Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Reginald.

  ‘Getting what provisions I can for my ride, Reginald.’

  There was a bowl of apples, too. I’d need those for my horse.

  ‘A stale loaf. Some apples? It isn’t enough, Haytham. At least go back to the town for supplies.’

  ‘No time, Reginald,’ I said. ‘And, anyway, the chase will be short. He only has a short head start and he doesn’t know he’s being pursued. With any luck I can catch him before I have need of supplies.’

  ‘We can collect food on the way. I can help you.’

  But I stopped him. I was going alone, I said, and before he could argue I’d mounted my steed and taken her in the direction I’d seen the pointy-eared man go in, my hopes high I could catch him shortly.

  They were dashed. I rode hard, but in the end the dark drew in; it had become too dangerous to continue and I risked injuring my horse. In any case, she was exhausted, so reluctantly I decided to stop and let her rest for a few hours.

  And as I sit here writing, I wonder why, after all the years of Reginald being like a father to me, a mentor, a tutor and guide – why did I decide to ride out alone? And why did I keep from him what I’d discovered about Father?

  Have I changed? Has he changed? Or is it that the bond we once shared has changed?

  The temperature has dropped. My steed – and it seems only right that I should give her a name and so, in honour of the way she’s already starting to nuzzle me when in need of an apple, I’ve called her Scratch – lies nearby, her eyes closed, and seems content, and I write in my journal.

  I think about what Reginald and I talked of. I wonder if he’s right to question the man I have become.

  15 July 1747

  I rose early in the morning, as soon as it was light, raked over the dying coals of my fire and mounted Scratch.

  The chase continued. As I rode I mulled over the possibilities. Why had Pointy Ears and the knifeman gone their separate ways? Were they both intending to journey to the Dutch Republic and join Braddock? Would Pointy Ears be expecting his confederate to catch him up?

  I had no way of knowing. I could only hope that, whatever their plans, the man ahead of me had no idea I was in pursuit.

  But if he didn’t – and how could he? – then why wasn’t I catching him?

  And I rode fast but steadily, aware that coming upon him too quickly would be just as disastrous as not catching him at all.

  After about three quarters of an hour I came upon a spot where he had rested. If I’d pushed Scratch for longer, would I have disturbed him, taken him by surprise? I knelt to feel the dying warmth of his fire. To my left, Scratch muzzled something on the ground, a bit of discarded sausage, and my stomach rumbled. Reginald had been right. My prey was much better equipped for the journey than I was, with my half a loaf of bread and apples. I cursed myself for not going through the saddlebags of his companion.

  ‘Come on Scratch,’ I said. ‘Come on, girl.’

  For the rest of the day I rode, and the only time I even slowed down was when I retrieved the spyglass from my pocket and scanned the horizon, looking for signs of my quarry. He remained ahead of me. Frustratingly ahead of me. All day. Until, as light began to fade I started becoming concerned I had lost him altogether. I could only hope I was right about his destination.

  In the end I had no choice but to rest again for the day, make camp, build a fire, allow Scratch to rest, and pray that I hadn’t lost the trail.

  And as I sit here I wonder, Why haven’t I managed to catch him?

  16 July 1747

  i

  When I woke up this morning it was with a flash of inspiration. Of course. Pointy Ears was a member of Braddock’s army and Braddock’s army had joined with forces commanded by the Prince of Orange in the Dutch Republic, which was where Pointy Ears should have been. The reason he was hurrying was because …

  Because he had absconded and was rushing to get back, presumably before his absence was discovered.

  Which meant that his presence in the Black Forest wasn’t officially sanctioned. Which meant that Braddock, as his lieutenant-colonel, didn’t know about it. Or probably didn’t know about it.

  Sorry, Scratch. I rode her hard again – it would be her third successive day – and noticed the tiredness in her, the fatigue that slowed her down. Even so, it was only around half an hour before we came upon the remains of Pointy Ears’ camp and, this time, instead of stopping to test the embers, I urged Scratch on and only let her rest at the next hilltop, where we stopped as we pulled out the spyglass and scanned the area ahead of us, square by square, inch by inch – until I saw him. There he was, a tiny speck riding up the hill opposite, swallowed up by a clump of trees as I watched.

  Where were we? I didn’t know whether or not we had passed over the border into the Dutch Republic. I hadn’t seen another soul for two days, had heard nothing but the sound of Scratch and my own breathing.

  That was soon to change. I spurred Scratch and some twenty minutes later was entering the same band of trees I’d seen my quarry disappear into. The first thing I saw was an abandoned cart. Nearby, with flies crawling over sightless eyes, was the body of a horse, the sight of which made Scratch rear slightly, startled. Like me, she had been used to the solitude: just us, the trees, the birds. Here suddenly was the ugly reminder that in Europe one is never far from conflict, never far from war.

  We rode on more slowly now, being careful among the trees and whatever other obstacles we might find. Moving onwards, more and more of the foliage was blackened, broken or trampled down. There’d been some action here, that much was certain: I began to see bodies of men, splayed limbs and staring, dead eyes, dark blood and mud rendering the corpses anonymous apart from flashes of uniform: the white of the French army, the blue of the Dutch. I saw broken muskets, snapped bayonets and swords, anything of use having already been salvaged. When I emerged from the tree line we were in a field, the field of battle, where there were even more bodies. Evidently it had been only a small skirmish by the standards of war but, even so, it felt as though death was everywhere.

  How long ago it had been I couldn’t say with certainty: enough time for scavengers to strip the field of battle but not enough for the bodies to be removed; within the last day, I would have thought, judging by the state of the corpses and the blanket of smoke that still hung over the pasture – a shroud of it, like morning fog but with the heavy yet sharp scent of gunpowder smoke.

  Here the mud was thicker, churned up by hooves and feet, and as Scratch began to struggle, I reined her to the side, trying to take us around the perimeter of the field. Then just as she stumbled in the mud and almost pitched me forward over her neck I caught sight of Pointy Ears ahead of us. He was the length of the field away, perhaps half a mile or so, a hazy, almost indistinct figure also struggling in the claggy terrain. His horse must have been as exhausted as mine, because he’d dismounted and was trying to pull it by the reins, his curses carrying faintly across the field.

  I pulled out my spyglass to get a better look at him. The last time I’d seen him close up was twelve years ago and he’d been wearing a mask, and I found myself wondering – hoping, even – that my first proper look at him might contain some kind of revelation. Would I recognize him?

  No. He was just a man, weathered and grizzled, like his partner had been, filthy and exhausted from his ride. Looking at him now there was no sense of suddenly knowing. Nothing fell into place. He was just a man, a British soldier, same as the one I had killed in the Black Forest.

  I saw him crane his neck as he stared through the haze at me. From his coat he produced his own spyglass, and for a moment the two of us studied one another through our telescopes, then I watched as he ran to the muzzle of his horse and with renewed vigour began yanking at the reins, at the same time throwing glances back across the field at me.

  He recognized me. Good. Scratch had regained her feet and I pulled her to where the ground was a little har
der. At last we were able to make some headway. In front of me, Pointy Ears was becoming more distinct and I could make out the effort on his face as he pulled out his own horse, then saw the realization dawn on him that he was stuck, and I was gaining on him and would be upon him in a matter of a few short moments.

  And then he did the only thing he could do. He dropped the reins and started to run. At the same time the verge around us gave way sharply, and once again Scratch was finding it difficult to keep her feet. With a quick and whispered ‘thank you’ I jumped from her to give chase on foot.

  The efforts of the last few days caught up with me in a rush that threatened to engulf me. The mud sucked at my boots, making every step not like running but like wading, and the breath was jagged in my lungs, as though I were inhaling grit. Every muscle screamed in protest and pain at me, begging me not to go on. I could only hope that my friend ahead was having it just as hard, even harder perhaps, because the one thing that spurred me on, the one thing that kept my legs pumping and my chest pulling ragged breaths from the air was the knowledge that I was closing the gap.

  He glanced behind and I was close enough to see his eyes widen in fear. He had no mask now. Nothing to hide behind. Despite the pain and exhaustion I grinned at him, feeling dry, parched lips pulling back over my teeth.

  He pressed on, grunting with the effort. It had begun to rain, a drizzle that gave the day an extra layer of haze, as though we were stuck inside a landscape coloured in charcoal.

  Again he risked another look behind and saw that I was even closer now; this time he stopped and drew his sword, held it in two hands with his shoulders slumped, breathing heavily. He looked exhausted. He looked like a man who’d spent day after day riding hard with little sleep. He looked like a man waiting to be beaten.

  But I was wrong; he was luring me forward and, like a fool, I fell for it, and in the next instant was stumbling forward, literally falling as the ground gave way and I waded straight into a vast pool of thick, oozing mud that stopped me in my tracks.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I said.

  My feet disappeared, then my ankles, and before I knew it I was in up to my knees, desperately yanking at my legs, trying to pull them free, while at the same time bracing myself with one hand on the firmer ground around me, trying to keep my sword raised with the other.

  My eyes went to Pointy Ears, and it was his turn to grin now as he came forward and brought his sword down in a chopping, two-handed blow that had plenty of force but was clumsy. With a grunt of effort and a ring of steel I met it and parried, sending him back a couple of steps. Then, as he was off balance, I pulled one of my feet clear of the mud, and my boot, saw my white stocking, filthy as it was, bright compared to the dirt around it.

  Seeing his advantage being squandered, Pointy Ears pressed forward again, this time stabbing forward with his sword, and I defended once and then twice. For a second there was only the sound of clashing steel, of grunts and the rain, harder now, slapping into the mud, me silently thanking God his reserves of cunning were exhausted.

  Or were they? At last he realized I would be beaten more easily if he moved to the rear of me, but I saw what was on his mind and lashed out with my sword, catching him at the knee just above his boot and sending him crashing back, howling in agony. With a cry of pain and indignity he got to his feet, driven on perhaps by outrage that his victory wasn’t being given to him more easily, and kicked out with his good foot.

  I caught it with my other hand and twisted it as hard as I could, hard enough to send him spinning and sprawling face first to the mud.

  He tried to roll away, but was too slow, or too dazed, and I stabbed downwards with my sword, driving it through the back of his thigh, straight into the ground and spearing him there. At the same time I used the handle as a grip and with a wrench pulled myself from the mud, leaving my second boot behind.

  He screamed and twisted, but was held in place by my sword through his leg. My weight on him as I used the sword as leverage to drag myself from the ooze must have been unbearable, and he shrieked in pain and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. Even so, he slashed wildly with his sword and I was unarmed so that, as I flopped on to him, like a badly landed fish, the blade caught me on the side of the neck, opening a cut and letting out blood that felt warm on my skin.

  My hands went to his, and suddenly we were grappling for possession of the sword. Grunting and cursing we fought, when from behind I heard something – something that was surely the sound of approaching feet. Then voices. Somebody speaking in Dutch. I cursed.

  ‘No,’ said a voice, and I realized it was me.

  He must have heard it, too.

  ‘You’re too late, Kenway,’ he snarled.

  The tramping of the feet from behind me. The rain. My own cries of, ‘No, no, no,’ as a voice said, in English, ‘You there. Stop at once.’

  And I twisted away from Pointy Ears, smacking the wet mud in frustration as I pulled myself upright, ignoring the sound of his harsh and jagged laugh as I rose to meet the troops who appeared from within the fog and rain, trying to bring myself to full height as I said, ‘My name is Haytham Kenway, and I am an associate of Lieutenant-Colonel Edward Braddock. I demand this man be given into my custody.’

  The next laugh I heard, I wasn’t sure if it came from Pointy Ears, who lay still pinned to the ground, or perhaps from one of the small band of troops who had materialized before me, like wraiths delivered from the field. Of the commander I saw a moustache, a dirty, wet, double-breasted jacket trimmed with sodden braid that had once been the colour gold. I saw him raising something – something that seemed to flash across my eye line – and realized he was striking me with the hilt of the sword an instant before he made contact, and I lost consciousness.

  ii

  They don’t put unconscious men to death. That would not be noble. Not even in an army commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Edward Braddock.

  And so the next thing I felt was cold water slapping into my face – or was it an open palm on my face? Either way, I was being rudely awakened, and as my senses returned I spent a moment wondering who I was, where I was …

  And why I had a noose around my neck.

  And why my arms were tied behind my back.

  I was at one end of a platform. To my left were four men, also, like me, with their necks in nooses. As I watched, the man on the far left jerked and juddered, his feet kicking at empty air.

  A gasp went up in front of me and I realized that we had an audience. We were no longer in the battlefield but in some smaller pasture where men had assembled. They wore the colours of the British Army and the bearskin hats of the Coldstream Guards, and their faces were ashen. They were here under sufferance, it was clear, forced to watch as the poor unfortunate at the end of the line kicked his last, his mouth open, and the tip of his tongue, bleeding from having been bitten, protruding, his jaw working in to try and gulp air.

  He continued to twitch and kick, his body shaking the scaffold, which ran the length of the platform above our heads. I looked up and saw my own noose tied to it, cast my eyes downwards to the wooden stool on which I stood, and saw my feet, my stockinged feet.

  There was a hush. Just the sound of the hanged man dying, the creak of the rope and the complaint of the scaffold.

  ‘That’s what happens when you’re a thief,’ screeched the executioner, pointing at him then striding down the platform towards the second man, calling out to the stock-still crowd, ‘You meet your maker at the end of a rope, orders of Lieutenant-Colonel Braddock.’

  ‘I know Braddock,’ I shouted suddenly ‘Where is he? Bring him here.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, you!’ bawled the executioner, his finger pointed, while at the same time his assistant, the man who’d thrown water in my face, came from my right and slapped me again, only this time not to bring me to my senses but to silence me.

  I snarled and struggled with the rope tying my hands, but not too vigorously, not enough so that I would overbalan
ce and fall from the stool on which I was so perilously perched.

  ‘My name is Haytham Kenway,’ I called, the rope digging into my neck.

  ‘I said, “Shut your mouth!” ’ the executioner roared a second time, and again his assistant struck me, hard enough so that he almost toppled me from the stool. For the first time I caught sight of the soldier strung up to my immediate left and realized who it was. It was Pointy Ears. He had a bandage that was black with blood around his thigh. He regarded me with cloudy, hooded eyes, a slow, sloppy smile on his face.

  By now the executioner had reached the second man in the line.

  ‘This man is a deserter,’ he screeched. ‘He left his comrades to die. Men like you. He left you to die. Tell me, what should his punishment be?’

  Without much enthusiasm, the men called back, ‘Hang him.’

  ‘If you say so,’ smirked the executioner, and he stepped back, planted his foot in the small of the condemned man’s back and pushed, savouring the revolted reaction of the watching men.

  I shook the pain of the assistant’s blow from my head and continued to struggle just as the executioner reached the next man, asking the crowd the same question, receiving the same muted, dutiful reply then pushing the poor wretch to his death. The platform quaked and shook as the three men jerked on the end of the ropes. Above my head the scaffold creaked and groaned, and glancing up I saw joints briefly part before coming back together.

  Next the executioner reached Pointy Ears.

  ‘This man – this man enjoyed a small sojourn in the Black Forest and thought he could sneak back undetected, but he is wrong. Tell me, how should he be punished?’

  ‘Hang him,’ mumbled the crowd unenthusiastically.

  ‘Do you think he should die?’ cried the executioner.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the crowd. But I saw some of them surreptitiously shaking their heads no, and there were others, drinking from leather flasks, who looked happier about the whole affair, the way you might if you were being bribed with ale. Indeed, did that account for Pointy Ears’ apparent stupor? He was still smiling, even when the executioner moved behind him and planted his foot in the small of his back.