‘Braddock told me later that the insult was “craven”. Hardly the most insulting affront, certainly not worth what happened next, which was that Braddock drew his sword and plunged it into the young man where he stood.
‘Braddock kept a small party of the men nearby at most times. His two regular companions were the executioner, Slater, and his assistant – his new assistant, I should say. I killed the old one. These men, you might almost have called them bodyguards. Certainly they were much closer to him than I was. Whether or not they had his ear I couldn’t say, but they were fiercely loyal and protective and were rushing forward even as the young man’s body fell. They set about the family, Reginald, Braddock and these two of his men, and cut them down, every single one of them: the two men, an older woman, a younger woman, and of course the children, one of them an infant, one of them a babe in arms …’ I felt my jaw clench. ‘It was a bloodbath, Reginald, the worst atrocity of war I have seen – and I’m afraid I’ve seen a great many.’
He nodded gravely. ‘I see. Naturally, this hardened your heart against Edward.’
I scoffed. ‘Of course – of course it has. We are all men of war, Reginald, but we are not barbarians.’
‘I see, I see.’
‘Do you? Do you see at last? That Braddock is out of control?’
‘Steady on, Haytham. “Out of control”? The red mist descending is one thing. “Out of control” is quite another.’
‘He treats his men like slaves, Reginald.’
He shrugged. ‘So? They’re British soldiers – they expect to be treated like slaves.’
‘I think he is moving away from us. These men he has serving him, they’re not Templars, they’re free agents.’
Reginald nodded. ‘The two men in the Black Forest. Were these men part of Braddock’s inner circle?’
I looked at him. I watched him very carefully as I lied: ‘I don’t know.’
There was a long pause and, to avoid meeting his eye, I took a long drink on my ale and pretended to admire the waitress, pleased to have the subject changed when Reginald at last leaned forward to give me more details of my forthcoming journey to Corsica.
ii
Reginald and I parted outside White’s and went to our carriages. When my carriage was some distance away I tapped on the ceiling to stop, and my driver climbed down, looked left and right to check that nobody was watching, then opened the door and joined me inside. He sat opposite me and removed his hat, placing it to the seat beside him and regarding me with bright, curious eyes.
‘Well, Master Haytham?’ he said.
I looked at him, took a deep breath and stared out of the window. ‘I’m due to leave by sea tonight. We will return to Queen Anne’s Square, where I will pack, then straight to the docks, if you would.’
He doffed an imaginary cap. ‘At your service, Mr Kenway, sir, I’m getting quite used to this driving lark. Lots of waiting around, mind, could do without all that, but otherwise, well, at least you ain’t got Frenchmen shooting at you, or your own officers shooting at you. In fact, I’d say the lack of blokes shooting at you is a real perk of the job.’
He could be quite tiresome sometimes. ‘Quite so, Holden,’ I said, with a frown that was intended to shut him up, although chance would be a fine thing.
‘Well, anyway, sir, did you learn anything?’
‘I’m afraid nothing concrete.’
I looked out of the window, wrestling with feelings of doubt, guilt and disloyalty, wondering if there was anyone I truly trusted – anyone to whom I remained truly loyal now.
Ironically, the person I trusted most was Holden.
I had met him while in the Dutch Republic. Braddock had been as good as his word and allowed me to move among his men, asking them if they knew anything of the ‘Tom Smith’ who had met his end on the scaffold, but I wasn’t surprised when my investigations proved fruitless. No man I asked would even admit to knowing this Smith, if indeed Smith was his name – until, one night, I heard a movement at the door of my tent and sat up in my cot in time to see a figure appear.
He was young, in his late twenties, with close-cropped, gingery hair and an easy, impish smile. This, it would turn out, was Private Jim Holden, a London man, a good man who wanted to see justice done. His brother had been one of those who had been hanged the same day I almost met my own end. He had been executed for the crime of stealing stew – that was all he had done, steal a bowlful of stew because he was starving; a flogging offence, at worst, but they hanged him. His biggest mistake, it seemed, had been to steal the stew from one of Braddock’s own men, one of his private mercenary force.
This was what Holden told me: that the fifteen-hundred-strong force of Coldstream Guards was made up mainly of British Army soldiers like himself, but that there was within that a smaller cadre of men personally selected by Braddock: mercenaries. These mercenaries included Slater and his assistant – and, more worryingly, the two men who had ridden to the Black Forest.
None of these men wore the ring of the Order. They were thugs, strong-arms. I wondered why – why Braddock chose men of this stripe for his inner circle, and not Templar knights? The more time I’d spent with him, the more I thought I had my answer: he was moving away from the Order.
I looked back at Holden now. I had protested that night, but he was a man who had glimpsed the corruption at the heart of Braddock’s organization. He was a man who wanted to see justice for his brother and, as a result, no amount of my protesting made the slightest bit of difference. He was going to help me whether I liked it or not.
I had agreed, but on the understanding that his assistance was kept secret at all times. In the hope of hoodwinking those who always seemed one step ahead of me, I needed it to appear as though I’d dropped the matter of finding my father’s killers – so that they might no longer be one step ahead of me.
Thus, when we left the Dutch Republic Holden took on the title of my gentleman’s gentleman, my driver, and, to all intents and purposes, as far as the outside world was concerned, that’s exactly what he was. Nobody knew that in fact he was carrying out investigations on my behalf. Not even Reginald knew that.
Perhaps especially not Reginald.
Holden saw the guilt written across my face.
‘Sir, it ain’t lies you’re telling Mr Birch. All you’re doing is what he’s been doing, which is withholding certain bits of information, just until you’ve satisfied yourself that his name is clear – and I’m sure it will be, sir. I’m sure it will be, him being your oldest friend, sir.’
‘I wish I could share your optimism on the matter, Holden, I really do. Come, we should move on. My errand awaits.’
‘Certainly, sir, and where is that errand taking you, may I ask?’
‘Corsica,’ I said. ‘I’m going to Corsica.’
‘Ah, in the midst of a revolution, so I hear …’
‘Quite right, Holden. A place of conflict is a perfect place to hide.’
‘And what will you be doing there, sir?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Suffice to say, it has nothing to do with finding my father’s killers and is therefore of only peripheral interest to me. It’s a job, a duty, nothing more. I hope that, while I’m away, you will continue your own investigations?’
‘Oh, certainly sir.’
‘Excellent. And see to it that they remain covert.’
‘Don’t you be worrying about that, sir. As far as anybody is concerned, Master Kenway has long since abandoned his quest for justice. Whoever it is, sir, their guard will drop eventually.’
25 June 1753
i
It was hot on Corsica during the day, but at night the temperature dropped. Not too much – not freezing – but enough to make lying on a rock-strewn hillside with no blanket an uncomfortable experience.
Cold as it was, though, there were even more pressing matters to attend to, such as the squad of Genoese soldiers moving up the hill, who I’d like to have said were moving stea
lthily.
I’d like to have said that, but couldn’t.
At the top of the hill, on a plateau, was the farmhouse. I’d been keeping watch on it for the past two days, my spyglass trained on the doors and windows of what was a large building and a series of smaller barns and outbuildings, taking note of comings and goings: rebels arriving with supplies and leaving with them, too; while on the first day a small squad of them – I counted eight – had left the complex on what, when they returned, I realized had been some kind of attack: the Corsican rebels, striking out against their Genoese masters. There were only six of them when they came back, and those six looked exhausted and bloodied, but, nevertheless, without words or gestures, wore an aura of triumph.
Women arrived with supplies not long afterwards, and there was celebration far into the night. This morning, more rebels had arrived, with muskets wrapped in blankets. They were well equipped and had support, it seemed; it was no wonder the Genoese wanted to wipe this stronghold off the map.
I had spent the two days moving around the hill so as to avoid being seen. The terrain was rocky and I kept a safe distance away from the buildings. On the morning of the second day, however, I realized I had company. There was another man on the hill, another watcher. Unlike me, he had remained in the same position, dug into an outcrop of rocks, hidden by the brush and the skeletal trees that somehow survived on the otherwise parched hillside.
ii
Lucio was the name of my target, and the rebels were hiding him. Whether they, too, were affiliates of the Assassins, I had no idea, and it didn’t matter anyway; he was the one I was after: a 21-year-old boy who was the key to solving a puzzle that has tormented poor Reginald for six years. An unprepossessing-looking boy, with shoulder-length hair, who, as far as I could tell from watching the farmhouse, helped out by carrying pails of water, feeding the livestock and, yesterday, wringing the neck of a chicken.
So he was there: that much I’d established. That was good. But there were problems. Firstly, he had a bodyguard. Never far away from him was a man who wore the gowns and cowl of an Assassin; his gaze would often sweep the hillside while Lucio fetched water or scattered chicken feed. At his waist was a sword, and the fingers of his right hand would flex. Did he wear the famous hidden blade of the Assassins? I wondered. No doubt he would. I’d have to beware of him, that much was for certain; not to mention the rebels who were based at the farmhouse. The compound seemed to be crawling with them.
One other thing to take into account: they were clearly planning to leave soon. Perhaps they’d been using the farmhouse as a temporary base for the attack; perhaps they knew that the Genoese would soon be seeking revenge and come looking for them. Either way, they had been moving supplies into the barns, no doubt piling carts high with them. My guess was that they would leave the next day.
A night-time incursion then, would seem to be the answer. And it had to be tonight. This morning I managed to locate Lucio’s sleeping quarters: he shared a medium-sized outhouse with the Assassin and at least six other rebels. They had a code phrase they used when entering the quarters, and I read their lips through my spyglass: ‘We work in the dark to serve the light.’
So – an operation that required some forethought, but, no sooner was I preparing to retire from the hillside in order to concoct my plans, than I saw the second man.
And my plans changed. Edging closer to him, I had managed to identify him as a Genoese soldier. If I was right, that meant he was the forward party of men who would be attempting to take the stronghold; the rest would be along – when?
Sooner, I thought, rather than later. They would want to exact swift revenge for the previous day’s raid. Not only that, but they would want to be seen to be reacting quickly to the rebels. Tonight, then.
So I left him. I let him continue his surveillance and, instead of withdrawing, stayed on the hillside concocting a different plan. My new plan involved Genoese troops.
The observation man had been good. He’d stayed out of sight and then, when dark fell, retreated stealthily, noiselessly, back down the hill. Where, I wondered, was the rest of the force?
Not far away; and an hour or so later I began to notice movement at the bottom of the hill and even, at one point, heard a muffled curse in Italian. By this stage I was about halfway up and, realizing that they would soon begin to advance, I moved even closer to the plateau and the fence of an animal enclosure. Maybe fifty yards away I could see one of the sentries. Last night, they’d had five altogether, around the entire perimeter of the farmyard. Tonight, they would no doubt increase the guard.
I took out my spyglass and trained it on the nearest guard, who stood, silhouetted by the moon at his back, diligently scanning the hillside below him. Of me, he would see nothing, just another irregular shape in a landscape of irregular shapes. No wonder they were deciding to move so quickly after their ambush. It wasn’t the most secure hideout I’d ever seen. In fact, they’d have been sitting ducks were it not for the fact that the approaching Genoese soldiers were so damned clumsy. The conduct of their observation man flattered the operation as a whole. These were men to whom stealth was clearly a foreign and unfamiliar idea, and I was beginning to hear more and more noise from the bottom of the hill. The rebels were almost certain to hear them next. And if the rebels heard them, they would have more than enough opportunity to make their escape. And if the rebels made their escape, they would take Lucio with them.
So I decided to lend a hand. Each guard had responsibility for a pie-slice of the farmyard. Thus, the one nearest to me would move slowly back and forth across a distance of about twenty-five yards. He was good; he made sure that even while he was scanning one section of his area the rest of it was never fully out of sight. But he was also on the move and, when he was, I had a precious few seconds in which to move closer.
So I did. Bit by bit. Until I was close enough to see the guard: his bushy, grey beard, his hat with the brim covering eyes like dark shadows, and his musket slung over his shoulder. And while I couldn’t see or hear the marauding Genoese soldiers yet, I was aware of them, and soon he would be, too.
I could only assume that the same scene was being played out on the other side of the hill, which meant I had to work fast. I drew my short sword and readied myself. I felt sorry for the guard and offered up a silent apology. He had done nothing to me but be a good and diligent guard and he did not deserve to die.
And then, there on the rocky hillside, I paused. For the first time in my life, I doubted my ability to go through with it. I thought of the family on the port, cut down by Braddock and his men. Seven senseless deaths. And all of a sudden I was struck by the conviction that I was no longer prepared to add to the death toll. I couldn’t put this guard, who was no enemy of mine, to the sword. I couldn’t do it.
The hesitation almost cost me dear, because at that same moment the clumsiness of the Genoese soldiers finally made its presence felt, and there were the sounds of clattering rock and a curse from further down the hill that was carried on the night air, first to my ears, then to the sentry.
His head jerked, and straight away he was reaching for his musket, craning his neck as he strained his eyes, staring down the hill. He saw me. For a second our eyes locked. My moment of hesitation was over and I sprang, covering the distance between us in one leap.
I led with my empty right hand outstretched in a claw, and my sword held in my left. As I landed I grabbed the back of his head with my right hand and plunged the sword into his throat. He had been about to alert his comrades, but the shout died to a gurgle as blood gushed over my hand and down his front. Holding his head secure with my right hand, I embraced him then lowered him gently and noiselessly to the dry dirt of the farmyard.
I crouched. About sixty yards away was the second guard. He was a dim figure in the dark, but I could see that he was about to turn and, when he did, he was likely to spot me. I ran – so fast that, for a moment, I could hear the rush of the night, and caught him
just as he turned. Again, I took the back of the man’s neck with my right hand and slammed the sword into him. Again, the man was dead before he hit the dirt.
From further down the hill I heard more noise from the Genoese assault troop, which was blissfully unaware that I had prevented their advance being heard. Sure enough, though, their comrades on the other side had been just as inept, and without a Kenway guardian angel had been heard by the sentries on their side. Straight away the cry went up and, in moments, lights were being lit in the farmhouse and rebels were pouring out carrying lit torches, pulling boots on over their britches, dragging jackets across their backs and passing each other swords and muskets. As I crouched, watching, I saw the doors to a barn thrown open and two men begin pulling out a cart by hand, already piled high with supplies, while another hurried across with a horse.
The time for stealth was over and the Genoese soldiers on all sides knew it, abandoning their attempts to storm the farm quietly and rushing up the hill towards the farmyard with a shout.
I had an advantage – I was already in the farmyard, plus I was not in the uniform of a Genoese soldier, and in the confusion I was able to move among the running rebels without attracting suspicion.
I moved towards the outhouse where Lucio was quartered and almost ran into him as he came darting out. His hair was untied but otherwise he was dressed, and he was calling to another man, exhorting him to make his way to the barn. Not far away was the Assassin, who ran, pulling his robes across his chest and pulling his sword at the same time. Two Genoese raiders appeared around the side of the outhouse and straight away he engaged them, calling back over his shoulder, ‘Lucio, run for the barn.’
Excellent. Just what I wanted: the Assassin’s attention diverted.
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