Battle-Born

When they break your heart
When they cause your soul to mourn
Remember what I said
Boy you was battle-born...

"The simple truth is," Isabella said, her voice carrying around the room, her bright blue gaze travelling over the array of interested faces before her, "that with the wilful looting and destruction of religious and historical monuments throughout the Middle East, priceless artefacts are being traded on the black market by thieves and opportuniths."

As soon as the lisp escaped her lips, Isabella abruptly fell silent, losing the thread of her argument at the sudden appearance of an old impediment. Risking a glance around the room again, it was only for her gaze to alight on the moustachioed man of earlier, a smile threatening to crease the corners of his mouth.

"We face similar challenges all over the world," Isabella snapped, irritated by the moustachioed man's amusement, not understanding why he was even here at her precious Meeting, "for as we sit here, a vast swathe of Amazonian rainforest, first charted by Victorian explorer, Sir Percy Fawcett, is bein' needlessly destroyed."

Archibald, who was sitting next to her, flinched a little as she momentarily slipped into a Southern accent, but Susannah inclined her head at Isabella from across the room, eyes approving, face encouraging.

"Fawcett was a visionary," Isabella said softly, taking courage from Susannah's unspoken support, having always looked up to the older curator, "and with the recent discovery of the lost Urutu tribe, we have a real opportunity to find Fawcett's last known camp." She glanced over at her father, his usually forbidding face thoughtful, her stepmother's bordering on bored. "But from where I'm sitting," she continued, a note of annoyance entering her voice, ignoring Archibald's warning glance, "all that you're having me do is... sit behind a desk, filling out budgets and viability studies" -

- "I think what Isabella is trying to say," Archibald hastily interjected, only to be cut off by Isabella, who was now almost out of her chair.

"What I'm trying to say is - Fawcett, Carter, Livingstone, Mary Kingsley," Isabella said passionately, ignoring the moustachioed man, who'd suddenly sat bolt upright, nostrils twitching violently, "those where people who didn't sit behind desks, they went out into the world, and they found what they were looking for." She slammed her fist down on the offending desk, making their coffee mugs rattle, Archibald flinching for the second time.

"Hear, hear!" Lord Devereux boomed, stumbling to his feet, clapping his earth-stained hands together. "That's my girl!"

Isabella shrank down in her seat, all fighting spirit fading, her father once again seizing the spotlight for his own. "I'm just saying, let me go out there," she said in a small voice, her humble manner more to Archibald's taste, "and emulatethose men and women."

Those who sat in judgement upon her, glanced around at each other, before conferring in confidential whispers, Isabella's father resuming his seat, unapologetically unabashed, her stepmother feigning interest in her manicured hands.

"These decisions take... time," Archibald said uneasily, careful to keep his voice low, "but you've done all you can for today."

Isabella frowned, before turning around, raising her eyebrows at Susannah, who nodded, silently saying to lay down the gauntlet. Biting her lip, Isabella stood up, her eye catching that of the moustachioed man, who had now stopped sniffing the air like a demented bloodhound. His dark gaze flickered over her, impudently appraising, making Isabella's hackles rise.

Feeling the now familiar annoyance flare up, she tilted her chin, eyes defiant beneath her blunt fringe. "I – we have an exhibition," she said suddenly, catching everybody's attention, "in six weeks time, to be opened by Lord Carnarvon and a member of the Royal Family. If you give me this chance, I will find Fawcett's camp," she continued as the moustachioed man rose to his own feet, "and I will bring back artefacts for that exhibition."

"Here we go, another wild goosechase," Lady Devereux muttered mutinously, edging away from the moustachioed man as he slunk past her chair, nostrils twitching anew.

"The media attention that such an exhibition would attract would serve to put the Museum back in the public eye," Isabella said persuasively, "just as the Chancellor's new budget is due to be delivered later that very same month, in which he seeks to cut public funding as part of his austerity drive."

Her words seemed to hold the room in thrall, those who sat in judgement caught in their own trap, only thinking of funding. Then the spell was broken, the moustachioed man suddenly pouncing on Isabella's stepmother, throwing a net over her, the whole room erupting into chaos.

"What the devil are you doing!?" Lady Devereux screeched. "Unhand me at once!" But just as she screamed this, she toppled off the edge of her chair, landing in an undignified heap on the floor, the moustachioed man trying and failing to drag her away, Lord Devereux circling him, threatening him with a square go.

"Your family are rather memorable," Susannah said, coming up beside the shellshocked Isabella, "and so is that bizarre baron's suit."

"Who is he?" Isabella said in disbelief, watching Archibald jump onto the stranger's back, hooking his arms around his neck.

"I have no idea," Susannah said honestly, "but I would give a fortune to know."