It was because she’d seen the future. She’d seen the future and knew it favoured me, for no better reason than I had been born male.
I might have felt sorry for her. Might have done – if she hadn’t been such a sourpuss.
Knowing what I now knew, though, weapons training the following day had an extra frisson. So: nobody else had weapons training but me. Suddenly it felt as though I were tasting forbidden fruit, and the fact that my father was my tutor only made it more succulent. If Jenny was right and there was some calling I was being groomed to answer, like other boys are trained for the priesthood, or as blacksmiths, butchers or carpenters, then good. That suited me fine. There was nobody in the world I looked up to more than Father. The thought that he was passing on his knowledge to me was at once comforting and thrilling.
And, of course, it involved swords. What more could a boy want? Looking back, I know that from that day on I became a more willing and enthusiastic pupil. Every day, either at midday or after evening meal, depending on Father’s diary, we convened in what we called the training room but was actually the games room. And it was there that my sword skills began to improve.
I haven’t trained since the attack. I haven’t had the heart to pick up a blade at all, but I know that when I do I’ll picture that room, with its dark, oak-panelled walls, bookshelves and the covered billiard table which had been moved aside to make space. And in it my father, his bright eyes, sharp but kindly, and always smiling, always encouraging me: block, parry, footwork, balance, awareness, anticipation. Those words he repeated like a mantra, sometimes saying nothing else for an entire lesson at a time, just barking the commands, nodding when I got it right, shaking his head when I did it wrong, occasionally pausing, scooping his hair out of his face and going to the back of me to position my arms and legs.
To me, they are – or were – the sights and sounds of weapons training: the bookshelves, the billiard table, my father’s mantras and the sound of ringing …
Wood.
Yes, wood.
Wooden training swords we used, much to my chagrin. Steel would come later, he’d say, whenever I complained.
iii
On the morning of my birthday, Edith was extra-specially nice to me and Mother made sure I was given a birthday breakfast of my favourites: sardines with mustard sauce, and fresh bread with cherry jam made from the fruit of the trees in our grounds. I caught Jenny giving me a sneering look as I tucked in but paid it no mind. Since our conversation in the drawing room, whatever power she’d had over me, slim as it had been, had somehow been made less distinct. Before that I might have taken her ridicule to heart, maybe felt a little silly and self-conscious about my birthday breakfast. But not that day. Thinking back, I wonder if my eighth birthday marked the day I began to change from boy to man.
So no, I didn’t care about the curl of Jenny’s lip, or the pig noises she made surreptitiously. I had eyes only for Mother and Father, who had eyes only for me. I could tell by their body language, tiny little parental codes I’d picked up over the years, that something else was to come; that my birthday pleasures were set to continue. And so it proved. By the end of the meal my father had announced that tonight we would be going to White’s Chocolate House on Chesterfield Street, where the hot chocolate is made from solid blocks of cocoa imported from Spain.
Later that day I stood with Edith and Betty fussing around me, dressing me in my smartest suit. Then the four of us were stepping into a carriage at the kerb outside, where I sneaked a look up at the windows of our neighbours and wondered if the faces of the Dawson girls were pressed to the glass, or Tom and his brothers. I hoped so. I hoped they could see me now. See us all and think, ‘There go the Kenway family, out for the evening, just like a normal family.’
iv
The area around Chesterfield Street was busy. We were able to draw up directly outside White’s and, once there, our door was opened and we were helped quickly across the crowded thoroughfare, and inside.
Even so, during that short walk between the carriage and the sanctuary of the chocolate house, I looked to my left and right and saw a little of London red in tooth and claw: the body of a dog lying in the gutter, a derelict retching against some railings, flower sellers, beggars, drunkards, urchins splashing in a river of mud that seemed to seethe on the street.
And then we were inside, greeted by the thick scent of smoke, ale, perfume and of course chocolate, as well as a hubbub of piano and raised voices. People, all of whom were shouting, leaned over gaming tables. Men drank from huge tankards of ale; women, too. I saw some with hot chocolate and cake. Everybody, it seemed, was in a state of high excitement.
I looked at Father, who had stopped short, and sensed his discomfort. For a moment I was concerned he’d simply turn and leave, before a gentleman holding his cane aloft caught my eye. Younger than Father, with an easy smile and a twinkle that was visible even across the room, he was waggling the cane at us. Until with a grateful wave, Father acknowledged him and began to lead us across the room, squeezing between tables, stepping over dogs and even one or two children, who scrabbled at the feet of revellers, presumably hoping for whatever might fall off the gaming tables: pieces of cake, maybe coins.
We reached the gentleman with the cane. Unlike Father, whose hair was straggly and barely tied back with a bow, he wore a white powdered wig, the back of it secured in a black silk bag, and a frock coat in a deep, rich red colour. With a nod, he greeted Father then turned his attention to me and made an exaggerated bow. ‘Good evening, Master Haytham, I believe that many happy returns of the day are in order. Remind me please of your age, sir? I can see from your bearing that you are a child of great maturity. Eleven? Twelve, perhaps?’
As he said this he glanced over my shoulder with a twinkly smile and my mother and father chuckled appreciatively.
‘I am eight, sir,’ I said, and puffed up proudly, as my father completed the introductions. The gentleman was Reginald Birch, one of his senior property managers, and Mr Birch said he was delighted to make my acquaintance then greeted my mother with a long bow, kissing the back of her hand.
His attention went to Jenny next, and he took her hand, bent his head and pressed his lips to it. I knew enough to realize that what he was doing was courtship, and I glanced quickly over to Father, expecting him to step in.
Instead what I saw was he and Mother looking thrilled, though Jenny was stony-faced, and stayed that way as we were led to a private back room of the chocolate house and seated, she and Mr Birch side by side, as the White’s staff began to busy themselves around us.
I could have stayed there all night, having my fill of hot chocolate and cake, copious amounts of which were delivered to the table. Both Father and Mr Birch seemed to enjoy the ale. So in the end it was Mother who insisted we leave – before I was sick, or they were – and we stepped out into the night, which if anything had become even busier in the intervening hours.
For a moment or so I found myself disorientated by the noise and the stench of the street. Jenny wrinkled her nose, and I saw a flicker of concern pass across my mother’s face. Instinctively, Father moved closer towards us all, as if to try and ward off the clamour.
A filthy hand was thrust in front of my face and I looked up to see a beggar silently appealing for money with wide, beseeching eyes, bright white in contrast to the dirt of his face and hair; a flower seller tried to bustle past Father to reach Jenny, and gave an outraged ‘Oi’ when Mr Birch used his cane to block her path. I felt myself being jostled, saw two urchins trying to reach us with their palms out.
Then suddenly my mother gave a cry as a man burst from within the crowd, clothes ragged and dirty, teeth bared and his hand outstretched, about to snatch my mother’s necklace.
And in the next second I discovered why Father’s cane had that curious rattle, as I saw a blade appear from within as he span to protect Mother. He covered the distance to her in the blink of an eye, but before it cleared its scabbard, he ch
anged his mind, perhaps seeing the thief was unarmed, and replaced it, ramming it home with a thump and making it a cane once again, in the same movement twirling it to knock the ruffian’s hand aside.
The thief shrieked in pain and surprise and backed straight into Mr Birch, who hurled him to the street and pounced on him, his knees on the man’s chest and a dagger at his throat. I caught my breath.
I saw Mother’s eyes widen over Father’s shoulder.
‘Reginald!’ called Father. ‘Stop!’
‘He tried to rob you, Edward,’ said Mr Birch, without turning. The thief snivelled. The tendons on Mr Birch’s hands stood out and his knuckles were white on the handle of the dagger.
‘No, Reginald, this is not the way,’ said my father calmly. He stood with his arms around Mother, who had buried her face in his chest and was whimpering softly. Jenny stood close by at one side, me at another. Around us a crowd had gathered, the same vagrants and beggars who had been bothering us now keeping a respectful distance. A respectful, frightened distance.
‘I mean it, Reginald,’ said Father. ‘Put the dagger away, let him go.’
‘Don’t make me look foolish like this, Edward,’ said Birch. ‘Not in front of everybody like this, please. We both know this man deserves to pay, if not with his life then perhaps with a finger or two.’
I caught my breath.
‘No!’ commanded Father. ‘There will be no bloodshed, Reginald. Any association between us will end if you do not do as I say this very moment.’ A hush seemed to fall on everybody around us. I could hear the thief gibbering, saying over and over again, ‘Please sir, please sir, please sir …’ His arms were pinned to his sides, his legs kicking and scraping uselessly on the filth-covered cobbles as he lay trapped.
Until, at last, Mr Birch seemed to decide, and the dagger withdrew, leaving a small bleeding nick behind. When he stood he aimed a kick at the thief, who needed no further encouragement to scramble to his hands and knees and take off into Chesterfield Street, grateful to escape with his life.
Our carriage driver had recovered his wits, and now stood by the door, urging us to hurry to the safety of our carriage.
And Father and Mr Birch stood facing one another, their eyes locked. As Mother hurried me past, I saw Mr Birch’s eyes blazing. I saw my father’s gaze meet him equally, and he offered his hand to shake, saying, ‘Thank you, Reginald. On behalf of all of us, thank you for your quick thinking.’
I felt my mother’s hand in the small of my back as she tried to shove me into the carriage, and craned my head back to see Father, his hand held out to Mr Birch, who glared at him, refusing to accept the offer of accord.
Then, just as I was bundled into the carriage, I saw Mr Birch reach to grasp Father’s hand and his glare melt away into a smile – a slightly embarrassed, bashful smile, as though he’d just remembered himself. The two shook hands and my father awarded Mr Birch with the short nod that I knew so well. It meant that everything had been settled. It meant that no more need be said about it.
v
At last we returned home to Queen Anne’s Square, where we bolted the door and banished the smell of smoke and manure and horse, and I told Mother and Father how much I had enjoyed my evening, thanked them profusely and assured them that the commotion in the street afterwards had done nothing to spoil my evening, while privately thinking that it had been a highlight.
But it turned out the evening wasn’t over yet, because as I went to climb the stairs, my father beckoned me follow him instead, and led the way to the games room, where he lit a paraffin lamp.
‘You enjoyed your evening, then, Haytham,’ he said.
‘I enjoyed it very much, sir,’ I said.
‘What was your impression of Mr Birch?’
‘I liked him very much, sir.’
Father chuckled. ‘Reginald is a man who sets great store by appearance, by manners and etiquette and edict. He is not like some, who wear etiquette and protocol as a badge only when it suits them. He is a man of honour.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, but I must have sounded as doubtful as I felt, because he looked at me sharply.
‘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.
Assassin’s Creed® Page 136