Lucifer's Crown by Lillian Stewart Carl

from antique to junk, sprinkled with twentieth-century fundamentals such as flush toilets and electric lights. By the time Alf waved them through the front door with its wrought-iron knocker, Sean had forgotten to act blasé, Rose was openly enchanted, and Anna's sharp eyes hadn't missed so much as a nail.
    An archway led from the courtyard to a lawn. Beyond the weathered stone wall encircling the grounds, ravens cawed, adding ambience, and a car honked, subtracting it. Still, the car was heading down to the bridge over the River Brue, where Sir Bedivere had returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake.
    Alf gestured toward the house. “That wing there's the latest, early eighteenth century."
    Silvery half-timbering abutted gray stonework which abutted off-white plasterwork laced by flaming Virginia creeper. The red bricks of the Tudor chimneys looked as though they'd been knotted and woven. Magic , Maggie thought. Temple Manor was a quilt sewn by the hands of time and man, and like a quilt it was both shelter and allegory. Its gravity made her frame house look like the Little Pig's house of straw.
    "This way, Thomas will be in the chapel. That and the cottage is all he kept for himself.” Alf led them around a corner and past a yew hedge. Beyond it lay a formal garden, overlooked by the many-paned windows of the gallery. “He tells some good historical tales, he does, not all dates and acts of Parliament and such."
    "I've been reading his books for years,” Maggie said. “I assigned a couple to the group."
    "Very well-written,” Anna added.
    "I liked the one about monastic life,” said Rose, “how the monotonal notes of the chants reverberated against the stone."
    Sean shook his head. “The books are okay. Heavy on people's feelings but light on the battles."
    "People in battles have plenty of feelings,” Rose told him.
    "Here we are,” announced Alf. “Oldest building on the property. Twelfth century, on seventh-century foundations."
    The church stood aloof on an expanse of lawn, its ancient stone blushing in the sunshine. A dove peered down from a corner of the roof. “Supposedly St. Bridget left a bell here,” Maggie lectured. “She began her story as Brighid, a Celtic goddess with similar attributes. Bridget's nuns tended Brighid's sacred fire in Kildare, Ireland, until the Reformation. The newer chapel here at Beckery was dedicated to Mary Magdalene, a saint whose origins are all too human. This is as ancient a site as Glastonbury, and just as much on the pilgrim circuit."
    "Like the monks finding Arthur's grave in the Abbey, pilgrims being right good business and all.” Alf winked conspiratorially.
    "Arthur saw a vision of the Holy Grail here at Beckery,” Maggie went on with a smile, appreciating his honesty. “Lancelot retired to a hermit's cell by Chalice Well. Guinevere was kidnapped and held on the Tor.” Ravens exploded from the trees beyond the wall and skeined into the distance. “And according to some stories Arthur lived on in the form of a raven, a pagan borrowing if ever there was one."
    "The Arthurian legends,” Anna said, “are Western Europe's equivalent to the Dreamtime of the Australian aborigines. Myths of origin and identity."
    "Stories,” said Alf dismissively.
    But, Maggie thought in silent protest, stories were honest, too. “With the name ‘Temple’ I assume the manor was originally a Templar preceptory."
    "The Knights of the Temple of Solomon,” said Sean, pumping his fist in the air. “They were tough."
    "This was once a preceptory, right enough,” Alf said. “After the Reformation, the Londons fitted out a chapel in the house, still being Catholic and all, and the chapel here became a barn. But our Thomas's seen to its restoration right and proper. Go on ins..."
    A screech tore the sky. A reddish-brown missile shot by the edge of the roof. Everyone jumped. The dove disappeared. “A falcon!” Alf exclaimed.
    The bird of prey landed atop the roof tree, its hooked