Isabella's Heiress (38 page)

In front of her stood five men, each hooded with a noose around their necks. The smell of pitch hung in the air and Emma had to watch her step, as the floor beneath her feet was sticky.

The scene in front of her caused Emma to pause. At the end of the scaffold was the tip of a ladder that led down to the crowd below.

She picked Taryn up but something caught her eye. By her feet Emma saw a large wooden bucket full of what was unmistakably tar. Her heart sunk as she made the connection between that and the men in front of her.

Dropping Taryn, Emma forced one of the buckets back against the door just in time for it to stop the monk she had seen seconds earlier forcing the door open.

The yells and screams in the corridor behind her increased as Emma raced up to the first man and unhooded him before removing his noose and binds.

“Quickly, before they get through the door!”

The man looked at the door and then at Emma. If he recognised the woman standing in front of him, he gave no hint.

“Thank you, miss.”

“Don't thank me, just help me.” By now Emma was on to the second man. All the time she had an eye on the door and the bucket of tar was stubbornly holding fast.

Within a minute all five men were free and heading towards the ladder. At that moment the door behind them burst open but this caused the bucket of tar to spill
out over the scaffold and the monks who came through found themselves stuck fast. Emma took the opportunity to pick Taryn back up and raced to the ladder. The last man was heading down and Emma did not wait around. She turned and stepped on to the first rung. By now the monks had managed to get past the tar and were rapidly gaining on them.

The crowd was now looking up and arms were being raised with outstretched fingers as voices were alerting those that hadn't yet become aware of her presence on the scaffold. For a second Emma froze but there was no time to stop, she headed down the ladder trying to balance Taryn as she went.

The sounds of hooves on the cobbles made her look down. Horsemen were trying to work their way through the crowd but now the sheer weight of numbers worked against them. There was nowhere for the people to go and all that the horsemen succeeded in doing was forcing the crowd to become more and more compact until it became impossible for them to make any progress. The riders dismounted and swung their maces as they made a path towards Emma. People fell to one side as panic set in and they tried to escape the spiked balls.

By the time Emma reached the ground, any interest the crowd had had in her was lost in their haste to escape the horsemen. Above her the first monk was starting its descent of the ladder. Emma grabbed the lower rungs and pulled the ladder backwards and sideways. The ladder was only precariously balanced against the scaffolding and came away immediately. As it came crashing down, a screaming monk closely followed it. It landed with a sickening crack and Emma winced as its head opened up on the cobbles.

She turned and headed away from the scaffolding but
confusion reigned and she had no idea where to run. A horseman was less than ten feet away and his stare was fixed on Emma. With each swing of his mace, half a dozen people were swept aside in a mist of red. Those that couldn't get out of the way desperately tried to duck as the spiked ball and chain swept through its deadly arc.

Emma stood transfixed. She looked around for somewhere to set Taryn down. She was becoming progressively heavier as time went by and Emma knew she had no hope of carrying her much further. She backed away from the rider until a small gap in the crowd revealed itself and she darted through it. A roar behind her indicated the anger of the rider at having lost his prey but it was only a temporary respite as another appeared in the periphery of her vision. Emma felt herself buffeted around like a ship in a force ten gale but eventually she managed to make it to the other side of the Old Bailey and slipped into a narrow alley.

Emma placed Taryn down on the cobbled road and looked up. She had no idea what to do next. All her thoughts and efforts had been concentrated on getting Taryn out. Now that she was out, Emma was completely lost as to what to do. She stuck her head out into the crowd and found herself looking up at two heavily booted feet. Her right hand tightened round a loose cobble but as she prepared to strike, she felt a wave of relief as she found herself looking into the sharp blue eyes of Father Eamon. He had a staff in one hand and wore a heavy three quarter length jacket along with a stovepipe hat to merge with the crowd. His eyes flicked left and right and as Emma was about to say something he pushed her back into the alley.

“We can only rely on this crowd for so long. We must move now if we are to make good our escape.”

Emma went to reply but Father Eamon raised a finger
to his lips and moved past her to where Taryn was lying. He knelt down and lifted her head back. Emma's breathe caught in the back of her throat as she saw the face that was hidden under the cascading hair. It was no longer ancient but youthful and the lank white hair had been replaced by a dirty blonde mass.

“What's happening?” Emma's eyes were fixed on Taryn's rejuvenated form.

Sobs wracked her chest as she looked at her old friend. The years had fallen away and she was her old self. Emma went to embrace her but Father Eamon raised a hand to stop her. A light appeared at the far end of the alley and rapidly got brighter until it swallowed up every shop and dwelling. Emma covered her eyes and squinted until she could just make out the faint, shimmering outlines of Father Eamon and Taryn. He was lifting her off the ground and they were turning towards the light. Emma wanted to reach out to Taryn to say how much she loved her but it was impossible to move. Slowly they headed away from her until they were barely visible but at that moment, Taryn turned and smiled at Emma.

The light disappeared but a warm wind stroked her face and for a second Emma thought she heard Taryn's voice. She couldn't be sure but she thought she could make out two words.

Thank you.

As the warmth disappeared with the light, Emma broke down in tears as the loss of Taryn hit her for a third time but now they were tears to relief and joy. She didn't care what might happen to her now. All that mattered was that she had found her. Father Eamon embraced Emma and she fell forward into his chest, his jacket soaking up her tears.

“She is in a far better place now, thanks to you.”

“I know, I know.” It was all Emma could manage as she struggled to catch her breathe.

Father Eamon gently lifted her to her feet and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Whatever happens next, make sure you do not leave my side.”

It seemed like a strange thing for him to say but as they walked out of the alley, Emma understood what he meant. The crowds had disappeared and were now replaced by two rows of people. On one side were Emma, Father Eamon and a Praetorian Guard of guides. On the other were a crowd of monks and horsemen; each holding a flaming torch that stretched the length of Newgate Gaol. They were straining at the leash and Emma wondered why they didn't just charge the guides, who were few and wouldn't last five seconds.

Then she saw why they were holding back. A tall man with white hair came through the centre rank and walked towards them. His skin was sallow and stretched, malice exuding from every pore.

“Father Eamon, it has been a long time. Tell me are the Council still as sanctimonious as ever?”

“Grainger. Why don't you ask them yourself? I'm sure they would love to see you.”

“Hmm. That pleasure will come soon enough but on my terms, I think.”

Grainger turned his attention towards Emma and his forced conviviality turned to icy contempt. “You have broken the rules of the plane and forfeited your soul. You will come with me.”

At this Father Eamon smiled, “You think so? Show me where there was ever an agreement saying that it was forbidden for anybody to break into Newgate and release a soul. None has ever been agreed.”

Grainger growled at Father Eamon and stepped towards
Emma but a guide blocked his way. The guide's hood dropped to expose raven black hair that fell to the shoulder.

Grainger's eyes narrowed and a thin, reed-like, smile split his face, “Ah, the Spanish whore. I hear they start them early in Jerez. Tell me, when you moaned as your cunny was being filled, time and time again; was it through pleasure or pain?”

Sister Ignacia's eyes flared and she lunged forward only for Father Eamon to block her path.

“I am Ignacia De-La-Renta De-La-Cruz! I have lived my life honourably and at nobody's behest but my own! You know nothing of honour! How many have died at the altar of your honour? You are a tirano nothing more. For all your words and all your gestures, you are just their mouthpiece.”

“Maybe,” goaded Grainger as his eyes looked her up and down, “but better a mouthpiece than a slut.”

“I would rather be a whore, than a hypocrite!” Sister Ignacia struggled to free herself from Father Eamon's grasp as her words were drowned out by Grainger's high-pitched laughter.

“We have a place waiting for you, Ignacia. You'll be of great service mark my words. Your juices will be especially sweet!”

Sister Ignacia's eyes narrowed as she placed her arm under her cloak. Behind Grainger, two of the horsemen rode out in front of the monks.

“Come, child, there is nothing you can do to hurt me.” Grainger shot Sister Ignacia a contemptuous look. “Now give me the bitch.”

Sister Ignacia threw her cloak to one side and sheathed an arrow to a slender white bow. She raised it up in the air as the guide to her left lifted his torch to the arrows tip,
lighting the oil that it had been dipped in, before it flew high in the air and descended in a lazy arc over Newgate Street.

All the while it was in the air, it had the undivided attention of everybody in the road but as it descended into nothingness, a sharp cackle erupted from Grainger.

“Well, where's the cavalry? There are no angels to come to your aid now, Eamon. What else have you got? I will take your so-called saviour now.”

Grainger beckoned to the monks and horsemen behind him and they shot forward, finally off the leash. The guides braced themselves for the onslaught but as they raised their staffs and swords, a roar filled the air and a trembling shook the cobbles. It was different from that which Emma had heard in the gaol. This was immediate and nearby. The monks and horsemen stopped in their tracks and looked around trying to find the source of the noise. Grainger suddenly looked uncertain as the rumbling took on an earth shaking intensity.

The guides though, didn't seem in the slightest bit confused. If anything they seemed reassured as they slowly sunk back into the alleyway, forming a protective circle around Father Eamon and Emma. Emma looked around as faces, stern and determined, looked out at the forces arrayed in front of them.

The dark horses were panicking now and were bridling against their riders. Some started bucking and threw the horsemen off their back. This caused the monks to fall back in disarray.

“You ask what I have, Grainger? I may not have angels but I have something almost as effective.” Father Eamon had to roar over the noise coming from his left.

Grainger looked to his right and a look of appalled
dismay crossed his face. “This is not over; I will have vengeance for this!”

It was all he managed to say before he was swept away by a tidal wave of livestock led by the low horns and long red hair of the Highland cattle. The guides were safe in the alley but for the horsemen and monks there was no escape as they backed themselves up against the flat walls of Newgate Gaol only to find that there were no recesses to hide in. One by one, they were picked off until eventually all that was left were a few scraps of torn cloth and thrown horse shoes. It took an hour for the torrent to slow to a trickle but by then the Old Bailey was empty except for the six people walking over from Newgate Street.

“Father Henry, you did well.”

“Thank you but the plaudits go to Drystan.”

The granite-chested Welshman sucked in air and expanded to almost twice his original size. He pushed his shoulders back and let out a roar that split the air. “Knew that would spook them.” A smile wreathed his face as he saw the stunned looks of the guides.

Father Eamon was the only one who seemed to be unfazed by Drystan's exuberance.

“This is not over. They will re-group and Emma has not yet passed her trial. We must ensure that she remains hidden, as they will redouble their efforts to reach her. Everything is out in the open now; there will be no hiding.

“Aithne, you will have to help Emma back to the sanctuary. They will be looking for her so do not rush.”

Sister Ignacia went to protest but Father Eamon silenced her with a sweep of his hand. “I need you at the sanctuary. There may be need of old ways.”

Sister Ignacia looked crestfallen but nodded her head.

“The rest of you must keep your initiates safe. There is no telling what they will do in revenge for this.”

Emma turned to Father Eamon, her hopes rapidly failing as she realised that she may still have to face the halls she had just escaped from regardless of what she had just been through.

“What are you going to do?”

Father Eamon let out a low sigh. “I am going to have to explain all this to the Council.”

As they went to leave, a crackling noise reached Emma's ears. At first she didn't think that much of it but it got louder and then a guide shouted something from the street. His eyes were like saucers and his arm was waiving frantically to the south.

Father Eamon walked out in to the Old Bailey and looked towards where the guide was pointing. As he did so his shoulders fell. One by one, the rest of the group left the alley and as each one turned right, so they saw the orange glow that was starting to fill the horizon.

Emma looked at it and her heart sunk. “Is that what I think it is?”