Connor, that’s his name. That’s the name Ziio gave him. I wondered how different things might have been, had we brought him into this world together.
Would Connor still be his name?
Would he still have chosen the path of the Assassin?
And if the answer to that question was, No, he wouldn’t have chosen the path of an Assassin because his father was a Templar, then what did that make me but an abomination, an accident, a mongrel? A man with divided loyalties.
But a man who had decided he could not allow his son to die. Not today.
I dressed, not in my normal clothes but in a dark robe with a hood that I pulled up over my head, then hurried for the stables, found my horse and urged her onwards to the execution square, over muddy streets packed hard, startled city folk scuttling out of my way and shaking their fists at me or staring wide-eyed from beneath the brims of their hats. I thundered on, towards where the crowds became thicker as onlookers congregated for the hanging to come.
And, as I rode, I wondered what I was doing and realized I didn’t know. All I knew was how I felt, which was as though I had been asleep but suddenly was awake.
ii
There, on a platform, the gallows awaited its next victim, while a decent-sized crowd was anticipating the day’s entertainment. Around the sides of the square were horses and carts, on to which families clambered for a better view: craven-looking men, short women with pinched, worried faces, and grubby children. Sight-seers sat in the square while others milled around: women in groups who stood and gossiped, men swigging ale or wine from leather flasks. All of them here to see my son executed.
At one side, a cart flanked by soldiers arrived and I caught a glimpse of Connor inside, before out jumped a grinning Thomas Hickey, who then yanked him from the cart, too, taunting him at the same time, “Didn’t think I’d miss your farewell party, did you? I hear Washington himself will be in attendance. Hope nothing bad happens to him . . .”
Connor, with his hands bound in front of him, shot a look of hatred at Thomas and, once again, I marvelled at how much of his mother was to be found in those features. But, along with defiance, and bravery, today there was also . . . fear.
“You said there’d be a trial,” he snapped, as Thomas manhandled him.
“Traitors don’t get trials, I’m afraid. Lee and Haytham sorted that out. It’s straight to the gallows for you.”
I went cold. Connor was about to go to his death thinking I had signed his death warrant.
“I will not die today,” said Connor, proud. “The same cannot be said for you.” But he was saying it over his shoulder as the guards who had helped escort the cart into the square used pikestaffs to jab him towards the gallows. The noise swelled as the parting crowd reached to try to grab him, punch him, knock him to the ground. I saw a man with hate in his eyes about to throw a punch and was close enough to snatch the punch as it was thrown, twist the man’s arm painfully up his back, then throw him to the ground. With blazing eyes he looked up at me, but the sight of me glaring at him from within my hood stopped him, and he picked himself up and in the next moment was swept away by the seething, unruly crowd.
Meanwhile, Connor had been shoved further along the gauntlet of vengeful abuse, and I was too far away to stop another man who suddenly lunged forward and grabbed him—but near enough to see the man’s face beneath his hood; near enough to read his lips.
“You are not alone. Only give a cry when you need it . . .”
It was Achilles, a known Assassin.
He was here—here to save Connor, who was replying, “Forget about me—you need to stop Hickey. He’s—”
But then he was dragged away, and I finished the sentence in my head: . . . planning to kill George Washington.
Talk of the devil. The commander in chief had arrived with a small guard. As Connor was pulled on to the platform and an executioner fastened a noose around his neck, the crowd’s attention went to the opposite end of the square, where Washington was being led to a raised platform at the back, which, even now, was being frantically cleared of crowds by the guards. Charles, as major-general, was with him, too, and it gave me an opportunity to compare the two: Charles, a good deal taller than Washington, though with a certain aloofness compared to Washington’s easy charm. Looking at them together, I saw at once why the Continental Congress had chosen Washington over him. Charles looked so British.
Then Charles had left Washington and with a couple of guards made his way across the square, swatting the crowd out of his way as he came, and then was ascending the steps to the gallows, where he addressed the crowd, which pushed forward. I found myself pressed between bodies, smelling ale and sweat, using my elbows to try to find space within the herd.
“Brothers, sisters, fellow patriots,” began Charles, and an impatient hush descended over the crowd. “Several days ago we learnt of a scheme so vile, so dastardly that even repeating it now disturbs my being. The man before you plotted to murder our much beloved general.”
The crowd gasped.
“Indeed,” roared Charles, warming to his theme. “What darkness or madness moved him, none can say. And he himself offers no defence. Shows no remorse. And though we have begged and pleaded for him to share what he knows, he maintains a deadly silence.”
At this, the executioner stepped forward and thrust a Hessian sack over Connor’s head.
“If the man will not explain himself—if he will not confess and atone—what other option is there but this? He sought to send us into the arms of the enemy. Thus we are compelled by justice to send him from this world. May God have mercy on his soul.”
And now he was finished, and I looked around, trying to spot more of Achilles’s men. If it was a rescue mission, then now was the time, surely? But where were they? What the hell were they planning?
A bowman. They had to be using a bowman. It wasn’t ideal: an arrow wouldn’t sever the rope completely, the best the rescuers could hope for was that it would part the fibre enough for Connor’s weight to snap it. But it was the most accurate. It could be deployed from . . .
Far away. I swung about to check the buildings behind me. Sure enough, at the spot I would have chosen was a bowman, standing at a tall casement window. As I watched, he drew back the bowstring and squinted along the line of the arrow. Then, just as the trapdoor snapped open and Connor’s body dropped, he fired.
The arrow streaked above us, though I was the only one aware of it, and I whipped my gaze over to the platform in time to see it slice the rope and weaken it—of course—but not enough to cut it.
I risked being seen and discovered, but I did what I did anyway, on impulse, on instinct. I snatched my dagger from within my robes, and I threw it, watched as it sailed through the air and thanked God as it sliced into the rope and finished the job.
As Connor’s writhing and—thank God—still very much alive body dropped through the trapdoor, a gasp went up around me. For a moment I found myself with about an arm’s width of space all around as the crowd recoiled from me in shock. At the same time I caught sight of Achilles ducking down into the gallows pit where Connor’s body had fallen. Then I was fighting to escape as the shocked lull was replaced by a vengeful roar, kicks and punches were aimed my way and guards began shouldering their way through the throng towards me. I engaged the blade and cut one or two of the sight-seers—enough to draw blood and give other attackers pause for thought. More timid now, they at last made space around me. I dashed out of the square and back to my horse, the catcalls of the angry crowd ringing in my ears.
iii
“He got to Thomas before he could reach Washington,” said Charles despondently later, as we sat in the shadows of the Restless Ghost Tavern to talk about the events of the day. He was agitated and constantly looking over his shoulder. He looked like I felt, and I almost envied him the freedom to express his feelings. Me, I had to keep my turmoil hidden. And what turmoil it was: I’d saved the life of my son but effectively sabota
ged the work of my own Order—an operation that I myself had decreed. I was a traitor. I had betrayed my people.
“What happened?” I asked.
Connor had reached Thomas and before he killed him was demanding answers. Why had William tried to buy his people’s land? Why were we trying to murder Washington?
I nodded. Took a sip of my ale. “What was Thomas’s reply?”
“He said that that what Connor sought he’d never find.”
Charles looked at me, his eyes wide and weary.
“What now, Haytham? What now?”
7 JANUARY 1778 (TWO YEARS LATER)
i
Charles had begun by resenting Washington, and the fact that our assassination attempt had failed only increased his anger. He took it as a personal affront that Washington had survived—how dare he?—so never quite forgave him for it. Shortly afterwards, New York had fallen to the British, and Washington, who was almost captured, was held to blame, not least by Charles, who was singularly unimpressed by Washington’s subsequent foray across the Delaware River, despite the fact that his victory at the Battle of Trenton had renewed confidence in the revolution. For Charles, it was more grist to the mill that Washington went on to lose the Battle of Brandywine and thus Philadelphia. Washington’s attack on the British at Germantown had been a catastrophe. And now there was Valley Forge.
After winning the Battle of White Marsh, Washington had taken his troops to what he hoped was a safer location for the new year. Valley Forge, in Pennsylvania, was the high ground he chose: twelve thousand Continentals, so badly equipped and fatigued that the shoeless men left a trail of bloody footprints when they marched to make camp and prepare for the coming winter.
They were a shambles. Food and clothing was in woefully short supply, while horses starved to death or died on their feet. Typhoid, jaundice, dysentery and pneumonia ran unchecked throughout the camp and killed thousands. Morale and discipline were so low as to be virtually non-existent.
Still, though, despite the loss of New York and Philadelphia and the long, slow, freezing death of his army at Valley Forge, Washington had his guardian angel: Connor. And Connor, with the certainty of youth, believed in Washington. No words of mine could possibly persuade him otherwise, that much was for certain; nothing I could have said would convince him that Washington was in fact responsible for the death of his mother. In his mind, it was Templars who were responsible—and who can blame him for coming to that conclusion? After all, he saw Charles there that day. And not just Charles, but William, Thomas and Benjamin.
Ah, Benjamin. My other problem. He had these past years been something of a disgrace to the Order, to put it mildly. After attempting to sell information to the British, he had been hauled before a court of inquiry in ’75, headed by who else but George Washington. By now Benjamin was, just as he’d predicted all those years ago, the chief physician and director general of the medical service of the Continental Army. He was convicted of “communicating with the enemy” and imprisoned, and, to all intents and purposes, he had remained so until earlier this year, when he had been released—and promptly gone missing.
Whether he had recanted the ideals of the Order, just as Braddock had done all those years ago, I didn’t know. What I did know was that he was likely to be the one behind the theft of supplies bound for Valley Forge, which of course was making matters worse for the poor souls camped there; that he had forsaken the goals of the Order in favour of personal gain; and that he needed to be stopped—a task I’d taken upon myself, starting in the vicinity of Valley Forge and riding through the freezing, snow-covered Philadelphia wilds until I came to the church where Benjamin had made camp.
ii
A church to find a Church. But abandoned. Not just by its erstwhile congregation but by Benjamin’s men. Days ago, they’d been here, but now—nothing. No supplies, no men, just the remains of fires, already cold, and irregular patches of mud and snowless ground where tents had been pitched. I tethered my horse at the back of the church then stepped inside, where it was just as bone-freezing, numbing cold as it was outside. Along the aisle were the remains of more fires and by the door was a pile of wood, which, on closer inspection, I realized was church pews that had been chopped up. Reverence is the first victim of the cold. The remaining pews were in two rows either side of the church, facing an imposing but long-disused pulpit, and dust floated and danced in broad shafts of light projected through grimy windows high up in imposing stone walls. Scattered around a rough stone floor were various upturned crates and the remains of packaging, and for a few moments I paced around, occasionally stooping to overturn a crate in the hope that I might find some clue as to where Benjamin had got to.
Then, a noise—footsteps from the door—and I froze before darting behind the pulpit just as the huge oak doors creaked slowly and ominously open, and a figure entered: a figure who could have been tracing my exact steps, for the way he seemed to pace around the church floor just as I had done, upturning and investigating crates and even cursing under his breath, just as I had.
It was Connor.
I peered from the shadows behind the pulpit. He wore his Assassin’s robes and an intense look, and I watched him for a moment. It was as though I were watching myself—a younger version of myself, as an Assassin, the path I should have taken, the path I was being groomed to take, and would have done, had it not been for the treachery of Reginald Birch. Watching him—Connor—I felt a fierce mixture of emotions; among them regret, bitterness, even envy.
I moved closer. Let’s see how good an Assassin he really is.
Or, to put it another way, let’s see if I still had it.
iii
I did.
“Father,” he said, when I had him down and the blade to his throat.
“Connor,” I said sardonically. “Any last words?”
“Wait.”
“A poor choice.”
He struggled, and his eyes blazed. “Come to check up on Church, have you? Make sure he’s stolen enough for your British brothers?”
“Benjamin Church is no brother of mine.” I tutted. “No more than the redcoats or their idiot king. I expected naïveté. But this . . . The Templars do not fight for the Crown. We seek the same as you, boy. Freedom. Justice. Independence.”
“But . . .”
“But what?” I asked.
“Johnson. Pitcairn. Hickey. They tried to steal land. To sack towns. To murder George Washington.”
I sighed. “Johnson sought to own the land that we might keep it safe. Pitcairn aimed to encourage diplomacy—which you cocked up thoroughly enough to start a goddamned war. And Hickey? George Washington is a wretched leader. He’s lost nearly every battle in which he’s taken part. The man’s wracked by uncertainty and insecurity. Take one look at Valley Forge and you know my words are true. We’d all be better off without him.”
What I was saying had an effect on him, I could tell. “Look—much as I’d love to spar with you, Benjamin Church’s mouth is as big as his ego. You clearly want the supplies he’s stolen; I want him punished. Our interests are aligned.”
“What do you propose?” he said warily.
What did I propose? I thought. I saw his eyes go to the amulet at my throat and mine in turn went to the necklace he wore. No doubt his mother told him about the amulet; no doubt he would want to take it from me. On the other hand, the emblems we wore around our necks were both reminders of her.
“A truce,” I said. “Perhaps—perhaps some time together will do us good. You are my son, after all, and might still be saved from your ignorance.”
There was a pause.
“Or I can kill you now, if you’d prefer?” I laughed.
“Do you know where Church has gone?” he asked.
“Afraid not. I’d hoped to ambush him when he or one of his men returned here. But it seems I was too late. They’ve come and cleared the place out.”
“I may be able to track him,” he said, with an oddly proud not
e in his voice.
I stood back and watched as he gave me an ostentatious demonstration of Achilles’s training, pointing to marks on the church floor where the crates had been dragged.
“The cargo was heavy,” he said. “It was probably loaded on to a wagon for transport . . . There were rations inside the crates—medical supplies and clothing as well.”
Outside the church, Connor gestured to some churned-up snow. “There was a wagon here . . . slowly weighed down as they loaded it with the supplies. Snow’s obscured the tracks, but enough remains that we can still follow. Come on . . .”
I collected my horse, joined him and together we rode out, Connor indicating the line of the tracks as I tried to keep my admiration from showing. Not for the first time I found myself struck by the similarities in our knowledge, and noted him doing just as I would have done in the same situation. Some fifteen miles out of the camp he twisted in the saddle and shot me a triumphant look, at the same time as he indicated the trail up ahead. There was a broken-down cart, its driver trying to repair the wheel and muttering as we approached: “Just my luck . . . Going to freeze to death if I don’t get this fixed . . .”
Surprised, he looked up at our arrival, and his eyes widened in fear. Not far away was his musket, but too far to reach. Instantly, I knew—just as Connor haughtily demanded, “Are you Benjamin Church’s man?”—that he was going to make a run for it, and, sure enough, he did. Wild-eyed, he scrambled to his feet and took off into the trees, wading into the snow with a pronounced, trudging run, as ungainly as a wounded elephant.
“Well played,” I smiled, and Connor flashed me an angry look then leapt from his saddle and dived into the tree line to chase the cart driver. I let him go then sighed and climbed down from my horse, checked my blade and listened to the commotion from the forest as Connor caught the man; then I strode into the forest to join them.
Assassin's Creed: Forsaken Page 27