Assassin's Creed: Forsaken

by Oliver Bowden

  “Ah,” he said, “you’re thinking about what happened afterwards?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well—what about it?”

  He beckoned me over to one of the bookshelves. He seemed to want me closer to the light and his eyes to stare at my face. The lamplight played across his features and his dark hair shone. His eyes were always kindly but they could also be intense, as they were now. I noticed one of his scars, which seemed to shine more brightly in the light.

  “Well, it was very exciting, sir,” I replied; adding quickly, “Though I was most concerned for Mother. Your speed in saving her—I’ve never seen anybody move so quickly.”

  He laughed. “Love will do that to a man. You’ll find that out for yourself one day. But what of Mr. Birch? His response? What did you make of it, Haytham?”

  “Sir?”

  “Mr. Birch seemed about to administer severe punishment to the scoundrel, Haytham. Did you think it was deserved?”

  I considered it before answering. I could tell from the look on Father’s face, sharp and watchful, that my answer was important.

  And in the heat of the moment I suppose I had thought the thief deserved a harsh response. There had been an instant, brief as it was, when some primal anger wished him harm for the attack on my mother. Now, though, in the soft glow of the lamp, with Father looking kindly upon me, I felt differently.

  “Tell me honestly, Haytham,” prompted Father, as though reading my thoughts. “Reginald has a keen sense of justice, or what he describes as justice. It’s somewhat . . . biblical. But what did you think?”

  “At first I felt an urge for . . . revenge, sir. But it soon passed, and I was pleased to see the man granted clemency,” I said.

  Father smiled and nodded, and then abruptly turned to the bookshelves, where with a flick of his wrist he operated a switch, causing a portion of books to slide across to reveal a secret compartment. My heart skipped a beat as he took something from it: a box, which he handed to me and, nodding, bade me open.

  “A birthday present, Haytham,” he said.

  I knelt and placed the box on the floor, opened it to reveal a leather belt that I plucked quickly away, knowing that beneath would be a sword, and not a wooden play sword but a shimmering steel sword with an ornate handle. I took it from the box and held it in my hands. It was a short sword and, though, shamefully, I felt a twinge of disappointment about that, I knew at once that it was a beautiful short sword, and it was my short sword. I decided at once that it would never leave my side, and was already reaching for the belt when Father stopped me.

  “No, Haytham,” he said, “it stays in here, and is not to be removed or even used without my permission. Is that clear?” He had collected the sword from me and already replaced it in the box, placing the belt on top and closing it.

  “Soon you will begin to train with this sword,” he continued. “There is much for you to learn, Haytham, not only about the steel you hold in your hands, but also the steel in your heart.”

  “Yes, Father,” I said, trying not to look as confused and disappointed as I felt. I watched as he turned and replaced the box in the secret compartment, and if he was trying to make sure that I didn’t see which book triggered the compartment, well, then, he failed. It was the King James Bible.

  8 DECEMBER 1735

  i

  There were two more funerals today, of the two soldiers who had been stationed in the grounds. As far as I know, Father’s gentleman, Mr. Digweed, attended the service for the captain, whose name I never knew, but nobody from our household was at the funeral for the second man. There is so much loss and mourning around us at the moment, it’s as if there simply isn’t room for any more, callous as it sounds.

  ii

  After my eighth birthday, Mr. Birch became a regular visitor to the house and, when not squiring Jenny on walks around the grounds, or taking her into town in his carriage, or sitting in the drawing room drinking tea and sherry and regaling the women with tales of army life, he held meetings with Father. It was clear to all that he intended to marry Jenny and that the union had Father’s blessing, but there was talk that Mr. Birch had asked to postpone the nuptials; that he wanted to be as prosperous as possible so that Jenny should have the husband she deserved, and that he had his eye on a mansion in Southwark in order to keep her in the manner to which she’d become accustomed.

  Mother and Father were thrilled about that of course. Jenny less so. I’d occasionally see her with red eyes, and she’d developed a habit of flying quickly out of rooms, either in the throes of an angry tantrum or with her hand to her mouth, stifling tears. More than once I heard Father say, “She’ll come round,” and on one occasion he gave me a sideways look and rolled his eyes.

  Just as she seemed to wither under the weight of her future, I flourished with the anticipation of my own. The love I felt for Father constantly threatened to engulf me with its sheer magnitude; I didn’t just love him, I idolized him. At times it was as if the two of us shared a knowledge that was secret from the rest of the world. For example, he’d often ask me what my tutors had been teaching me, listen intently, and then say, “Why?” Whenever he asked me something, whether it was about religion, ethics or morality, he would know if I gave the answer by rote, or repeated it parrot fashion, and he’d say, “Well, you’ve just told me what Old Mr. Fayling thinks,” or, “We know what a centuries-old writer thinks. But what does it say in here, Haytham?” and he’d place a hand to my chest.

  I realize now what he was doing. Old Mr. Fayling was teaching me facts and absolutes; Father was asking me to question them. This knowledge I was being given by Old Mr. Fayling—where did it originate? Who wielded the quill, and why should I trust that man?

  Father used to say, “To see differently, we must first think differently.” It sounds stupid, and you might laugh, or I might look back on this in years to come and laugh myself, but at times it felt as though I could feel my brain actually expand to look at the world in Father’s way. He had a way of looking at the world that nobody else had, so it seemed; a way of looking at the world that challenged the very idea of truth.

  Of course, I questioned Old Mr. Fayling. I challenged him one day, during Scriptures, and earned myself a whack across the knuckles with his cane, along with the promise that he would be informing my father, which he did. Later, Father took me into his study and, after closing the door, grinned and tapped the side of his nose. “It’s often best, Haytham, to keep your thoughts to yourself. Hide in plain sight.”

  So I did. And I found myself looking at the people around me, trying to look inside them as though I might be able somehow to divine how they looked at the world, the Old Mr. Fayling way, or the Father way.

  Writing this now, of course, I can see I was getting too big for my boots; I was feeling grown-up beyond my years, which would be as unattractive now, at ten, as it would have been at eight, then nine. Probably I was unbearably supercilious. Probably I felt like the little man of the household. When I turned nine, Father presented me with a bow and arrow for my birthday and, practising with it in the grounds, I hoped that the Dawson girls or the Barrett children might be watching me from the windows.

  It had been over a year since I’d spoken to Tom at the gate, but I still sometimes loitered there in the hope of meeting him again. Father was forthcoming on all subjects except his own past. He’d never speak of his life before London, nor of Jenny’s mother, so I still held out hope that whatever it was Tom knew might prove illuminating. And, apart from that, of course, I wanted a friend. Not a parent or nursemaid or tutor or mentor—I had plenty of those. Just a friend. And I hoped it would be Tom.

  It never will be now, of course.

  They bury him tomorrow.

  9 DECEMBER 1735

  i

  Mr. Digweed came to see me this morning. He knocked, waited for my reply then had to duck his head to enter, because Mr. Digweed, as well as being balding, with slightly bulging eyes and veiny eyelids, i
s tall and slim, and the doorways in our emergency residence are much lower than they were at home. The way he had to stoop as he moved around the place, it added to his air of discomfiture, the sense of his being a fish out of water here. He’d been my father’s gentleman since before I was born, at least since the Kenways settled in London, and like all of us, maybe even more than the rest of us, he belonged to Queen Anne’s Square. What made his pain even more acute was guilt—his guilt that on the night of the attack he was away, attending to family matters in Herefordshire; he and our driver had returned the morning after the attack.

  “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, Master Haytham,” he had said to me in the days after, his face pale and drawn.

  “Of course, Digweed,” I said, and didn’t know what to say next; I’d never been comfortable addressing him by his surname; it had never felt right in my mouth. So all I could add was “Thank you.”

  This morning his cadaverous face wore the same solemn expression, and I could tell that, whatever news he had, it was bad.

  “Master Haytham,” he said, standing before me.

  “Yes . . . Digweed?”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Master Haytham, but there’s been a message from Queen Anne’s Square, from the Barretts. They wish to make it clear that nobody from the Kenway household is welcome at young Master Thomas’s funeral service. They respectfully request that no contact is made at all.”

  “Thank you, Digweed,” I said, and watched as he gave a short, sorrowful bow then dipped his head to avoid the low beam of the doorway as he left.

  I stood there for some time, gazing emptily at the space where he’d stood, until Betty returned to help me out of my funeral suit and into my everyday ones.

  ii

  One afternoon a few weeks ago, I was below stairs, playing in the short corridor that led off the servants’ hall to the heavily barred door of the plate room. It was in the plate room that the family valuables were stored: silverware which only ever saw the light of day on the rare occasions Mother and Father entertained guests; family heirlooms, Mother’s jewellery and some of Father’s books that he considered of greatest value—irreplaceable books. He kept the key to the plate room with him at all times, on a loop around his belt, and I had only ever seen him entrust it to Mr. Digweed, and then only for short periods.

  I liked to play in the corridor nearby because it was so rarely visited, which meant I was never bothered by nursemaids, who would invariably tell me to get off the dirty floor before I wore a hole in my trousers; or by other well-meaning staff, who would engage me in polite conversation and oblige me to answer questions about my education or non-existent friends; or perhaps even by Mother or Father, who would tell me to get off the dirty floor before I wore a hole in my trousers and then force me to answer questions about my education or non-existent friends. Or, worse than any of them, by Jenny, who would sneer at whatever game I was playing and, if it was toy soldiers, make a malicious effort to kick over each and every tin man of them.

  No, the passageway between the servants’ hall and the plate room was one of the few places at Queen Anne’s Square where I could realistically hope to avoid any of these things, so the passageway is where I went when I didn’t want to be disturbed.

  Except on this occasion, when a new face emerged in the form of Mr. Birch, who let himself into the passage just as I was about to arrange my troops. I had a lantern with me, placed on the stone floor, and the candle fire flickered and popped in the draught as the passage door opened. From my position on the floor, I saw the hem of his frock coat and the tip of his cane, and as my eyes travelled up to see him looking down upon me, I wondered if he, too, kept a sword hidden in his cane, and if it would rattle, the way my father’s did.

  “Master Haytham, I rather hoped I might find you here,” he said with a smile. “I was wondering, are you busy?”

  I scrambled to my feet. “Just playing, sir,” I said quickly. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Oh no.” He laughed. “In fact, the last thing I want to do is disturb your playtime, though there is something I was hoping to discuss with you.”

  “Of course,” I said, nodding, my heart sinking at the thought of yet another round of questions concerning my prowess at arithmetic. Yes, I enjoyed my sums. Yes, I enjoyed writing. Yes, I one day hoped to be as clever as my father. Yes, I one day hoped to follow him into the family business.

  But with a wave of his hand Mr. Birch bade me back to my game and even set aside his cane and hitched up his trousers in order to crouch beside me.

  “And what do we have here?” he asked, indicating the small tin figurines.

  “Just a game, sir,” I replied.

  “These are your soldiers, are they?” he enquired. “And which one is the commander?”

  “There is no commander, sir,” I said.

  He gave a dry laugh. “Your men need a leader, Haytham. How else will they know the best course of action? How else will they be instilled with a sense of discipline and purpose?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” I said.

  “Here,” said Mr. Birch. He reached to remove one of the tiny tin men from the pack, buffed him up on his sleeve and placed him to one side. “Perhaps we should make this gentleman here the leader—what do you think?”

  “If it pleases you, sir.”

  “Master Haytham”—Mr. Birch smiled—“this is your game. I am merely an interloper, somebody hoping you can show me how it is played.”

  “Yes, sir, then a leader would be fine in the circumstances.”

  Suddenly the door to the passageway opened again, and I looked up, this time to see Mr. Digweed enter. In the flickering lamplight I saw him and Mr. Birch share a look.

  “Can your business here wait, Digweed?” said Mr. Birch tautly.

  “Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Digweed, bowing and retreating, the door closing behind him.

  “Very good,” continued Mr. Birch, his attention returning to the game. “Then let us move this gentleman here to be the unit’s leader, in order to inspire his men to great deeds, to lead them by example and teach them the virtues of order and discipline and loyalty. What do you think, Master Haytham?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said obediently.

  “Here’s something else, Master Haytham,” said Mr. Birch, reaching between his feet to move another of the tin soldiers from the pack then placing him next to the nominal commander. “A leader needs trusted lieutenants, does he not?”

  “Yes, sir,” I agreed. There was a long pause, during which I watched Mr. Birch take inordinate care placing two more lieutenants next to the leader, a pause that became more and more uncomfortable as the moments passed, until I said, more to break the awkward silence than because I wanted to discuss the inevitable, “Sir, did you want to speak to me about my sister, sir?”

  “Why, you can see right through me, Master Haytham,” laughed Mr. Birch loudly. “Your father is a fine teacher. I see he has taught you guile and cunning—among other things, no doubt.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant so I kept quiet.

  “How is weapons training going, may I enquire?” asked Mr. Birch.

  “Very well, sir. I continue to improve each day, so Father says,” I said proudly.

  “Excellent, excellent. And has your father ever indicated to you the purpose of your training?” he asked.

  “Father says my real training is to begin on the day of my tenth birthday,” I replied.

  “Well, I wonder what it is that he has to tell you,” he said, with furrowed brow. “You really have no idea? Not even a tantalizing clue?”

  “No, sir, I don’t,” I said. “Only that he will provide me with a path to follow. A creed.”

  “I see. How very exciting. And he’s never given you any indication as to what this ‘creed’ might be?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How fascinating. I’ll wager you cannot wait. And, in the meantime, has your father given you a man’s sword with which to l
earn your craft, or are you still using the wooden practice batons?”

  I bridled. “I have my own sword, sir.”

  “I should very much like to see it.”

  “It is kept in the games room, sir, in a safe place that only my father and I have access to.”

  “Only your father and you? You mean you have access to it, too?”

  I coloured, grateful for the dim light in the passageway so that Mr. Birch couldn’t see the embarrassment on my face. “All I mean is that I know where the sword is kept, sir, not that I would know how to access it,” I clarified.

  “I see.” Mr. Birch grinned. “A secret place, is it? A hidden cavity within the bookcase?”

  My face must have said it all. He laughed.

  “Don’t worry, Master Haytham, your secret is safe with me.”

  I looked at him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “That’s quite all right.”

  He stood, reached to pick up his cane, brushed some dirt, real or imaginary, from his trousers and turned towards the door.

  “My sister, sir?” I said. “You never asked me about her.”

  He stopped, chuckled softly and reached to ruffle my hair. A gesture I quite liked. Perhaps because it was something my father did, too.

  “Ah, but I don’t need to. You’ve told me everything I need to know, young Master Haytham,” he said. “You know as little about the beautiful Jennifer as I do, and perhaps that is how it must be in the proper way of things. Women should be a mystery to us, don’t you think, Master Haytham?”

  I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about but smiled anyway, and breathed a sigh of relief when I once again had the plate-room corridor to myself.

  iii

  Not long after that talk with Mr. Birch I was in another part of the house and making my way towards my bedroom when as I passed Father’s study I heard raised voices from inside: Father and Mr. Birch.