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,’ and 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, is 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 him 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 one.
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,’ smiled Mr Birch, ‘this is your game. I am merely an interloper, somebody hoping you can show me how it is played.’
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‘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 he 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 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 learn 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,’ grinned Mr Birch. ‘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.
The fear of a good hiding meant I stayed too far away to hear what was being said, and I was glad I’d kept my distance, because in the next moment the door to the study was flung open and out hurried Mr Birch. He was in a fury – his anger was plain to see in the colour of his cheeks and blazing eyes – but the sight of me in the hallway brought him up short, even though he remained agitated.
‘I tried, Master Haytham,’ he said, as he gathered himself and began to button his coat ready to leave. ‘I tried to warn him.’
And with that he placed his tricorne on his head and stalked off. My father had appeared at the door of his office and glared after Mr Birch and, though it was clearly an unpleasant encounter, it was grown-up stuff, and I didn’t concern myself with it.
There was more to think about. Just a day or so later came the attack.
iv
It happened on the night before my birthday. The attack, I mean. I was awake, perhaps because I was excited about the next day, but also because I was in the habit of getting up after Edith had left the room to sit on my windowsill and gaze out of my bedroom window. From my vantage point I’d see cats and dogs or even foxes passing across the moon-painted grass. Or, if not watching out for wildlife, then just watching the night, looking at the moon, the watery-grey colour it gave the grass and trees. At first I thought what I was seeing in the distance were fireflies. I’d heard all about fireflies but never seen them. All I knew was that they gathered in clouds and emitted a dull glow. However, I soon realized the light wasn’t a dull glow at all, but in fact was going on, then off, then on again. I was seeing a signal.
My breath caught in my throat. The flashing light seemed to come from close to the old wooden door in the wall, the one where I’d seen Tom that day, and my first thought was that he was trying to contact me. It seems strange now, but not for a second did I assume the signal was meant for anyone but me. I was too busy dragging on a pair of trousers, tucking my nightshirt into the waistband then hooking my braces over my shoulders. I shrugged on a coat. All I could think of was what an awfully splendid adventure I was about to have.
And of course I realize now, looking back, that in the mansion next door Tom must have been another one who liked to sit on his windowsill and watch the nocturnal life in the grounds of his house. And, like me, he must have seen the signal. And perhaps Tom even had the mirror-image thought to mine: that it was me signalling him. And in response did the same as I did: he scrambled from his perch and pulled on some clothes to investigate …
Two new faces had appeared at the house on Queen Anne’s Square, a pair of hard-faced former soldiers employed by Father. His explanation was that we needed them because he had received ‘information’.
Just that. ‘Information’ – that’s all he’d say. And I wondered then as I wonder now what he meant, and whether it had anything to do with the heated conversation I’d overheard between him and Mr Birch. Whatever it was, I’d seen little of the two soldiers. All I really knew was that one was stationed in the drawing room at the front of the mansion, while the other stayed close to the fire in the servants’ hall, supposedly to guard the plate room. Both were easy to avoid as I crept down the steps to below stairs and slid into the silent, moonlit kitchen, which I had never seen so dark and empty and still.
And cold. My breath plumed and straight away I shivered, uncomfortably aware how chilly it was compared to what I’d thought was the meagre heat of my room.
Close by the door was a candle, which I lit and, with my hand cupped over its flame, held to light the way as I let myself out in
to the stable yard. And if I’d thought it was cold in the kitchen, then, well … outside, it was the kind of cold where it felt as if the world around you was brittle and about to break; cold enough to take my cloudy breath away, to give me second thoughts as I stood there and wondered whether or not I could bear to continue.
One of the horses whinnied and stamped, and for some reason the noise made my mind up, sending me tiptoeing past the kennels to a side wall and through a large arched gate leading into the orchard. I made my way through the bare, spindly apple trees, then was out in the open, painfully aware of the mansion to my right, where I imagined faces at every window: Edith, Betty, Mother and Father all staring out and seeing me out of my room and running amok in the grounds. Not that I really was running amok, of course, but that’s what they’d say; that’s what Edith would say as she scolded me and what Father would say when he gave me the cane for my troubles.
But if I was expecting a shout from the house, then none came. Instead I made my way to the perimeter wall, began to run quickly along it towards the door. I was still shivering, but as my excitement grew I wondered if Tom would have brought food for a midnight feast: ham, cake and biscuits. Oh, and a hot toddy would be most welcome, too …
A dog began barking. Thatch, Father’s Irish bloodhound, from his kennel in the stable yard. The noise stopped me in my tracks, and I crouched beneath the bare, low-hanging branches of a willow, until it ceased as suddenly as it had started. Later, of course, I’d understand why it stopped so abruptly. But I didn’t think anything of it at the time because I had no reason to suspect that Thatch had had his throat cut by an invader. We now think there were five of them altogether who crept up on us with knives and swords. Five men making their way to the mansion, and me in the grounds, oblivious to it all.
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