Isabella's Heiress (2 page)

A rider galloped through the ranks of the wounded and dead, heading straight for the hilltop. He arrived and threw himself off his horse only to be met by the general's bodyguard. Words were exchanged and the man was allowed to pass. As he got closer, the general could see this man's eyes were like polished stones. At first he put it down to the exhaustion of battle but then he realised it was something else. He closed in on the general before collapsing to the ground less than ten feet away. The general rushed over, not sure he wanted to hear what this man had to say.

“Sire, sire…” the rider tried to get his words out but was so crippled from the day's events that he could not speak.

The general placed a hand on his shoulder. “‘Tis fine. Take a deep breath and give me your news.”

The rider drew breath but could not stop trembling. “She's gone, sire.”

General Romano felt a hand tighten round his heart at these words.

The adjutant slapped the rider across the face. “Speak plainly, man. What do you mean
she's gone
?”

The slap brought the rider around and his eyes cleared enough that he could make himself understood. “The lady Isabella. One minute she was there and then she wasn't. She has been taken from us! It was as if she was taken up in to the clouds. I saw her just hanging in the sky looking up at the sun and she was…she was.” The rider trailed off “She was sleeping.”

General Romano now understood what he had seen in those moments in the darkness. He fought for air before waving off the rider, who for his part looked relieved to be allowed to leave. He turned towards his tent and started to walk back, oblivious to all that was going on around him.

General Romano did not understand what had happened and had no idea what he was going to say to those who had not been here this day but one thing was certain. One thing above all shone through the dirt and rain that clogged the air and the senses.

Isabella Calabria was gone.

Father Eamon Fitzgerald stood on the junction of Seething Lane and Trinity Square. He looked up to see a sky the colour of a dark, angry welt and clouds snarling with discontent as they rolled there way eastwards. Squinting through the mist that now surrounded him, he tried to get his bearings, before turning south and picking up speed. A tingle of foreboding ran though him as he approached Tower Hill. The words he had heard before leaving on this journey were still running through his head.

She is here, now. She has come, the prophesied one.

He thought back to the knock on the door of his rooms and the panicked call from the Council. In all his time serving the Cordoban Council, he had never seen so much apprehension and outright fear. Now, as the grey battlements of the Tower of London slowly loomed out of the mist, he started to listen for proof that he was not the only one here. As he strained to hear anything other than the sounds of his own footsteps the second part of the urgent message came back to him.

They know she is here. They will come for her, we must hurry.

Father Eamon had served a higher power for as long as he could remember, first as an altar boy, before deciding
to take his vows and devoting his life to the service of the church.

That decision had taken him to Paris, where he had attended seminary before heading back to his native Ireland. He had lived through the Battle of the Boyne and the start of the Protestant Ascendancy, avoiding capture, whilst continuing to serve the poor. He would have continued to serve had it not been for the fever that had struck him down three days before his forty fifth birthday. It had cut everything short but, Father Eamon reminded himself, had opened up a new world of opportunity.

Now, as he walked towards an outline of a woman that was slowly breaking through the mist, he ran through everything that had brought him back to a place he had sworn never to return to. He thought back to the last time he had been here. The memories were still raw and he pushed them to the back of his head, reminding himself that he couldn't win every battle, no matter how much he wanted to.

Father Eamon grimaced. After four hundred years, you were bound to have some black marks against you.

Taking a deep breath, he approached the woman in front of him.

Emma Elliot looked up at the low clouds that sent the sunlight skittering across the pavement. She tugged at her feet, willing them to move. For the last ten minutes they had been stuck firmly to the ground beneath her and she had resorted to swearing at them in a vain effort to get them to shift. The mist she found herself in did not make her feel any easier about her current situation.

Emma had no recollection of anything prior to coming
round on the pavement and finding herself cloaked in a blanket of fine, cool drizzle. The mist teased her with tantalizing glimpses of railings and walls before closing back in and returning her solitude. It was also starting to seep through her clothes and skin, numbing her arms.

“Hello, is anyone there?”

Her shouts into the air went unanswered, and Emma fought to stave off the feelings of isolation that threatened to overwhelm her.

Then came the slow sound of clicking behind her.

It was a little way off but the sounds echoed from every unseen surface. Emma froze and for a second couldn't be sure that she had heard it at all but slowly, the noise became more distinct until the clicking filled the air. Emma wanted to turn and run but her legs refused to comply. She shouted into the mist. “Please, is somebody there?”
Oh come on, she thought, there has to be somebody there.

As if in response, the sun dipped behind a cloudbank and the temperature dropped, causing her to shiver as the cold bit deeper into her.

“Oh god, please be the police, please, please, please,” she whispered.

Emma felt the slightest brush on her shoulder as someone walked past her. It was a man, wearing a dark three-quarter length jacket that covered a black jumper and trousers. At just over six foot, he was taller than her and she could see the source of the noise now: a set of shiny black Oxford shoes. His blue eyes, framed by a shock of black hair falling loosely either side, looked out from a lived-in face.

“You need not fear me, Emma,” the man said. “My name is Eamon, I am here to help you.” As he spoke the lines on his face melted away.

Emma had no idea who this man was but his eyes had a
kindness to them that put her at ease. “I can't move.” The words barely made it past her throat.

Father Eamon smiled. “Ah, the thickening, I almost forgot. Well, we can fix that.”

Father Eamon placed a hand firmly on Emma's right shoulder, holding her eyes with his. For her part, Emma felt a warm rushing sensation spread out and envelop her entire body. The numbness disappeared, replaced by a dizziness that took her by surprise. She started to fall, only to find herself being caught and gently lowered to the ground.

“Walk with me, Emma. It will help you get the feeling back into your legs.” The man's voice betrayed a slight brogue as he offered her his hand. Emma accepted and he pulled her up.

“Who are you?” Emma's voice was cracked and weak and it was an effort to form the words.

“That is for some near time. The important thing is that you walk. Tell me, what do you remember of the happenings that brought you here?”

Emma frowned as she heard the question. “What do you mean, happenings?”

A smile slipped across the man's face. “Forgive me, my ways must seem strange to you. I mean to say, do you know why you are here?”

“No.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Of course I know where I am. London….I think.” Emma thought back to the sign she had walked into a short while earlier. It had come out of nowhere, conveniently obscured by the mist. The resulting throb in her left leg had also confirmed that she wasn't in the middle of some bad dream.

Father Eamon's mouth curled up to the right. “That's good. Do you know your name?”

“It's Emma.” She struggled for her surname but found nothing.
God, what's wrong with me?

“Your full name is Emma Elliott and you have been through a deeply traumatic event. It will take time to adjust.”

“Adjust to what? What is this place?”

Father Eamon paused before answering, weighing his words carefully before he spoke. “You have moved to a twilight world, Emma. I am here to guide you.”

Emma looked at Father Eamon, trying to take in what he had just said. She started to back away from him. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Father Eamon nodded. “Of course not, that is understandable. It is not unusual for someone who has been through what you have to wipe it from their memory.”

“Someone who has been through what I have?” Emma knew she was going to regret asking the next question but she didn't see what else she could do. “What have I been through?”

“You were involved in an accident whilst going to work.”

Emma took a step back and nearly fell off the kerb. “I don't remember an accident.”

Father Eamon smiled but Emma could see that something was distracting him.

“Emma, it would be imprudent to stay out here any longer than we need to. There is a place we can go where you will be safe. We can talk there.”

Emma's eyes narrowed. “That's okay, I think I'll stay here.”

“And do what? There is no one else here but us. If you stay here no good will come of it, Emma.”

Emma couldn't be sure but it sounded to her like this man's voice was a little tighter than it had been only a few minutes earlier. He paused for a second before continuing. When he did, there was an added urgency to his words. “Emma, I must show you something which I would rather have saved you from.” He turned to face the road behind her, motioning for her to do the same thing. “Tell me, what do you see behind you?”

Emma turned and looked behind her. “Nothing, just mist.”

“Are you sure? Look again.”

Of course I'm sure,
thought Emma. Just then the mist rolled back to reveal the cab of an old lorry. The lorry was parked at an odd angle with its hazards blinking on and off and Emma could now hear the low rumble of its engine ticking over. A faint flicker of recognition flashed through her mind.

“Now what do you see?”

“A lorry.”
Where did that come from?

“Yes, a lorry. Does it stir any memories?”

Emma struggled to remember, her frustration slowly building. “I can't…I…why can't I remember?”

“You cannot remember because your mind will not let you. You were involved in a collision with that lorry, Emma.”

Emma's eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

The heat from the lorry had caused the mist around it to rise and Father Eamon motioned to a wooden seat set against a park wall. They went and sat down.

“Emma, you stepped off the curb into the path of the lorry. There was nothing the driver could do.”

“Oh, come on, please! The chances of me surviving something like that, let alone walking away unscathed, are
nil!” Any other time, Emma would have left there and then; but a combination of Father Eamon's voice and her own confusion kept her on the bench.

“Emma, you didn't survive. You were killed by the impact.”

Emma went to answer but nothing came. She grappled for the correct response but all she could do was stare blankly at the wall opposite. Eventually she looked up. “You're wrong. If I were dead, I'd have wings or something. I'd be sitting on a cloud playing a harp.”

This brought a low chuckle from Father Eamon. “That's not quite how it works.”

Emma looked up, her eyes widening. “Really, how does it work?”

“We can cover that later. Right now I want you to think about everything that has happened to you. The mist, the thickening, the complete absence of human activity. You know that this is not right; this is not the way things are supposed to be. Look deep inside yourself. Even if you cannot remember anything before this morning, part of you knows that something has happened to account for all of this.”

Part of Emma did know that Father Eamon was right. But to suddenly find out that you were dead, even if you couldn't remember anything about your life, well that wasn't right, was it? Her face hardened.

“This isn't right. There's another explanation for all this!”

Emma got up from the bench and went to walk away. She was sure that if she could just get out of the mist everything would become clearer, but Father Eamon placed a hand gently on her forearm. She looked at him and saw a thin smile cross his lips.

“Emma, you can leave if you so wish I cannot stop you. But I should ask that you walk with me for just a short while longer. Please.”

Father Eamon guided Emma back to the lorry, whilst she in turn looked for something that would prove him wrong. At the back, the rear tyres acted as a full stop to a set of skid marks, which went on for twenty feet. Between them, there was a slick red and brown trail that ran in a smeared line and continued under the lorry. Emma was in no hurry to see where it finished

Father Eamon turned to Emma, the smile now gone from his face. He offered her his arm and Emma nervously accepted it. Immediately, the ground dropped away and her stomach forced itself into her throat. The world started to lose focus as the steel grey clouds gave way to bright daylight.

A wave of nausea washed over Emma. She put her hands on her knees and started to suck in air, her eyes watering as steam rose off her arms and collided with her face. The distant sound of traffic and the subdued murmur of voices met her ears.

A fire engine obscured the lorry's cab as a long black van pulled up to the front. In the distance a police car stopped traffic. Turning around, Emma saw more police blocking off other entrances and junctions; the result was an eerie stillness as the officers milled around exchanging uneasy looks. Watching over all of this was the Tower of London, its ancient edifice standing guard over the new glass and metal temples to finance.

Emma's memory started to return as she took in her surroundings.
This is more like it.
“This is Tower Hill,” she said “I know this place. My office isn't far from here.” She went to walk off but Father Eamon placed a hand on her shoulder.

“‘Tis your office no longer, Emma.”

Emma turned and glared at him. “Let go!”

“This is for your own good, Emma. You could go to your office but no one would see you. You would be a stranger to all that you find.”

“I don't care, I want to go.”

Father Eamon pointed towards the lorry. “Do you recognise the van that has just pulled up?”

Emma looked at it. “It's an undertakers van.”

“It is. You know why it is here, don't you, Emma?”

Emma felt herself deflate at his words and turned back to the lorry. She watched as two men, dressed in black suits, got out of the van and walked up to the police officers standing by the lorry's front bumper. She stayed silent.