Isabella's Heiress (10 page)

“What's going on? Why are people…”

“Isabella! You have come to save us!” The shout came from a rooftop and Emma felt Father Eamon stiffen. It opened the floodgates and the whispers became words and then calls.

“She is back, resurrected! We are saved!”

The noise rose to a cacophony as people everywhere called out this woman's name. The tips of Emma's fingers started to tingle as panic rose in her stomach. She got as close to Father Eamon as possible and was about to grab his arm when a voice boomed out, cutting through the clamour.

“SILENCE!”

The noise died down and Emma watched as Father Eamon stepped forwards and turned around. He looked at the crowds and then at Emma. The smile from earlier had now disappeared.

“This is not Isabella. She is an initiate just like any other. I understand that some of you would wish it were otherwise but it is not the case. There are those of you
who would breathe false hope to others. If you do this, then disappointment is inevitable, is it not?

“I sympathise with you all but there is nothing I can do for your plight. Let the word go out that this woman is Father Eamon's initiate and that if anybody tries anything untoward, then I will hear of it. Now leave and let us be about our business unhindered.”

The words were enough to dampen the ardour of the crowd. Slowly they disappeared back into their houses and off the rooftops until there were only a few people left walking along the street, their eyes cast away or making forced conversation amongst themselves until they withdrew to a point where they could no longer communicate.

Father Eamon turned to Emma, who was shaking. Her eyes were wide and her skin damp. Right then, she wanted nothing more than to be back in the sanctuary, away from this strange, alien place. She looked down at her feet in an effort to shut out the world around her.

“Come, we will walk to the river.” His hand gently guided Emma forward and they turned into a narrow lane leading off to the left of the main road and towards the Thames. They passed into the narrow corridor of St Mary Botolph Lane before exiting into Dowgate. Emma was struggling to understand what had happened back in Candlewick Street and all the time she was intensely aware of eyes boring into her from behind every window and door that they passed.

“Who is Isabella?”

Emma broke the silence between them. Father Eamon seemed distracted as he scanned the rooftops ahead. He didn't look round as he answered.

“She was the daughter of a Florentine merchant, who disappeared at the height of the Battle of Dresden in 1648. Every now and again, people see someone who
bears a passing resemblance to her come through the Twilight plane and they become very agitated.”

“I look like this woman? How would they know? Was she well known?” Emma couldn't remember coming across anybody called Isabella in her history lessons, except maybe some Spanish princesses.

“She was known in the region that she came from but her name has faded over time.”

“Why would they get so excited by me walking down the street? Even if I looked like her, I'm not her am I.”

“Some of the stories are quite…elaborate and people have a habit of putting a literal interpretation on them. There have been occasions in the past when the Twilight inhabitants have mistaken an initiate for her.”

They had reached a small, decrepit looking jetty, which jutted out into the Thames. Father Eamon looked up and down the river. He raised his right arm and called “Eastward ho!”

A small boat came alongside and a shabby looking man in an ill-fitting waistcoat and white blousy shirt looked up at them.

“Where to?”

“Custom House.”

The man looked at Father Eamon and then at Emma. As his eyes took her in, a thin smile crossed his lips.

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather walk? This one looks like she'll not make it past the bridge. ‘Tis low-tide and she's angry.”

“It's always low-tide and the river has no feelings one way or the other.” Father Eamon was starting to lose his temper.

“As you say. Get in then.” The waterman reached out and grabbed hold of the jetty to steady his wherry. Father Eamon climbed in and extended a hand to Emma.

As she took it, she looked left and saw what the waterman was referring to. A bridge stretched across the river. Emma knew it had to be London Bridge but this wasn't the elegant, balustraded thoroughfare, hewn from marble and granite that she had passed across the previous night. This one was a huge stone causeway supported by more narrow arches than she could count. Surrounding the uprights between each arch were wooden piers, each one twice as wide as the column it protected but what grabbed Emma's attention were the buildings.

From the north bank to the south, the bridge supported a mish-mash of awkward and rickety piles, all of which were held up by wooden joists jutting out at odd angles from the stonework below. Crumbling chimneys fought for space with half-finished domes and it looked to Emma like the whole thing could collapse at any second. She sucked in some air and instantly coughed it out again.

A harsh laugh brought Emma back. The waterman had caught her reaction and sneered.

“See, girly? See what you have to go through?”

“Silence, dolt! You are here to bear us eastwards not pass comment on an initiate! Come, Emma, you have nothing to fear.”

Emma got slowly onto the bobbing wherry and sat down as the waterman shoved off and steered a course for the centre of the river.

“We must shoot the bridge to get to the other side. This will be quite unnerving for you but you need not fear, once we are through all will be calm.”

There was a quiet laugh from the back of the boat, “Many a man met his end by the starlings.”

“That is as may be, ferryman, but as we are all dead; that is something of a moot point! Now tell me when you are to start your approach.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“What did he mean by the starlings? I can't see any birds.”

Father Eamon's chuckled as she said this “The starlings are the wooden piers protecting the columns. They cause the water to bottleneck as it goes under the bridge. We are going to have to hold on tight as we go through.”

Emma could feel the boat start to gain speed. The wherry was now lined up with one of the central arches and Emma could hear a bubbling noise coming from its direction.

A voice came from behind her “Hold fast, there is no going back now.” She looked around to see the waterman looking straight at the arch they were about to enter. His jaw was set and his eyes fixed in a stare that seemed to Emma, to be a cross between terror and concentration.

The acceleration was sudden and terrifying. Emma gripped the side of the boat and stretched her legs out so they caught under the bench in front and Father Eamon leant forward and took hold of the prow, his eyes unwaveringly fixed on the water in front. The bubbling was now a roar and the water frothed white. Emma couldn't hear anything except a high-pitched scream as the boat bucked and twisted its way between two starlings. They were little more than wooden skeletons filled with stones and rubble but they were so big that nothing could dislodge them and this meant that the water now had to force itself through a space barely wide enough for the boat.

They shot underneath the bridges main arch and the sound became unbearable as it bounced off the curved roof. Emma struggled to keep her head above water as the boat threatened to overturn.

“Hold on, we are about to drop!”

Father Eamon's voice was barely audible over the
raging water but Emma caught enough to tighten her grip just as her stomach forced its way into her mouth. The boat suddenly angled down and the bow disappeared in a mixture of water, froth and wood. Then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

All was quiet and the water was now calm. Behind her, Emma could hear the roar of the bridge and she turned round. Every arch had a mini waterfall cascading through it, finishing in an angry whirlpool of bubbles with a fine mist rising off it. She turned back to see Father Eamon brushing off excess water from his jacket.

“Any more surprises I should now of?”

“Not today, Emma. I think that is quite enough don't you?”

“Why didn't we just walk back?”

“And go back through all those eyes? Besides you would have needed to shoot the bridge at some point, better you do it first time with me.”

Emma looked at him incredulously. What was wrong with this man? If there was going to be any mileage between them, it was clear to her that they were going to have to work on their communication. The wherry carried on down the Thames, rotting deep-sea barks that bobbed at anchor along the north shore. Emma, soaked to the skin by her passage under the bridge, started to shiver.

In the distance the high, regular walls of the white tower stood guard over the warehouses and shops of the rivers north bank whilst the ravens called to one and other as they danced around its parapets.

Emma sat quietly in the boat as the gentle lapping of the water caressed her ears and wondered if she would ever see another sunrise.

Over the next few weeks Emma started familiarising herself with the twilight plane. As time passed she felt more at home in the sanctuary but the constant awareness of the trial hung over her, keeping an edge to her everyday existence.

The plane never stayed in the same state for long. Wattle and daub gave way to bricks and mortar before changing back again. It transformed randomly and Emma realised there was no way to work out when it would happen or what age she would find herself in but, with Father Eamon's help, she started to find her way around. Soon it became clear that the roads weren't all that different, even if the buildings were. They always followed the same plan with the occasional diversion into a dead end or new street.

Emma started to learn the basic skills she would need to look after herself and, further down the line, start her task. It had not been easy and had lead to some embarrassing results, particularly when she had tried to open a gate by a second hand Victorian clothes shop by the River Fleet. All she had managed to do was dislodge a loose stone from the top of the building, which had come crashing down and entered the head of a man who was passing by. It
had gone straight through him and had ended up at his feet. The man was completely fine but stood there, his eyes bulging out of his sockets, as he threw an accusing look at Emma.

Emma had cringed and apologised before walking away trying not to look like she was running from the scene of a crime. She had caught Father Eamon trying to suppress a grin as they made a rapid exit and had narrowly missed being run over by a horse-drawn omnibus. As she threw herself into a shop doorway, men in long coats and stovepipe hats looked down from the top deck and immediately started talking amongst themselves as they realised who it was that had nearly gone under the wheels.

Emma hated this particular realm, with its tanneries and warehouses on the south bank. The stink from them was unbearable and the smoke that was forced into the air by both these, the untold chimneys in the city and the paddle steamers on the Thames blackened everything around her until it was impossible to tell what was brick or wood. It seemed that whichever way she turned, there was a chimney belching out black clouds of pollution.

Some things didn't change though. It never ceased to amaze Emma that whichever realm she found herself in, the clothes these women wore seemed to be made to cause them the maximum inconvenience and discomfort. On more than one occasion whilst travelling along a filthy or pothole strewn road, she had caught envious side-glances at her jeans and trainers from women saddled with whalebone corsets and crinoline skirts. These looks were inevitably followed by widening eyes when they realised who they were looking at, at which point they either looked straight ahead or found a sudden urge to study the ground for as long as it took to pass her by.

One afternoon as they got back to the sanctuary, Emma waited until they were passing the oak and confronted Father Eamon.

“Why are all these people treating me like I've got a communicable disease, what's going on?”

Father Eamon turned and for a second, Emma thought she could see a fleeting glimpse of uncertainty in his eyes.

“The story of Isabella Calabria has taken on a mythical form. It is the story of a woman who was born into privilege yet managed to transcend everything to become a heroine to her people. It is like many stories that are as old as the ages, in time it becomes embellished until everybody has their own version of it. She was a woman who fought against what she believed to be the great injustices of her time, so you can see why it is that her story is always popular amongst people who have no voice for themselves.

“Some believe that she will come back to save them but there have been many stories like that over the years. If you knew the rumours I have heard over the centuries.

“It is true to say that you do have more than a passing resemblance to her and it is that which people see. I cannot do anything about that I am afraid, it is something you will just have to get used to.”

Emma had resigned herself to the looks and the whispers, which only increased when they had been joined by Taryn. This, however, was mostly down to the men taking a sudden interest. Emma raised her eyes to the sky when this happened thinking the same thing each time.
Typical
,
even when they're dead, it's all they think about.

Over the weeks that passed, Emma learnt to cross over on her own. This was still a shaky endeavour, which more often than not, involved her eventually having to rely on Father Eamon but she was getting the hang of
it, until she was nearly able to travel to her former world without any assistance.

Father Eamon had slowly brought Emma along until she was ready to start learning the more advanced skills she would need to attempt her task. This culminated in Emma successfully managing to turn the door of the estate agents in Dulwich Village into a watery haze before walking through.

That had been a few days ago and Emma had every reason to be upbeat as she waited for Father Eamon to appear in the sanctuary garden one morning but she was starting to wonder where he was. It was unlike him to be late, even by a couple of minutes and by her reckoning at least a half hour had passed. She couldn't be sure as she didn't have a watch but she was starting to develop an innate sense of time by now, knowing that she had to be in before dark.

Emma turned to see Taryn walking out into the garden with Sister Ignacia.

“Hola, Emma, how are you?”

“I'm good thank you, sister, and you?”

“I'm well, thank you for asking. Father Eamon sends his apologies. He has asked that you come with us today as he has pressing business elsewhere.”

Emma was thrown. This was the first time that he had not met her in the morning and a feeling of panic started to set in.

“I don't understand. Where has he gone?”

“Do not worry Emma. This is quite normal. Father Eamon has other duties as well as being your guide. Normally, he carries these out when you are in the sanctuary or asleep but today one of them has taken longer than he would have liked.”

Emma looked over Sister Ignacia's shoulder towards the sanctuary door but it was firmly shut.

“Come Emma, let us walk.”

They exited the sanctuary and entered a realm that had changed back to the precarious leanings of the half-timber houses. Emma cursed under her breath because that meant she had to look out for any waste bowls being emptied from the surrounding windows as they passed by. Her eyes flicked nervously from the road ahead to the sky above, waiting for any sudden unannounced showers.

As per usual, people were about, the men in their tights and doublets, the women clothed in their bodices and long skirts with aprons. They hurried this way and that, some with wicker baskets hanging off their forearms, others balancing them on their heads. All were empty.

The realms residents had become used to Emma's presence by now and had grown bolder over time so that instead of watching from behind half-closed doors and shuttered windows, they now looked on and gawped from the street. Fingers were pointed and people would turn to each other and openly ask questions as Emma passed and so it was today as they walked into Tower Street. Emma was tired of this now and felt like screaming out that yes she was Emma Elliott and no she wasn't some woman who may or may not have existed four hundred years ago.

Sister Ignacia walked alongside Emma. “What has Father Eamon told you about talking to people in the realms?”

To Emma it seemed that Sister Ignacia had the most expressive face she had ever seen, her mouth always had the hint of a smile on it and her eyes seemed to reflect sunlight even when there was none about. She had an innate ability to brighten the mood around her when she arrived in the sanctuary, even in a place such as that.

“He said that I should be careful who I speak to and not to trust anybody even if they seem genuine.”

“It would be wise to take that advice. You will need the help of the people in this realm but they will be loath to give it. You will need to be sly if you are to succeed.”

“That shouldn't be a problem. Emma was always the devious one in our class. I've never known anyone wrap a teacher around her finger like she did.” Taryn was a little way ahead and was listening in as they walked.

Emma snorted, it was always Taryn who had been the one who could flutter her eyelashes and get away with not doing her homework for the third or fourth time that week, whilst Emma had always ended up having letters sent home to her parents if she so much as tried to avoid one subject. Unless Taryn had developed a wry sense of humour or come over with a sudden bout of irony since she had died, both of which Emma doubted, it appeared that she was having one of her convenient memory lapses, something which she used to have quite regularly when she would go after a guy in a club fully knowing that he was attached to someone they both knew. Emma cringed as she remembered the countless times she had been the one that had had to deal with the inevitable fall out. Thankfully that had all stopped when she went off to university.

“Ahem, Miss Lucas. I seem to remember a certain someone who didn't have any trouble getting what she wanted from the teachers when we were at school. Does the name Mr East ring any bells?”

Taryn looked over her shoulder at Emma as her eyes narrowed and a wicked smile crept across her face.

“Hmm he was delicious, wasn't he? Got me off a complete term of trigonometry to.”

Sister Ignacia groaned,
“Descardo!”

Emma turned towards Sister Ignacia “I'm sorry?”

Sister Ignacia blushed at her candid comment, “Oh, nothing.”

Emma was about to say something in return when she felt a slight tug on her jumper. She turned around to see the man that had followed her and Father Eamon from the graveyard all those weeks ago, only now he was standing in front of her. She could see that what she had taken for an emaciated frame was in fact wiry although his clothes were torn and moth eaten and he stank. Emma took a step back and the man straightened up so that she could see his face. His teeth were rank and his hair was an unkempt white mess hanging loosely on his furrowed and dirty brow.

“You'se her isn't ya.”

Emma recoiled at the smell of his breath.

“You'se the one they'se all abaht.”

He started to walk around her before he was met by the immovable force that was Sister Ignacia.

“No she is not and Father Eamon has made it expressly clear what will happen to anybody that tries to interfere with Emma.”

For a second the man seemed to flinch at the mention of Father Eamon's name but he soon got over it looking again at Emma, although he did take a step back this time, keeping a wary eye on the Spanish guide.

“I knows what Father Eamon says but he's wrong. She is her I tell ya, she is! I was there at Cordoba when theys signs the treaty. I sees with my own eyes the pictures hanging of Isabella. I hears them talking of her in hushed tones abaht how she's a coming back and when she does she will decimate all before her with god's own fury!”

“Silence! You know not of what you speak and do not take his name in such vulgar ways!”

“Why not? What is he to us here? We'se damned and
you'se knows it!” There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd that had gathered around them to watch what was happening.

Emma saw once again the fire flash in Sister Ignacia's eyes and as she replied her voice took on a lower, more ominous tone.

“You think you are damned here, Ezekiel? You think this is as bad as it can get? I think we both know that you're wrong there, don't you?”

The man that was Ezekiel stopped for a second before looking directly into Sister Ignacia's eyes. “It matters not what you'se say, I knows the truth and I tells you she is the one.”

“As you say, Ezekiel, but by your own admission, you have never seen Isabella, you have only seen portraits and portraits have a tendency to flatter the subject don't they?”

“Well yes, that's as maybe but I still knows she's the one!”

Emma looked from Sister Ignacia to Taryn whose face was a picture of stunned confusion. She had told her what had happened the first time she had gone out with Father Eamon and Taryn had seen the looks that people gave Emma when they walked along the streets of London but this was the first time Taryn had seen anything like this happen.

“Well when you have proof of such a claim, I am sure that Father Eamon would be most interested in seeing it but until then, I would suggest that you keep your claims to yourself.”

There was finality to Sister Ignacia's last words and the man took it in the same way, mumbling something under his breath before shuffling away.

“Who was that?” Taryn's hushed tones couldn't hide her concern

“That was Ezekiel. He has been here longer than I can remember and it shows. You needn't worry about him, either of you. He is harmless.”

Taryn looked unconvinced. “But what he said. Is it true? Was he at the signing of the treaty of Cordoba?”

Sister Ignacia let out a gentle laugh. “I doubt that. Cordoba is hundreds of miles from here. For him to end up in this plane, he would have had to travel all the way across Europe to reach here before he died. And there were no cars back then.

“He is just a simple fool and nothing more, let his words wash over you.”

Emma had stayed silent all this time, choosing to let Taryn ask the questions she was asking herself. She watched as the man disappeared from view between the overhanging stories of two houses.

“Come, Emma. Father Eamon tells me that you must work on your telepathy. Put this to the back of your mind.”

They walked on, crossing into Eastcheap where they found themselves in the shadow of St Pauls, and carried on into Candlewick Street. The cathedral loomed larger on the near horizon, its spires and towers rising over everything around it with the twilight placing it in a near-perfect silhouette. It threatened and becalmed in equal measure and whatever you thought of it, it was impossible to ignore.