Isabella's Heiress

by N. P. Griffiths

  Samantha’s hands were shaking as she unfolded the paper. As she started to read, her voice failed. Her father patted her on the hand and she took a deep breath and tried again.

  “Dear dad…”

  The black monk lunged forward in a last ditch bid to stop her, his eyes piercing the back of Samantha’s head with a desperate stare but Father Eamon was ready for it. He grabbed it by the throat and forced it down on its knees.

  “You’ve failed! You’ve tried to stop this but you’ve failed! Now watch as your plans come to nothing.”

  His words were little more than a hiss but they sliced their way through the monk who could only manage a whimper in response. Father Eamon turned his head towards Sam as she continued reading.

  “… I know you blame me for Lisa’s death and there isn’t a day goes by when I don’t think about what I did. If I could turn the clock back or give my life for hers I would do it in a heartbeat.

  “I have tried to speak to you about this and in truth part of me is glad that you blanked me as I don’t know if I would be strong enough to say what I truly feel, so I guess this is my way of telling you.

  “I love you dad, I know it hasn’t been easy for me to say but I do. I hope that some day you can find it in your heart to forgive me for all the pain I have caused. I know that I do not deserve it and I know that it is not my place to ask for it but it tears me up to think that we will never speak again. One day I hope that we will all see Lisa but until then all I can do is hope and pray that you will find it in your heart to speak to me again.

  “I will always love you,

  “Emma.”

  The sound of weeping filled the room as Emma’s mother sat on a chair her hand covering her mouth and Samantha’s uncle covered his eyes in a vain effort to staunch the tears.

  On the bed Samantha’s father managed a small smile as he let go of his last breath and, as it left his mouth, it formed his final word.

  “Emma.”

  Outside, the last of the sun gave way to darkness.

  The black monk struggled to free itself but Father Eamon forced his hand in to its hood. It let out a high pitched scream and fell to the floor writhing, smoke coming from under its robes. Within seconds it had stopped moving and the monk, robes and all, turned to ashes before blowing away on a slight breeze but Father Eamon didn’t see any of this. He was already out of the door and racing down the street.

  Emma rubbed the back of her head in a vein effort to get rid of the throbbing that had settled into her temple. She was sitting with her back to one of the pews, looking at the opposite row that had capitulated during the tremors and was now tilted forward, like carved wooden dominoes, all the way to the pulpit.

  Sister Ignacia was up and about but even she was struggling to shake off the effect. For the last minute or so she had spoken only in Spanish and Emma hadn’t understood a word she said but after a few more seconds of it, she seemed to regain her equilibrium and she turned to Emma.

  “This may buy us some time but we will have to leave here. They know where we are now and will surely be back soon.”

  “But this is a church, they won’t come after us in here will they?”

  “A church is no defence in this realm. I only got us in here to protect us from the fire.”

  Sister Ignacia motioned to Emma to get up and they headed towards the front door. She looked out of the window and after a couple of seconds, slowly opened the door itself. Once she was satisfied, she slipped outside and Emma followed her.

  The scene that met them could not have been more different. The burnt embers of the fire were gone and now there was a cobbled street running north to south. Emma looked up Fish Street Hill but it was empty, there was nobody around, not a single person to be seen, then she looked towards London Bridge.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “They are sheltering from the night.”

  Emma felt a shiver race down her back and her eyes started to dart around.

  “Quickly, we need to head to the bridge.”

  Emma followed Sister Ignacia as she headed south. The shops on either side of the road were elegant flat fronted buildings with signs hanging over a metre in front of them from poles suspended from the first floor telling passing custom what they sold. They were pretty to look at but afforded no cover whatsoever.

  After a couple of seconds Sister Ignacia disappeared to her left. As Emma caught up she saw that a piazza with a covered walkway carried on down to a hanging bridge that stretched across the street. It looks like the bridge of sighs, Emma thought to herself, grateful for the brief lull that the cover gave her nerves. Before too long though it was over as the piazza came to an end and they found themselves back on the cobbles, desperately looking for any kind of cover but finding only shallow doorways.

  The throbbing was returning to Emma’s ribs. In all that had happened, she had forgotten about the injury she had sustained getting through the tunnel but now, as things started to quieten down, it returned to remind her it was there. Every step felt like somebody was thrusting a knife between her ribs and it was all she could do not to cry from the pain.

  Sister Ignacia gave Emma a desperate look,“Quiet!” She had thrown herself in to a doorway and Emma froze. Two doors down a curtain twitched and for the briefest of moments, a light shone out into the street. It illuminated the shadow of a horse, half-hidden between two buildings at the southern end of the bridge. Its shoes echoed off the cobbles as it pulled in to the street and Emma held her breath as the rider looked up and down the road before jerking the horse’s reins with his right hand and heading away from them.

  Sister Ignacia watched as the horse and rider disappeared from view. “It can only go as far as the south side of the bridge before it has to come back, which should give us some time.”

  Sister Ignacia set off down the road but Emma was finding the going harder and harder until eventually she had to stop as she caught her breath. Ahead of her Sister Ignacia turned to see that she was now alone. She returned to find Emma buckled over clutching her ribs.

  “Emma, I know it hurts but we must move. We cannot be found out here.”

  “I understand that but where are we going.”

  “The river, it is still frozen. If we can get onto it, then the dark horsemen will not be able to reach us and the black monks will be at the same disadvantage as we are.”

  They passed under the walkway that Emma had thought looked like the Bridge of Sighs and as they did so; she caught a glimpse of another one a few metres down and then another one after that. The dark was slowly giving up its secrets. Each walkway was a storey high and had three sash windows set in ornately carved frames that had cherubs and seraphim’s on each corner.

  “When do we get on the bridge?”

  “We are on it. We have been on it since we left the church.”

  Emma looked back to the church. The elegant porticoes along the front of the piazza and smart shop fronts gave no hint that they were above the Thames. In the distance, a horse could be heard turning around.

  “Emma, there is a chapel halfway down the bridge. If we can reach it then we can get down on to the river but we need to hurry.”

  Sister Ignacia supported Emma as they moved along the bridge. Above them shop signs creaked gently as they swung left and right, their rusted chains grating as the links scraped against each other. Some showed the sign of the cobbler’s boot, while others showed pawnbrokers balls but all looked like they had suffered years of neglect. The elegant wood frames were splintered and the shops they advertised hadn’t fared much better as leaded windows hung loosely on their hinges with little diamond panes of glass missing from their settings.

  Further down the bridge the clipped sounds of the approaching hooves got steadily louder. The rider was making a slow and deliberate search of all the shops as he went along and it was now a race to see who arrived at the chapel first. Emma, dragging her feet whilst being carried by Sister Ignacia, or the dark rider ta
king his time coming from the other direction.

  “How far?”

  “Not far. It is just beyond the next few shops.”

  Emma put every last piece of effort into getting herself upright and forcing the pace as they set off on the last part of the walk. She saw the chapel at the same time as the rider, who at that moment chose to look up.

  Emma felt Sister Ignacia’s arms tighten as she dragged her forward. The rider urged his horse on and its gentle clipping increased from a trot to a full-blown gallop, the sounds of its snorting echoing along the bridge as the rider grabbed his mace in his right hand and started to spin the ball and chain until it was a blur.

  The chapel was in sight. It was framed by two octagonal towers that fronted a building that stretched out over the east side of the bridge finishing in a semi-circle sixty feet out from the bridges edge. Its battlements combined with a narrow spire that finished off the roof, giving it the look of a huge guardhouse. The only thing that gave it away as a church was the ornate stained glass window that ran the entire length of the building.

  The dark horseman was closing fast and Sister Ignacia hauled Emma for the last few steps until they reached the church doors.

  Emma watched as Sister Ignacia desperately smashed her whole body against the oak doors. They gave way almost instantly, the rusted hinges no match for the sudden shock that went through them. Another couple of shoves and they collapsed inward clearing the way for them to enter.

  The horseman was on them now and Emma made a desperate lunge for the safety of the chapel. As she threw herself forward, a sharp breeze kissed her neck as the spiked mace narrowly missed her. The sound of a sharp clattering of hooves as the horse came to a sudden stop was followed by the slap of leather against skin as the rider dismounted. Emma got up and, ignoring her side, looked around for Sister Ignacia. She was a few feet further in and was picking herself up off the stone floor after having been winded by the sudden collapse of the doors on to the black and white marble floor. Now she was up and looking left and right.

  “Quickly, the stairs.”

  Sister Ignacia pointed to a stairwell to their right, which led down to another level below them. They shot down the spiral stone steps just as the rider entered the chamber with his sword in one hand and his mace in the other. His breathing was deep and slow and he took his time surveying the scene in front of him. Emma just caught him looking at the stairs as she followed Sister Ignacia down. Behind her the sound of wood shattering told her that the rider was heading their way.

  The stairs led to an empty crypt. To Emma’s right, there was an open doorway. They wasted no time heading through it and down the four stone steps which led onto the wooden starling outside. Sister Ignacia pushed Emma down another set of steps, which led on to the frozen Thames. Ahead of her was a wide ribbon of ice stretching out as far as she could see, into which were set werries, barks and schooners all caught unawares by the sudden freeze, their masts leaning at sharp angles.

  The last of the light was waning over the horizon as Sister Ignacia met her on the ice, whilst shadows given off by the river front buildings slowly increased their grip on the river. They undulated back and forth in a lazy, meandering strip, which wove in and out of the trapped boats as sister Ignacia led Emma away from the bridge.

  Then the strip moved. Gentle Men appeared from behind a schooner and made their way towards Emma, unencumbered by the ice.

  “Emma, the other way. Quickly.”

  They turned to see the rider that had charged them on the bridge emerge from the crypt. He turned to navigate the steps down to the starling but his boots were stiff and they made him slow and unsteady on his feet.

  Emma and sister Ignacia took advantage of this and half-ran, half-slid back towards the bridge. Emma was reminded of when she was a child and had to navigate her way to school in a set of red Wellington boots. She had always worried that she would fall when she had to negotiate a hill just outside of her house. Now, as then, she raised her arms and hoped that they would help her keep her balance.

  As they headed under the bridge, the wooden piles that supported the starling creaked under pressure from the ice and the additional weight of the rider. They were rotten and Emma could see that many of them were bowing outwards. The rider’s position was looking more precarious by the second but he would have made it on to the river had he not lunged at Emma as she passed him. The mace swept down but had no chance of catching her. Instead it crashed into the wooden piles beneath the rider’s feet, causing them to shatter. The additional strain this put on the piles either side was intolerable and a chain reaction started as one by one they exploded outwards and the wooden platform they supported collapsed, taking the rider with it in a shower of wood and ice. The resultant cracking and spray of water told Emma that the rider was no longer a problem. The Gentle Men, though, were another thing altogether. They were a way off but they were closing and it would not be long before they were on them.

  The space under the bridge’s low gothic arch became more confined as they headed further in until Emma was forced to duck under the central rib before exiting out the other side.

  She skidded to a halt. Ahead of her, spread out all along the ice, was a collection of tents and lean-to’s with men and women walking and skating between them. Near the north bank a group of men were trying to retrieve a werry from the ice but were having no luck. Amongst all this, smoke rose from food sellers’ brazes. A frost fair was in full swing.

  Emma and Sister Ignacia slowly moved towards the riverbank, unwilling to get anywhere near all these people but as they worked their way across the ice, St Paul’s chimed for the top of the hour.

  Emma’s heart stopped as she listened to the bells peel out their tome. Every chime felt like a knife to her heart and her chest started to constrict.

  “Emma, we cannot stay here.”

  Almost as soon as Sister Ignacia had said these words, a cry went up from the direction of the fair as people there realised they were on the ice. The bells were chiming for nine o’clock at night and as the first of the hours was marked, a torrent of desperate faces raced towards them. Amongst them were the cloaks of the black monks.

  Emma looked to the bank of the river but knew that it was too far away. The crowd would be on them before they could make it and behind them the Gentle Men were starting to emerge from the low arches of London Bridge.

  “Stay close to me, Emma.”

  Sister Ignacia moved them towards the riverbank so that she could see both of the encroaching parties. Five tolls had peeled out and Emma knew that it was nearly time. She wept silent tears not just for her father, who must surely now be dead, but for herself as well. Soon she would be taken and there would be no more chances and no more hope.

  The screams and cries of the crowd were getting louder as they got closer. The Gentle Men were speeding up and would be on top of them before the last hour tolled. Sister Ignacia placed herself between Emma and her oncoming fate but Emma knew it was no good.

  “Please, I don’t want to see you hurt. You’ve done everything you could.”

  “No! I will not let them take you! These salvaje will not take another innocent soul!”

  Emma groaned, “I’m not innocent, I killed my sister.”

  “It was an accident, Emma. You were young. This is not something you should be punished for!”

  Sister Ignacia pushed Emma back as the Gentle Men approached, but there was nowhere for them to go. They were just about keeping their balance on the ice and running was out of the question.

  The eighth hour tolled and the Gentle Men were nearly on them. Emma started to feel her courage fail her and she turned to run but the crowd was now within twenty feet and they were determined to reach them before the Gentle Men.

  Emma and sister Ignacia were nearly surrounded when a figure raced down onto the river from the south bank and hurtled across the ice as if it was tarmac, not once looking like he was in danger of losing his balance.
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br />   Sister Ignacia looked over and squinted, for a second forgetting about their immediate danger. Her forehead creased as she frowned but then her eyes shot open. She turned to the crowd of people who were falling all over each other in their haste to get to them.

  “It is too late, she had passed, and she can no longer be touched!”

  Emma whirled around. What was she saying, passed, how? Then she saw the figure rapidly closing in from the side. Father Eamon’s shape was now easier to make out. He was closing fast but the Thames was nine hundred feet wide and for all his speed, the Gentle Men were almost within touching distance and he was too far away to stop them reaching her.

  As she thought this, he stopped and raised his arms. A deep cracking noise came from beneath her feet and Emma fell backwards. Sister Ignacia managed to keep her balance but the crowd of people had no chance as a fissure developed in the ice directly beneath them. It rapidly opened and before long had developed into a foot wide crevasse. As people desperately hung onto the sides, a large chunk of ice broke away and rose up out of the water until a wall twenty foot high stood in front of Emma. The screams of people as they slipped over the edge into the water filled the air but they were blocked out when a voice boomed across the ice.

  “SHE CANNOT BE TOUCHED! SHE HAS PASSED HER TRIAL AND ANYBODY WHO INTERFERES WITH HER ASCENSION WILL PAY A MORTAL PRICE!”

  The Gentle Men hesitated but didn’t stop. Sister Ignacia leant forward, ready to engage the closest one but it wasn’t necessary. A roar filled the air and a ferocious wind rose from nowhere as they were sucked back under the arches of London Bridge. Emma’s eardrums felt like they were going to explode as she covered her ears and screwed her eyes shut.

  When she opened them, there was nobody on the river except Father Eamon, Sister Ignacia and the few people that hadn’t fallen under the ice but were still reeling in shock.

  Father Eamon’s face was wreathed in smiles as he walked up to the two women. Emma got to her feet and looked at the scene around her.