Isabella's Heiress

by N. P. Griffiths

  Emma would have laughed if it weren’t so serious, she could have spent the next year sitting in this garden with all the questions she had but as they went to stand, something came to the forefront of her mind. “When we were out last night, I heard noises in the side street just before the voices. What caused them?”

  “Black horsemen. They are the physical manifestation of the enemy in this plane after dark. You will not often see them but when you do run, if you can. They are tasked with taking any soul they find out after dark.”

  Emma shivered, “Oh great, because life here isn’t complicated enough.” She took in a deep breath and tried to put all this to one side, aware that they had to be moving on. “What happens now?”

  Father Eamon smiled. “Now we take a walk.”

  “But we’ll be back before dark, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  When they got to the archway, Father Eamon motioned for Emma to go though.

  “After you.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Emma headed on through and heard the creak and clang of the gate as Father Eamon closed it behind him.

  He led her back down the road they had come the previous night. Emma said nothing, instead contenting herself to just look around at the houses that encroached above her, blocking out what little light there was. Their windows were dirty and cracked; giving the appearance of not having been cared for in a long time and the smell of rotting vegetables and human waste was never far away. Emma had to be careful that she didn’t step in anything that wasn’t part of the road, constantly having to move around small puddles and mounds of something that definitely wasn’t mud. All the time she felt like there were eyes on her.

  When they got to the bottom of the street, Father Eamon stopped her and pulled her to one side.

  “You are going to start seeing people soon. They will not harm you but be careful what you say to them and never take on face value what they say to you. Not everything is as it seems here.”

  They walked into a wide street. The houses down each side were much larger than the ones they had just passed They were mixed with shops that had long poles leading out from the top floors, finishing with a large square sign indicating their trade. Emma’s ankles told her that the road here was better looked after but it was still pitted and filthy.

  Before long Emma found herself back in the open space that they had been in yesterday when the fog had come in. This time Emma’s view was clear. The Tower of London stood stark against the slate sky behind it, like some huge monolith, as around it the tips of the moat water reflected back the low sunlight in a subdued glitter. She couldn’t make out the detail but the ravens could be heard, just like the previous night except now the gallows were empty.

  “It looks bigger than I remember.”

  “The White Tower? That is because there are fewer buildings to hide it and fewer buildings to dwarf it.”

  Emma looked at Father Eamon. “What’s the white tower?”

  “The White Tower is the Tower of London. ‘Tis the central keep, the original tower. Everything else was built around it.”

  Beyond this was a wall that rose up to half the height of the White Tower. Its ramparts filled Emma’s horizon as it disappeared behind the streets they had just exited.

  “That is the old London Wall. Beyond it is a moat that extends from here to Blackfriars in the west. It goes in a semicircle around the north of the city and represents the boundary of our world.”

  Emma was completely disorientated. It felt like she was walking through the pages of a history book. Large timber framed houses on either side of the road had chimneys which stood idle and crumbling, their regular silhouettes broken by the gaps where pieces had fallen away. The windows were cleaner than the ones in the side street, the leaded glass on the upper floors reflecting the dim sunlight, which had managed to struggle through the houses on the opposite side of the street. Immediately in front of the ground floor, a deep shadow hung below the overhanging higher stories. Emma saw that the signs that jutted out from the tops of the houses were split and some of them hung loosely where the chains holding them up had snapped on one side. Some of the signs had pictures of cutlery, food or items of clothing on them but for the most part they were faded beyond recognition.

  They turned and walked west along the main road.

  “This is Tower Street. Remember it. You will need to familiarise yourself with the streets of both this and the other realms you find yourself in.”

  “Why? You’re going to be with me right?”

  “During your training yes, but there will come a time when you will need to work on your own. I can observe from a distance as will others but I can’t help you with your trial, Emma. That has to be all your own work.”

  There was a sinking feeling in Emma’s stomach as she considered the prospect of having to navigate this world on her own. How was she going to cope without him? The question raised anxieties, which she struggled to suppress; instead she concentrated on her surroundings, trying to push all thoughts of Father Eamon’s future absence out of her mind.

  The road was now a lot wider and Emma got a clearer view of the sky. Where the sun sat low on the horizon, deep hues of red and orange streaked upwards and disappeared into the low clouds.

  Emma’s attention was caught by the slightest of movements to her left. A ragged curtain closed almost as soon as she moved her head. Now, as she looked, she saw a door slightly ajar, a face peering round, again the face disappeared as soon as she looked in its direction.

  Suddenly she was aware of other curtains and other doors. They were walking in the centre of the road and she started to feel very exposed. Emma started to feel her breathe come in shorter gasps and the backs of her hands were becoming clammy.

  “You have no reason to be nervous, Emma. They have been watching us since we left the sanctuary.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They are the people we spoke about, fallen initiates, who have become trapped here.”

  As Emma watched, doors started to open and people began to spill out on to the road from houses and side streets. Almost as soon as they did, they stopped and looked around. Emma couldn’t understand what was happening, it was as if they had lost interest in her and were now just looking at each other. Some were raising arms, others were backing away but amongst all of this, it became obvious to Emma that they were heading towards the two of them.

  “Why are they behaving so strangely?”

  “They do not have contact with each other unless an initiate or guide is nearby. This world is empty of everything but them. They live a life condemned to perpetual hunger and loneliness, yet when we are around, our energy draws them to us. ‘Tis the only time that they can converse.”

  There were men in torn ruffs and cloaks, with tights that hung loosely off their legs and women with ripped skirts billowing out from whalebone corsets wrapped tightly around their impossibly thin waists. The dresses were beautiful once but no longer, the ravages of times had taken their toll and the torn white sleeves were a filthy and ripped shadow of their former glory.

  They were getting closer; a mass of haunted faces all focusing on Emma and Father Eamon. Slowly this wretched mass started to form a semicircle. One woman separated from the crowd as it slowed down, suddenly uncertain what to do, and approached them. She was tall and wore a dirty yellow dress that dragged along the ground as her eyes moved nervously left and right before settling on Emma.

  Emma took a step back as the woman approached her. Her eyes now staring unwaveringly into Emma’s face. Emma turned away, unable to hold the look. Just when she thought she would wilt under the attention, the woman turned to face Father Eamon.

  “Father Eamon, it has been so long since we have seen you here and now that you have returned, I see you have brought a new friend.”

  “It has indeed been a long time since I was last here, Elizabeth, and yes I have with me an initiate.”

  “May I
be allowed to know her name?”

  “I see no reason why not. Her name is…that’s close enough, do not crowd round.”

  Emma watched as the approaching crowd, by now a little braver and closer, stopped in their tracks. Father Eamon’s words seemed to have the force of law here.

  “As I was saying, Elizabeth, her name is Emma.”

  “Emma, that is such a lovely name. Emma, my name is Elizabeth. How do you do?”

  The woman extended her hand and Emma shook it. It was cold and dry and it was all Emma could do not to recoil at the feel of it.

  “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”

  As she looked into the eyes of this woman and the people around her, she could see fear tinted with curiosity and something else that she couldn’t quite make out. The woman had turned her attention back to Father Eamon but the people were all looking at Emma and talking feverishly amongst themselves.

  “Where have you been for so long? It must be, oh I don’t know, time has no meaning here but…how long has it been since you were here last?”

  “It has been two hundred and thirty three years since I was last here, Elizabeth.”

  “Oh.” The woman went quiet, “Has it been that long?”

  Emma was looking at Father Eamon. The man in front of her looked to be in his mid-forties but if what he said was correct, then he had to be centuries old. He caught her glance and looked back to the crowd.

  “Elizabeth, we can not stay here. Emma has many things to learn and, I’m guessing, questions to ask after my answer to you but I’m sure we will be seeing more of each other. Emma, let us walk.”

  The crowd parted and they walked through, carrying on further up the street. Emma could hear people following but they kept their distance.

  “You have questions, Emma.”

  Emma thought for a second before asking, “How do you know that woman?”

  “Elizabeth was an initiate when I was here a long time ago. She spent too long back in her old world, pining for things that could never be and she never managed to complete her trial.”

  For a second Emma thought she could detect a tinge of regret in Father Eamon’s voice.

  “Were you her guide?”

  “No, that was someone else but that isn’t the question you really wish to ask is it, Emma.”

  Emma struggled to find the words. She had always been told not to ask such questions, as they were extremely rude but now she had a burning curiosity inside her that overtook any inhibitions she might have had.

  “It’s just that…Oh…erm…Oh god I hope you’re not offended by me asking this but just how old are you?”

  Father Eamon stopped and Emma froze, unsure how he would react, but as he faced her there was a wry smile on his face.

  “I was born in 1660 and died in 1704.”

  “Wow, I mean you’ve been doing this a while then.” She cringed as she said it, wishing she could have come up with something less crass but Father Eamon just laughed, a sparkle coming to his eyes.

  “Yes, I guess I have. You tend to lose track of time after a while and speaking of time we should carry on or we will be late back.”

  They continued along Thames Street and talked, Emma asking questions whilst the entire time keeping one eye on the windows of the houses they passed, watching for the reflections of the people following.

  Eventually the road split in two around a church and they took the left fork. In the corner of her right eye, Emma saw a fleeting shadow that was gone as soon as it was there. An old man moved between the headstones, stumbling as he negotiated the raised, uneven ground. He was hard to see in the shadows thrown up by the church behind him but he appeared to be following them. Emma looked away and concentrated instead on the street ahead.

  All this time she was aware of people watching them. Some watched from windows whilst others were braver and watched from doorways or stepped into the street to get a better look. The crowd that had gathered when they first walked into Tower Street had now dispersed with the exception of a few curious stragglers.

  There was something else, but Emma couldn’t put her finger on it until they reached a crossroads, where she saw people coming out from behind the houses they had walked between and running across the road ahead of them. They were, Emma realised, running ahead to tell people of the new arrivals. It would appear, Emma thought, that even in this world the rumour mill worked fast.

  “This is New Fish Street, Emma, and across the way is Eastcheap. New Fish Street is the main road heading north. It leads directly off London Bridge. Should you ever get lost then look for this road. You can find your way back from here.”

  Emma looked to her left but couldn’t see any bridge. The road carried on down to a church on the left hand side and finished at a gateway, through which she could see two rows of shops crowding the street. They crossed and headed down Eastcheap. Ahead of her the massive silhouette of St Paul’s towered over everything around it and Emma felt her stomach churn. They started along Candlewick Street as the side streets started to come alive with people, all coming to see what the fuss was. Emma could hear muffled whispers, gasps and words spoken under the breath of people whose curiosity had now got the better of them.

  “It is him! He has returned! It has been so long.” The words were spoken in a hushed awe and once again, there was an intangible quality that she had sensed earlier but couldn’t quite get a grip on.

  “Look at the woman with him. Is that? No it can’t be. She perished. The stories tell us that.”

  The voices were uncertain now and the words stopped as people crowded along the pavements to watch them walk along. All the windows were open and those that couldn’t get a space looking out climbed onto the roofs and sat there. Emma dared not look anywhere but straight ahead, stunned at the reaction her presence caused.

  “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.