Isabella's Heiress

by N. P. Griffiths

  Emma tugged viciously at the bars but it did not make any difference. They may have been ancient but they were built well and showed no signs of giving way. Finally, through sheer frustration, she collapsed to the floor. She stayed there whilst she caught her breath, trying to work out how to move forward.

  Not knowing what else to do, Emma continued with this course of action until she was too exhausted to do anymore. If the grate couldn’t be made to move she reasoned, then she would need to attack the problem from a different angle. This thought filled her with a renewed vigour and she headed back towards the light. She ran her hands along the bottom of the grate, feeling for any gap or weakness she could exploit. At first it looked like this was as hopeless as pulling at the bars but when she ran her thumbnail along the mortar holding the grate in place, she felt little pieces crumbling away. It was a small victory but Emma felt a surge of optimism inside her. She repeated the process and more mortar fell away but it was only a few flakes and the grates surround was the better part of eight feet. Emma reached into her pocket for the key she had used to get into the passage. Scraping it along the bottom, it scored the mortar causing more to drop away. Emma forced the key further in, all the time making slow progress. At first she was scared she would be heard but any noise the keys scraping might have made was drowned out by the low hum of activity coming from the cavernous chamber on the other side.

  Eventually Emma realised she would need something larger which she could get more leverage with, particularly as the key was now starting to smooth off and would soon be useless for anything except rounding off the groove she had created under the grate. Emma could see that the bottom of it was now fully exposed and it wouldn’t be long until she had worked her way through but she would still have to deal with the other sides. With that in mind Emma continued with the key until it was completely useless. By then she had managed to force enough mortar out to get her fingers underneath and pull at the grate. There was a slight give but nothing more.

  Emma fell back, grimy and breathing hard. Her fingers were cut and stung from where her sweat mixed with the blood. She sat down, away from the heat. The key was still just about usable but wouldn’t be for much longer. She looked around for a replacement but there was nothing. Emma started to despair. She had been there for hours and whilst she had hit on a way to get through the grate, she might as well have been holding a toothpick for all the good the key was going. At this thought, a smile crossed her face. She got up and headed back towards the start of the tunnel. It was slow progress, her footing less sure now she was tired, but eventually she made it to the door and immediately started to pad her hands up and down the inside, careful to avoid splinters, until she found what she was looking for. As the wood had got rotten over time, it had started to split. This allowed Emma to pull off large stakes from the once smooth door.

  After she had got an armful, she made her way carefully back to the grate before placing them on the floor, careful not to make any noise. Emma fashioned a crude chisel by holding a batch of splinters with the thick ends used to work the mortar. She went to work on the left hand side of the grate. The mortar was stubborn but years of condensation had taken its toll and Emma started to make progress as dry cement fell away to reveal rotten honeycomb. Emma started on the other side to find the effect was the same, initial resistance followed by free falling mortar.

  Emma hadn’t taken any breaks since she had restarted. Now she felt the burn of exhaustion and stood back. She could see the progress she had made, the mortar having disappeared at the bottom and nearly gone from the sides. For the first time she worried about how she was going to remove the grate without dropping it. It was at eye level and looked heavy. Sitting back on her haunches and mopping sweat from her brow, Emma thought through different scenarios as to how she could remove the grate but they all seemed to end up with the grate either crashing to the floor or clattering on to her.

  Eventually she settled with forcing her body against the wall, hoping it would have the effect of acting like a break as the grate came away. Emma stood up, shook the cramp from her legs and approached the grate. Grabbing hold of the middle bars, she pulled hard. Nothing happened. She did it again, this time holding onto the bottom. Emma repeated the process time and again until she felt the mortars grip start to fail. As she continued the mortar running along the top gave way with a mild snapping noise and a jagged hairline crack spread instantly along its entire length.

  Emma heard a shuffling noise come from just the other side. She froze and waited for what would happen next. She could barely breath; terrified the noise of her effort would carry.

  A shadow spread out along the floor, followed by a hooded figure that shuffled slowly into view. It turned into the alcove, pausing by a table under the staircase. The staircase had the effect of throwing everything under it into a deep shadow. Emma could hear the metallic clash of metal on metal but couldn’t see what was happening. She watched as the figure leant over the table, picking up long, dark instruments before putting them back down. Sweat was building up on Emma’s brow and was now tickling her eyelids. She daren’t move so had to settle for leaning her head forward and hoping that the salty droplets would succumb to gravity and fall to earth.

  When she looked back up, she saw that the monk now had an armful of sharp objects from the table. He was turning away and heading out of the alcove. As Emma watched the monk depart, there was a splashing noise at her feet. Appalled, she looked down to see a chunk of mortar sitting in a small pool of water. She looked up to where it had fallen away from the top of the grate and saw a near-hexagonal hole where it used to be.

  The monk had heard it as well. It had frozen to the spot as the sound echoed through the alcove. Emma prayed it would move on but her heart sunk as its head slowly turned around. It seemed to be listening. Slowly it headed back to the table where it dropped everything back down onto its top with a resounding crash that seemed to Emma to go on forever. The monk turned towards the grate and headed in her direction. Emma had to watch its slow progress knowing she couldn’t run or hide because the grate was now loose and would fall if she let it go. Thankfully all she had to do was just lean against it to hold it in place. There was no weight on her arms, which was just as well as she had now been standing in the same position for the last five minutes and cramp was starting to set in. Emma flexed her arms and fingers hoping to stave it off, all the time watching as the monk drew closer.

  It seemed to be sniffing the air as it went, its cowl shifting slightly as the head inside moved left and right then up and down. Emma started to get a better view of the monk as it drew closer. Its habit was frayed and dirty and the sandals it wore did little to protect its gnarled and calloused feet. It extended its arms and started to feel its way around the brickwork. Emma was confused, why didn’t it just go straight for the grate? All she could see was the monk’s feet; they shuffled left and right as it scraped and prodded the wall. Emma couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t scratch the itch that had developed on the end of her nose.

  The monk was working his way down the wall and even though Emma couldn’t work out what it was doing, she could tell by the way its body was starting to bend at the waist; it wouldn’t be long before it found the grate. It happened sooner than she thought. As the monk moved its feet, a toe caught one of the bars. It stopped for a second, before crouching down and frantically started slapping the wall. It was grunting and snarling, making enough noise that Emma was able to carefully place her feet against the opposite wall to allow her to resist should the monk try to force the grate.

  Its hands found the grate and Emma’s pulse quickened, her breath becoming shorter. She bit her lip hard, forcing herself to control her breathing. As it felt the rough circumference of the bars, Emma got her first close look at a black monk. The first thing she noticed was whilst that it was nominally a he, it had long since stopped having any human traits about it. She immediately understood why he hadn’t gone s
traight for the grate. Its eyes were closed, the lids sewn together with course, uneven stitching. They were set in an old, emaciated face and as Emma looked closer, she could see the eye lids were like two pieces of old leather sewn together but instead of a smooth globe for them to run over, they were covering empty sockets. The monk’s nose seemed to have taken up the mantel of the lost eyes.

  Emma wanted to turn away as the monks face came closer to the grate but she forced herself to watch. They were face to face now and the monk was sniffing as if it knew something wasn’t right but the smell of Emma’s fear was disguised by its own odour. Emma had to stop herself from gagging as the habits sleeves fell free of the extended arms, which were thin and covered in lesions and welts. The flesh was torn in places but there was no bleeding, just offensive smells that only increased Emma’s overwhelming urge to retch. The monk face came closer to the grate; until its nose was nearly touching it. Emma could make out the spittle on its chin and the fetid breath burning a path to her as rakish fingers made their way through the bars. The monk’s movements were slow now, curious at the new discovery. It inched towards her face, its cracked, uneven fingernails feeling the air in front of her. Just as she thought it would discover her, the fingers curled around the bars and the monk started to pull violently, grunting and squealing with exertion. When it was convinced that the bars were solidly in place, it started to push. Emma saw this coming and braced herself; she looked down and clenched her teeth but not before she risked sliding her hands onto two of the bars. The monk pushed but was at a disadvantage. It was crouched and couldn’t get any leverage, so changed its grip but Emma was able to deny it each time it pushed, until it finally gave up, its interest and energy spent. The black monk straightened up, shuffled back over to the table, picked up its tools and left the alcove.

  For the first time since the mortar had fallen, Emma allowed herself to breathe properly. Her chest burned from the shallow breaths she had been taking in and gratefully accepted the lungful of warm air.

  Emma waited to ensure the monk was gone before daring to move. Her legs had seized up and she had to force her heals backward to stretch out her calf’s before she could get them to respond. Slowly she managed to get into a fully standing position but not before her knees and elbows had cracked in protest.

  Through all of this, her weight had stayed behind the bars and her hands were suffering but she couldn’t move them just yet lest the grate fall and all her good work be undone. Eventually she found herself in the position she had been in when she was scraping away the mortar. The grate was now completely loose and ready to come out. Knowing that she couldn’t stay like this forever, she pushed her body against the wall and placed her right hand in the centre of the grate, freeing up the left to flex. The relief was matched only by the encroaching stiffness in her legs, which she wouldn’t be able to shake until she was walking again. Emma repeated the process with her right hand and then steeled herself for taking the weight. Slowly she pulled at the bars and was surprised at how easily they came free from the wall, the monk’s assault having cleared any vestiges of resistance.

  The grate was wide but it only consisted of four vertical bars if you didn’t include the ones that made up the sides and, as Emma now realised, they were hollow, meaning that they were lighter than she had thought. As she pulled, mortar fell away, bouncing off the wall like charcoal brickets poured onto a barbecue. Every one that hit the ground was like a clap of thunder going off in Emma’s head but no one was rushing to see what was creating all this noise.

  Finally the grate came free and Emma braced her arms before pulling it clear. It dropped to her chest as it left the wall and Emma winced but where she was flush to the brickwork, it only fell a matter of inches. By slowly stepping back, Emma was able to control its descent until it was on the ground resting lengthways against the wall.

  Emma looked at what was now a gaping hole. Fitting through it wouldn’t be a problem but it was too high to just reach up and pull herself through. She gingerly picked up the grate and wedged it into the wall so that it sat directly below the hole, then used it as a ladder to climb into the alcove beyond. Emma’s knees buckled under a wave of heat. The tunnel, whilst getting uncomfortably warm, had shielded her from the worst of it. Now she could feel her lungs searing with every intake of breath.

  She ducked under the staircase and took in her surroundings. Just past the bench used by the monk was a large stone archway. On the left hand side, an anchor chain hung limply off an eye, coiling up in a rusty pile on the floor. Emma moved to the wall opposite the chain taking comfort in the shadows. The fear she had felt when confronted with the monk was now gone, replaced with a knawing anxiety as a little voice in her head kept telling her to be careful, lest she be seen.

  Emma looked around the corner and stifled a gasp. Where before she thought that the ceiling was out of view, it was in fact so high up it just wasn’t there. Instead she was faced with arches, stairways, bridges and columns, all arranged in a vast, disparate vista. This was a labyrinth of biblical scale, covered in chains, and spikes and lit by braziers and torches. It looked like Emma was in the heart of a mountainside. Her fear faded away to be replaced by a sense of awe at what confronted her. The only thing it was missing was people. The silence was broken only by the sound of Emma’s breathing. She stepped away from the wall for a second forgetting herself.

  “Ooh, what have we here? A visitor no less.”

  Emma felt like her heart had exploded. She threw herself back against the wall, desperate at having been spotted.

  “It’s no good, dear, you’ve been seen.” A second voice, high pitched like the first taunted her.

  “Come out, come out wherever you are!” The voices were in unison and playing with her, daring her to leave the alcove.

  “Don’t worry dear, there’s nobody here but us and we won’t tell, will we Remus?”

  “Oh no, Romulus, who would we tell? No one comes down here to see us do they? I mean it’s not as if we built this place is it?” The voices descended into bickering that seemed to Emma to spread across several different languages. Finally they gave up arguing and everything fell back into silence. Emma sucked in a gulp of air, her lungs complaining for the umpteenth time that day and peered round the corner. She had long since stopped being surprised by what she saw but the site that met her would have been considered strange in any surroundings. In front of her was a plinth on top of which was a large piece of unworked stone with two recesses cut into the top. In the recesses were two stone heads, which looked like they had been cut off the neck of the statues Emma had seen as a child at the British Museum. At first she couldn’t understand where the voices had come from until she realised the two stone carvings were looking at her.

  “Ooh, she’s pretty” Said the one on the left, “A little on the skinny side but pretty”

  Emma was momentarily offended. She’d always prided herself on her figure and, dead or not, wasn’t about to have it insulted by a carved head.

  “Well say something dearey, it’s not as if we’ve got all day” The one on the right chimed in now. Emma guessed they would have been straining to get a better look at her if they’d had necks.

  “What is this place?”

  “What is this place? She says. Dont’cha knows?” The one on the left smiled slightly “This is where all dreams end and nightmares begin”

  “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Romulus.” The one on the right’s eyes swivelled from the other head to Emma “You know what this place is, child, the question is why you are here? No one comes here out of choice.” The last few words were delivered with a seriousness that had been lacking up to then.

  “I’m looking for my friend” Even as she said it, Emma was acutely aware of how feeble she sounded, “She was brought down here and I want to get her out.”

  “Looking for her friend she says. Wants to get her out, she says.”

  “Oh for heavens sake, Romulus, will you shut up! It’
s like this dearey, once you’re here, you don’t leave, at least not back into the world you came from.”

  Emma shifted on her feet and looked nervously around

  “Oh you needn’t worry, dear, nobody comes down here.”

  “But I saw a monk and before that…”

  “Yes, yes, yes but he only comes down once every few days when his tools blunt. We won’t be seeing him for another week.”

  Emma looked at the two stone heads and then turned back to the hall. As she looked around at the giant pillars and aqueducts’, a blast of superheated air hit her and brought her back to her senses.

  “Look, I can’t stay here, I need to find her. Will you help me?”

  The two heads looked at each other then looked at Emma, a smile spreading across Remus’ face.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Looking For Taryn

  Father Eamon sat in the main hall. Word had reached him that Emma and Rodolfo had been seen heading down into the Fleet’s sewers. That meant only one thing. Had he done the right thing? What if he was putting too much faith in her? What if she was captured? He shuddered at the thought.

  All his life, before and after his death, he’d been a maverick. He had driven his tutors to distraction whilst training for the priesthood in France and even when he came back to Ireland, he had drawn the ire of his seniors with his methods, even though they had to admit they had been unusually effective in keeping him hidden from the English. On the occasions when he had come close to being discovered, it had been his guile and cunning that had got him safely away but with that had come an arrogance and disdain for the upper echelons of the church, sitting in their velvet sanctums, largely unmoved by the suffering of the people they claimed to represent. So many times he had had to watch whilst one accommodation was made after another with landowners and foreigners all in the name of the advancement of the church, whilst he and many others like him tried to minister to the people that inevitably suffered as a direct result of these betrayals.