Isabella's Heiress (44 page)

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.

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.

“Whe…where did they go?”

“I expelled them from the realm.”

“You did that?”

“They should have stopped when they were told.”

Emma felt weak as the adrenaline that had kept her going drained away. “What happens now?”

“You ascend, Emma. You passed.”

Emma felt tears roll down her cheek, “Dad?”

“He has ascended, you need not worry, you will see him soon.”

“So how do I, I mean…”

A shaft of light broke through the gloom and illuminated a patch of ice ten feet in front of her.

Sister Ignacia hugged Emma as tears rolled down her eyes, “Just step into the light.”

Emma looked at Father Eamon, not knowing what to say but settled on the only thing she could think of.

“Thank you.”

It seemed so inadequate as it didn't begin to cover how she felt about all the things he had done for her.

He smiled and walked over, wrapping his arms around
her, “'Tis nothing. It was all your own work; I merely guided you.”

He led her to the illuminated patch of ice before stepping to one side and slowly, Emma felt her heart beat melt away as her senses seemed to give way to a heightened sensation of…everything. As the warmth of the light cloaked her, she felt herself being raised up and lifted away from the ice around her until she felt like she was on the verge of a beautiful sleep

Her final sensation was that of her body being discarded and of her essence being freed, as if after an age she had been unbound. It was ecstasy and fear, knowledge and ignorance, love and an overwhelming sense of acceptance all at once and all flowing into her as wine would flow into a waiting vessel.

It was the most wonderful awareness and, for Emma, it meant that this chapter of her life was over.

Father Eamon walked through the rain. He turned the corner into a piazza illuminated by pools of light escaping from shop windows. He walked past coffee shops and small boutiques; all housed behind gleaming panes of glass and crossed the square as he headed for his destination.

The rain fell hard, creating tiny starbursts as the drops hit the ground. Had anybody been around and paid close attention, they would have noticed the rain slow ever so slightly around a small area where he would pass but there was no one, everybody having gone home, evacuating the city for the home counties.

The rain eased off and a gentle silence took hold, broken only by the whip-crack of canopies in the wind. On the other side of the square was a narrow alley, rubbish strewn across one side of the pavement, evidence of where the storm had emptied a bag of garbage placed outside a shop ready for collection. As he got closer, Father Eamon could hear a voice coming from somewhere beyond the alleys entrance. A wry smile crossed his mouth, not reaching his eyes.

A man was standing screaming in to the air. “What the fuck is going on! Where the fuck am I?” He was looking down at a body that was oozing blood in to the gutter. The
red and green jacket it had on was a dead ringer for the one he was wearing. As he stepped in to a streak of neon, given off by one of the few working street lights, the pock marks on his face seemed deeper as they were cast into shadow.

Father Eamon kept out of sight, observing from a distance. He had asked for this particular job personally when he had heard a guide was required, much to the surprised looks of those around him. When he had seen enough, he walked towards the man, watching as he screamed and swore, all the time waiting for him to look up and notice him.

When the man finally did look up, Father Eamon was almost on top of him. Following his initial shock, the man regained his composure

“What the fuck is going on? Who the fuck are you!”

Father Eamon smiled at him, remembering the last time he had seen him in a dark, wet alleyway.

“Why don't we take a walk?”