Chapter Eighteen

I flirt the night away, ignoring Charles’ glowering looks. He will understand. I have decided that, in the absence of any decent instructions, I will flirt my way into power. It’s a trick as old as the hills; the history books are filled with stories of ancient queens who have flirted and slept their way to the crown. In the end, the final result is more important than the means used to get there.

At breakfast, Hill hands me a card. Charles and I exchange significant looks. It’s plain white and printed on heavy, expensive paper. I flip it over.

Elizabeth,

Go to the village and ask who lives in the house on the hill.

A

“Hill, where’s the village?” I ask as soon as I’ve read the card. I slide it along the table to Charles who reads it quickly before shrugging and returning to his bacon.

“I’ll get someone to drive you there immediately, if you like?” He tells me. I nod.

“What do you make of it?” I whisper in Charles’ ear as I leave.

“Nothing.” He says. Charles has been annoyed since the ball last night. Perhaps he didn’t understand.

I sigh and leave him to his brooding and bacon.

Firth drives me into the village in the car in silence. He drops me off next to the green and says that he will wait by the church until I am ready to leave. I walk over to an old man who stands alone on the green, watching the children playing shrieking with laughter as they play football.

“Who lives up there?” I ask pointing up to the rambling house in the hills.

The old man raises his bushy eyebrows. “The writer.” He says significantly.

Before I can ask the man anymore about the lonely house in the hills, he melts away into the ancient brickwork of the village. Despite its overwhelming sense of foreboding, I am filled with an intense, inescapable desire to visit the mysterious house in the hills. It is lonely and beautiful. I long to live there instead of at my large, busy mansion.

I make my way to the small church and find Firth sitting in the car reading a book.

“Where to, Miss?” He asks as I climb in, snapping his book shut and placing it neatly on the seat next to him.

“The house in the hills.”

Firth raises his ginger eyebrows but doesn’t say anything as he starts the car up and begins the drive deep into the hills.

The roads twist and turn as we delve deeper and deeper into the isolated green hills. Despite their beauty, it seems that no one has lived here for centuries at least. We pass several abandoned and derelict stone buildings as we make our way to the writer’s house. Once upon a time, they must have been home to entire families but today they are abandoned and forlorn. They, like a lot of other things in this world, have long since outlived their purpose. One day, I might be like the houses; abandoned by the few people I love and left to rot by the wayside. No one will care; I will just be another casualty of a war that never was.

As we begin to approach the sprawling house, my heart quickens and jumps into my throat. The house is a hotchpotch of towers and different stones as though it started off as a small house but evolved over the centuries into the sprawl which lies before me today. The copper roof is slightly green with age and uneven. Several shutters hang off the windows after enduring frequent battering’s from the cruel, cold wind. Several ravens soar about the highest tower from which a white sheet is flapping in the wind. Ivy creeps up the side of the marble doorway from which several large dogs burst as the wheels of the car crunch on the gravel driveway. A tall, thin man dressed in dirty overalls walks out of the house behind the dogs holding a pen in his pale hands.

“Who are you?” He demands as I get out of the car, asking Firth to wait for me.

“Elizabeth, Elizabeth Hitches.” I say, walking towards him, the heels of my shoes sinking into the gravel.

His thin, slightly starved face breaks into a wide smile, revealing several coffee-stained teeth. “They told me to expect you.” He says, coming towards me and hugging me as though I am his friend. “Come inside.”

He ushers me into a dark, slightly damp hallway. The dogs, having already sniffed the car, hurry in after him, dispersing to different sofas where they lie, their eyes glinting in the dark. The man leads me into an old sitting room where a large, freshly-brewed pot of coffee and a packet of cigarettes waits.

“Coffee?” He asks, pouring himself a large mug. I nod and he pours me one too. “Sit.” He says, patting a large old-fashioned sofa. I perch on the edge of it. “So, Elizabeth,” He says, sipping his coffee, “What took you so long?”

“Who are you?” I ask bluntly.

He laughs. “Giorgino Allen at your service.”

“Odd name.” I comment from behind my mug of coffee.

“My mother named me after her dead Italian lover,” He explains, “Who was killed by my father. Although, I suspect Giorgino was my father.” He sees my puzzled face. “My mother said he was a poet.” He says as though that explains everything.

“So you’re named after your mother’s dead lover?” I say, screwing my face up as I taste the strong, bitter coffee.

“Sorry,” He says, seeing my face, “Do you want sugar or something? I just have it black so I forget other people don’t.”

“I’m good.” I say, “Why were you expecting me?”

“Because they told me you would come.” He says simply, pouring himself another mug of coffee having already finished the first.

“Who?”

“Occidere, Occidi.”

“They told me to come here.” I say.

“Oh.” He says, staring into the black depths of his coffee. “Well you’re here now.”

“So, why am I here?”

“This.” He says, picking up a piece of old paper.

“What is it?” I ask, looking doubtfully at the aged object.

“Read.” He says simply before picking up a piece of paper and scribbling away with a broken pen.

There was a time when chivalry ruled the world but those times are past. Times have moved on since those rose-tinted years and so must we, as unwilling as we might be. However, times have moved on far too much. In the year 2302, several million people were massacred for nothing more than the fact that they had stood up to the government. Since then, governments everywhere have been plunged into an endless web of tyranny from which man is unable to escape. Sadly, we have evidence that more conflict is to come. However, we believe that there is one person who will be able to rid England of the tyranny of a new government of greedy men. When they come, few shall know that they shall be the one to alleviate them from their suffering but, in time, the world will become aware of their greatness and they will thank them. The path to such power will be long and perilous but they will have the determination, given to them from years of suffering, to see their plan through until the end.

On the eve of the 12^th of September in the year 2543, our saviour shall come into being but, by the time they have reached the age of eleven, they shall have experienced a pain which no one of such a tender age should have to experience. From that moment on, they shall be a changed person, determined to right the wrongs of their painful past. They shall not be, as some people believe, a he but instead, they shall be a she. She shall rise to be far greater than even Cleopatra and Elizabeth I who were both great rulers of old. When she comes, you will know of it because, although she shall come from humble origins, she shall bear the mark of greatness which has been passed down to her by a noble ancestress. The mark of power shall run through her veins and she shall, in time, know the same power that her ancestors once knew. However, she shall fall and when she does, the fall will be far greater than anyone could have known. She shall fall, not as a result of political engineering, but through her own passions. She shall destroy herself rather than be destroyed by others. In the end, her own love will be her downfall. And so to a life of obscurity she shall be condemned; never to wear the crown of power ever again.

I finish reading and look up.

“Who is she?”

He looks up from his coffee. “You.” He says simply.

“So, you’re telling me that, years ago, some people decided that I am going to get rid of some evil before sinking into obscurity? Ami I right?” I demand.

“I think that’s about right, yes.” He mutters vaguely.

“And my passion is going to be my downfall?”

“Yes, so it would seem.”

“How do you know it actually means me?” I ask.

“Well, we don’t.”

“So, you don’t know if it refers to me?”

“Not strictly speaking, no.”

“So it doesn’t have to be me?”

“Not really, no.”

“Well then,” I say, getting to my feet and placing the coffee cup on the worn table in front of me, “I have decided that I am not the saviour and so I’m going home.”

“Home,” He muses, “That’s an interesting concept. You see, I’ve always wondered if home is merely where you rest your head or if it’s something more. You see, if home is simply where you lay your head at night, I have had several homes but, if it’s where my heart is well, my home is here.”

“Giorgino?”

“Yes?”

“What on earth are you going on about?”

“Ah yes, it’s a hazard of being a writer.” He says sadly, his eyes going back to his coffee cup, which he has refilled yet again. I wonder if consuming enormous amounts of coffee is a requirement which all writers have to fulfil.

“Right.” I say, making for the door before he can spout anymore worthless nonsense.

“Oh, and Rebecca?” He asks.

“Yes?”

“Do come again soon, won’t you? It gets awfully lonely up here. I could use some company.”

“Right.”

“See yourself out.”

It’s only when I’ve shut the slightly mouldy front door behind me that I realise that he called me Rebecca and not Elizabeth. Sometimes, I simply don’t know who I’m supposed to be; Elizabeth or Rebecca. What’s in a name anyway? Surely, if we called a rose by any other name, it would not smell any less sweet? So, does changing my name from Rebecca to Elizabeth make me any less sweet? Does it make me any less of an admirable person? Does my name even mean anything anymore? Who even am i?

“Miss?” Firth says tentatively, interrupting my train of thought. “Would you like to go home?”  I realize that I’m standing in front of the car, staring into the green hills as though they’ll provide me with an answer to my life’s problems.

“Oh yes, of course.” I say, gathering myself together.

Firth looks at me sympathetically. “Bad news?” He says, looking at my left hand. I look down and realise that I’m still holding the sheet of aged paper.

“Oh, not too bad.” I say vaguely.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He enquires from the driver’s seat.

“No, I’ll tell the hills.” I say. “They don’t talk back.”

“Good plan.” He says and I decide that I like Firth.

We drive back to Park Manor in silence, Firth keeping his eyes on the road and I keeping my eyes on the paper, as though it will try to escape.

“Charles?” I shout the second I get through the front door. After I’ve shouted his name repeatedly, he finally emerges from the library, pretending he hasn’t listened to me searching for him for the past twenty minutes. Idiot.

“You called?” He asks, leaning against the door frame nonchalantly.

“Read.” I snap, thrusting the paper into his hand. His grey eyes scan the faded lettering rapidly before sliding back to the beginning and reading again. “Well?” I demand after several minutes.

“I think that whoever this refers to is in deep deep-“

“Yes, I know.” I snap, interrupting him. “But who’s it talking about?”

“Well,” He says, looking up from the paper, “I believe it refers to you.”

“Wonderful.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“I’m not all too keen on the idea of sinking into obscurity.” I explain.

“Right.”

“So,” I say, “What do we do now?”

“Well, I am going to Londonderry but what you’re going to do, I have absolutely no idea.” He says, making his way to the front door.

“So you’re not going to help me?” I demand, blocking his path.

“Not in the slightest.” He says, trying to negotiate his way around me.

“Why not?” I ask angrily, my voice rising rapidly.

“Well, my dear, it would appear that your ship is sinking and I have absolutely no intention of going down with it.”

“You’re a coward.” I call after him as he opens the front door, having managed to squeeze past my blockade.

“And you,” He says, turning to face me, “Are a fool.”

“I’d rather be a fool than a coward!” I shout after him, running to the front door.

“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you ask Sebastian?” He says, “The other Sebastian.” He mutters darkly, getting into the car which is waiting for him.

“I HOPE YOU DIE THERE!” I scream, slamming the door on his handsome face for the last time. I hear him laugh loudly as I race up the stairs, scaring a startled maid into dropping her heavily-laden tray.

 

Author's Note

Honest opinions please