery and romance. It
wasn’t disappointing her.
The screech of metal against stone echoed from the semi-
circle of darkness that was the Abbey gate. Good—the
custodian was opening up. She plunged past him, saying, "I
left something here yesterday, I’ll be right back." "Right
you are, Miss," he returned, startled.
The window of the museum gleamed like obsidian to Rose’s
left. Beneath her feet the cobblestone walk gave way to
grass, swallowing the sound of her steps.
Yesterday the ruins had seemed as romantic as a lyric
poem. She’d sat against the sun-warmed choir wall,
watching a woman do yoga poses on the site of the altar
and wondering if that was eccentricity or sacrilege. She’d
listened as Maggie’s crisp voice softened until she was
almost chanting the tales of Joseph of Arimathea and the
precious blood of Christ, King Arthur and the Isle of
Avalon, the mother goddess and the mother of God.
Now the ruined walls were illegible lines half-erased by
the mist. Skeletal tree branches hung motionless overhead.
Magdalene Street was quiet, but this shrouded expanse was
deathly silent. The sun was rising above the fog, but this
gloom was neither daylight or dark. By the calendar it was
All Saints’ Day, but here it was still Halloween. The cold
filtered through Rose’s shoes and up her legs, raising
goose bumps on her denim-clad thighs. This wasn’t the
campus, was it, with spotlighted security phones every few
steps.
Inhaling the smoke-flavored air, she looked toward the
roofless shell of the Lady Chapel, its empty windows
opening onto darkness. She imagined light, stained-glass
windows, gold reliquaries, candles—and a choir dressed in
blue robes, the Blessed Virgin’s color, singing the Stabat
Mater or the Regina Caeli. Or the Magnificat, her
favorite.
She imagined Mary sitting in her bedroom—Rose saw her own
room with its posters and books—when suddenly the
archangel Gabriel appeared and announced she was going to
give birth to the Son of God. Rose would’ve said, "Wait a
minute, how’s this going to work?"
But Mary said, "Be it unto me according to thy word."
And, "My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit doth
rejoice in God my savior, for he hath regarded the low
estate of his handmaiden; for behold, from henceforth all
generations shall call me blessed."
Not that Rose had any aspirations to sainthood. Or to
being anyone’s handmaiden, either. It was that her Stories
had a soundtrack. She began to sing beneath her
breath, "Magnificat anima mea Dominum . . ." Then she
stopped. Talk about whistling past a graveyard!
But who’s watching, anyway? she asked herself. And with a
sudden jerk of her heart answered, he is.
A human figure stood between the north transept and the
site of Arthur’s tomb, veiled by the mist. Except for two
glints, eyes catching the light like a cat’s, Rose saw
only a blur for a face . . . It—he—turned toward the
darkness, took two strides, and was gone. A cloak or loose
coat billowed behind him, radiance shimmering along the
floating cloth like the last fiery rim of a bonfire.
She blinked. She really had seen him. And he’d seen her.
So she’d been standing there singing, that wasn’t any
weirder than doing yoga on the altar. Why was he out here
so early?
She heard only the slow drip of water in the crypt. The
steam of her own breath added to the mist. The back of her
neck prickled, but she wasn’t going to go back to the
hostel and tell everyone she was too scared to get her
book. Up the nave she hurried, glancing warily toward the
north transept beneath its broken vault. Of the church
proper only St. Thomas’s chapel still had its original
walls, making an alcove that this morning was deep in
shadow. That’s where the man had been standing, next to
something . . . Rose peered into the dark chapel and
stopped dead. A long white shape lay on the grass, a shape
as still and silent as the stones around it.
Oh God. The prickle in Rose’s neck merged with the goose
bumps on her legs. She forced her feet to carry her
forward. The lines of the woman’s naked body were as
smooth as those of a marble effigy. She lay on her back,
one hand at her side, the other on her breast, fingers
curled as though holding an invisible object. Her chalky
face and the dark hollows of her eyes looked up to where
the sky should have been but wasn’t.
It was the yoga woman. I don’t believe this. It isn’t
happening. "Hello?" Rose croaked. But the woman’s marble-
like chest didn’t move. From her body emanated not the
odor of sanctity, the sweet scent of a saint’s
incorruptible body, but the stench of mortality and death.
Outside the chapel something moved. Rose spun around with
a gasp. A shape and a quick flutter—it must be a bird, one
of those big crows they’d seen yesterday. If it was the
man he’d be trying to help the—the dead woman. Wouldn’t
he? This was a nightmare, yes, but it wasn’t a dream. Rose
felt the blood drain from her face. Her head spun. All
Saints’ Day sacrilege pray for us sinners now and at the
hour of our death go for help . . .
She sprinted toward the gate and the lighted windows of
the custodian’s lodge.