Nadezhda’s death had hardened Isabella. She realised the truth about what she was, that she was a cold-blooded killer, a Vampire, a Vrolok. Even when she behaved, in her eyes without question she was still a danger to those around her. The only thing she could offer anyone was death. She would no longer try to appease her conscience by discriminating between those she killed or didn’t kill. What good did it do? Isabella willingly and quickly returned to her old ways, the altruistic period in her existence completely over, and once more she killed without feeling or conscience. She learned to enjoy it again.
Isabella travelled west, up through Hungary, through Switzerland and then to France. After a few years had passed she chose to live in Versailles. She had always influenced her way into court and the court in Versailles was no exception. She had with little effort become a regular attendee at the French palace. It was the most ostentatious court Isabella had ever seen, even more so than Elizabeth’s court in England, so many years before.
The hall of mirrors had been commissioned by the “Sun King” a century earlier. It was exquisite, stretching the length of the palace, and crystal chandeliers hung from the fresco covered ceiling. The east wall was veiled in mirrors. Each mirror was framed in marble and the marble was set in gold. It was a place that only the truly beautiful, or those who thought themselves truly beautiful, could appreciate; as they walked through seeing their reflection from all angles. It made Isabella slightly sad that she couldn’t see her likeness in such a place. Isabella only walked through it at night when no one else could see either her, or her lack of reflection. She sometimes would stare at the mirrors hoping for just glimpse of her own image, but it never appeared to her and she knew it never would.
Despite its beauty and elegance, the court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette was very different from any she had been in before. Isabella had hardly been noticed at all. This place was concerned with much graver things than a beautiful stranger. There was a visible sense of uneasiness than ran throughout the court and it was obvious to any visitor. But Isabella could see deeper and lying beneath this uneasy surface there was a deep sense of fear. Every day, more and more people, were deserting this place. Kings and Queens loved to surround themselves with people but this palace was now nearly empty. Even the King’s own brother the Comte d’Artois, sensing the danger that everyone who belonged to the hereditary nobility felt, had fled.
Isabella, not finding enough victims within the court to quench her insatiable blood lust often ventured a little distance away, out into Parisian streets. The people of Paris were bitter and disaffected; Isabella heard resentful thoughts going through the minds of the people she came in contact with. Some thoughts were even murderous. Isabella knew that these thoughts were fueling and building hostility that would ultimately burst out into the open and show its malevolent face, and when it did thousands would die. This nefarious atmosphere convinced her to stay; what better place was there for a Vampire than a city that was about to erupt into mass slaughter.
France at this time was divided into three estates. The First Estate consisted of Nobles and the King, The Second Estate consisted of the Clergy and the rest which consisted of over nine-tenths of the population was included within the Third Estate. The Third Estate was not just the poor; it also consisted of the Bourgeoisie, a group that was quite wealthy and well-educated but who did not have the same rights as the First and Second Estates. The Bourgeoisie were extremely resentful of the privileges of the church and the nobility, as were the other people within the Third Estate. The poor were starving and this made them more than just resentful, it made them desperate. France was in a crisis like no other she had endured before. The King was not doing anything to appease the volatile political situation; rather, he was ignoring it. There had been various outbreaks of violence. Wives and mothers were robbing barges and wagons, stealing grain to feed their families, and some of these robberies were resulting in violence and death. The nobility had started to get frightened, but none of them were anywhere near frightened enough.
On the advice of Jacques Necker, the King’s Minister for Finance, the King called a meeting for representatives of all three estates in a last ditch attempt to stop the violence. The Estates General meeting took place at Versailles and did not go well. The Third Estate had been slighted all through the meeting, and when the King talked of the changes that he was going to put in place he did not address any of the demands of the Third Estate, still continuing to ignore them. These men were outraged and refused to be intimidated, they decided to form the National Assembly and do away with the feudal system of the three Estates. It was their turn to ignore the King. The King then refused to acknowledge the National Assembly, even though members of his own Estate had voted for it. This outraged members of the National Assembly and they confronted the King. Isabella had watched everything with relish, waiting for it to explode into violence, secretly longing for that to happen.
In early July 1789, Isabella’s wait was over. She was standing in court when the National Assembly gathered at Versailles to confront the King, Isabella was watching all of these events unfold. She could not wait; she was baying for blood. The King ordered that the National Assembly disperse, but one man called Mirabeau objected.
“We are here by the will of the people and we shall not be interspersed except at the point of Bayonets!”
Isabella looked out the window she saw thousands of people gathering outside in support of the National Assembly. The officers in charge were now starting to fear that a riot may break out and ordered the soldiers to open fire on the crowd. The soldiers hesitated; they dropped their bayonets and stood with the crowd.
The King, frightened and anxious, conceded. “Very well, you can stay…but I will send for foreign troops and they will show you no mercy.” The King’s words echoed through the crowd and quickly news spread of the King’s threat to France.
Isabella returned to court the next day and she was disappointed. The tension of the day before had somewhat dissipated and there would be no violence that day. The Queen, however, was just as edgy as she had been the day before. Isabella noticed her watching the Vampire, and soon she approached Isabella to confront her.
“Who are you?” she asked imperiously, for she was getting suspicious of every one who was not a relative.
“Lady Isabelle, my Lady.”
“Of where, I do not remember you in court before.”
“I have been in court my Lady every day for the past year,” Isabella answered.
“Nonsense, I would have remembered you,” Marie Antoinette retorted.
“I am not that memorable, Your Highness,” Isabella answered, trying to resolve the situation without an obvious display of violence.
“Now, that is a lie. Guards, march her to the Bastille!” Marie Antoinette shouted.
Isabella smiled at this dramatic statement. The Bastille was a good few miles away. This woman wanted no potential enemies in Versailles.
Isabella, of course, could have easily escaped, but as she was marched away. She realised coming back to court was not an option, so she would let these soldiers accompany her to Paris. The soldiers marched her out onto the streets of Versailles; they tied her hands and placed her on a horse with the intention of taking her to Paris. She was to have a public escort to the Bastille. When they arrived at the gates of Paris, the guards dismounted their horses and started to talk amongst themselves.
“Necker has been dismissed,” said one of the soldiers. Isabella said nothing, she simply listened.
“Dismissed, because he made public the King and Queen’s extravagance,” said another. All around Isabella could hear crowds gathering. She heard windows being broken in the distance and people shouting, phrases like “Live Free or Die,” and “To the Bastille.” Isabella sensed that what she had felt brewing was going to happen that day.
A horse and rider galloped up to the guards.
“Where are you going?” the horseman asked.
Isabella could tell this man was not a native of France. His French was somewhat clumsy and disjointed. She took a chance and decided to talk to him in English.
“Sir,” she began, “please can you help me? These men are taking me to the Bastille!”
“You are English?” Isabella sensed that if she said she was English it would only discourage this man from helping her. Isabella through her travels had learned that anyone who despised the English was either likely to be French, Irish or Scottish. He was not French; she thought quickly and answered him.
“No sir, Irish,” Isabella responded.
“Irish, you say.” Isabella could sense he was suspicious of her but he was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Well, you can come with me, then.”
Isabella pulled apart her tethered hands with ease, took the Irishman’s arm and leaped from her horse on to the back of his. The guards tried to stop her but the Irishman unsheathed his sword and pressed the tip at the chin of the nearest soldier to him. “I would not touch her if I were you. Look around you, do you think if you drag a woman to the Bastille, this crowd will show any restraint?” The soldiers, frightened of the angry mobs that were gathering around them, let Isabella and the Irishman ride away.
“My name is Joseph, Joseph Kavanagh,” the Irishman said, introducing himself formally to Isabella. Isabella tried to remember any Irish names she had heard. She remembered a story about a warrior princess who was the mortal enemy of her sister. Aoife was her name and it meant beauty. It seemed the perfect name for Isabella.
“Aoife,” she said.
“Aoife! You must be Irish. No English woman would know that name.”
“Did you doubt me?” Isabella asked.
“I have to say I did. Well, Aoife, would you like to join me? I am on my way to fight and with a name like Aoife you should be able to look after yourself.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Isabella said with a smile.
“I am getting the feeling I do not need to.” As the pair rode through the crowd Joseph was shouting to the mobs that were gathering. “Foreign troops are at the gates of Paris.” He rode a little further and then again he shouted down to another group of people. “We need gunpowder; the Bastille is the only place in Paris with stores of it. Hurry! Prussian troops are approaching and they will kill us all.”
This man was lying, Isabella thought. When they were within walking distance of the Bastille he let Isabella down from his horse.
“Thank you for getting me away from the guards,” Isabella said with genuine gratitude.
“I have the feeling you needed no help.”
Isabella smiled; she liked Joseph, for he was perceptive and could not be fooled easily, even by a Vampire. “You may be right, but why did you lie to the crowds on the way here?” she asked out of curiosity. “There are no foreign troops at the gates of Paris.”
“I was given the task of stirring up the mob.” Joseph looked away from Isabella he wanted to survey the scenes of destruction that were going on around him. His mind’s eye chose to ignore the chaos, and his glance was captured by a child sitting on a doorstep shivering with cold. The little girl glimpsed a half-eaten rotten apple lying in the dirty street. She ran to it and started to eat. When she glanced up and made eye contact with Joseph, she smiled gleefully. Joseph returned her smile but his smile was not gleeful, it was poignant. “People are starving, It is worse than at home.”
Isabella sensing the change in mood, tried to divert the conversation back to something that would lighten his spirits again.
“Why were you given this task?” she asked. Joseph turned his gaze back to Isabella and smiled at her with relish.
“Do I need to tell you? You should know we Irish are the best at starting a fight,” Joseph tipped his hat, leaned down and placed a green cockade in her raven hair. “This is what the friends of the revolution are wearing—wear it, it’ll keep you safe.”
“Thank you,” Isabella said accepting his gift.
He smiled once more at Isabella and then rode to the forefront of the mob and therefore into the forefront of danger. It was about to happen. The French citizens were about to storm the Bastille and the violence would begin.
Isabella watched on as Joseph and the others broke though into the courtyard; they demanded the surrender of the Bastille. The governor of the prison, De Launey, tried to negotiate and invited the leaders of the commonalty into the prison to talk to him. Several members of the crowd went in, which placated the mob, but only briefly. Hours drifted by and the crowd grew restless again. Rumours circulated that De Launey had imprisoned the men he had promised to negotiate with. These rumours mostly emanated from Joseph, who was maneuvering his way through the rabble and whispering in the right people‘s ears. The people again wanted blood and so did Isabella; she was thirsting for it.
A shot from a bayonet rang out. Isabella could see everything as night was fast approaching. Joseph was standing beside a smoking bayonet; he had fired the shot to incite the rabble. On hearing the shot De Launey lost his head and ordered his troops to fire on the crowds. Shot after shot rang out from the guns of the royal troops, but the mob just kept on coming. Cannon fire and an armed assault were not going to frighten them away.
The soldiers were terrified, even though they were picking off tens of these people with their guns; the mob was relentless—it would not be stopped. They surged forward and broke through the gates into the inner courtyard. De Launey, seeing the imminent danger, surrendered and pleaded for mercy, but he was not shown any. When the drawbridge was lowered the mob again surged forward through the gates, and now the table was turned on De Launey’s men. The crowd started to fight back and several of De Launey’s men were cut down. Joseph headed straight for the governor; he reached him within seconds and brutally attacked him. De Launey kicked out at him purely in self-defence. Joseph squealed out in pain. Isabella could see that he was not really hurt but the crowd around him used this act of violence as an excuse to beat De Launey to death. When they were finished Joseph lifted back his bloody matted hair and sliced off his head. He placed it on his sword and paraded it through the crowd. Isabella watched him, admiring him from a distance.
Joseph was killing for a cause he believed in, but this was not the reason for Isabella’s admiration; the way in which he killed impressed Isabella. He was just as vicious and malicious as she was.
Isabella played her part in the storming of the Bastille. She ran through the crowds killing as many as she could, not really caring if they were troops or commoners. Joseph caught sight of her fighting; he thought she was fighting with the Bourgeoisie. He smiled over at her, blood dripping from his face, and Isabella returned his gaze. The pair fought on. When it was over, Joseph lifted his sword, which still had De Launey’s decapitated head upon it. He climbed up the Bastille wall and secured it onto the battlements. The crowd watched as he climbed and cheered when the head was in place. Others in the crowd followed suit and all the dead soldiers’ heads were stuck on the spikes and swords and tied to the battlements of the Bastille, for all to see.
Isabella surveyed the jubilant crowd. She too was for a moment swept away by this euphoria but it was fleeting, for Isabella caught sight of an old enemy. Leila was standing amongst the crowd, watching Isabella.
Isabella spent the next few years in Paris. There was not a better place for her in the world. People were being killed by the hundreds, sometimes even a thousand a month. She had not seen Leila since that day. She had disappeared from sight but Isabella sensed she was close; she could feel her malevolent penetrating essence all around her. Isabella knew she would confront her eventually and she watched and waited. Isabella sadly, had not seen Joseph again, either… until one day in early September, 1792.
“Aoife!” Isabella responded to one of her many pseudonyms by turning around to see Joseph, in uniform.
&nbs
p; “Joseph, have you become respectable?” Isabella asked a mocking tone resonated through her voice.
“Respectable enough to have three meals a day.”
“Always important; it appears the revolution is giving us both sustenance,” Isabella grinned.
“Walk with me a ways?” Joseph said.
“I will,” Isabella complied.
“Do you miss Ireland?” Joseph asked.
“I can’t say I do. And surely you do not, when you are getting fed so well.”
“My stomach may not but my heart does. I miss home…I miss the wide-open spaces, the green valleys, the stone and thatched cottages.”
“The starvation, the poverty,” Isabella said sarcastically.
“Still… I want to go home,” Joseph said, gazing off into the distance. Something was bothering him.
“But you have found so much prosperity in Paris.”
“I have found prosperity in Paris that’s true, but at what cost? I used to be fighting for something I believed in, but now I am not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am on my way to slaughter priests, some of them Irish, all of them Catholic. This is not what I set out to do.”
Isabella was stunned. This was not the same man who had speared De Launey’s head on his sword and had placed it on the gates of the Bastille. The revolution had changed him.
“That is the problem with causes; they are always lost before the end. Just don’t kill them. You don‘t have to.”
“But you see I do, I have been ordered to, and I don’t want to starve ever again.”
Joseph stayed silent for a moment and then continued, “After I do this I can never go back home.”
“Who has ordered you to kill priests?” Isabella asked.
“The Committee of Twelve Revolutionaries… may their hands be stained red by the time the night is over.” Isabella was struck by these words; they reminded her of a dying man’s last words.
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