Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘It’s just Smith,’ he corrected me. ‘Not Mr Smith.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Smith, I –’ I turned and indicated the door – ‘I just needed some air.’

  ‘Your window is not sufficient, miss?’ he said agreeably, though his face remained in the shadows.

  I fought a little wave of irritation, my inner May Carroll outraged that I should be interrogated by a mere butler.

  ‘I wanted more air than that,’ I said rather weakly.

  ‘Well, that’s quite all right, of course. But, you see, when Miss Scott was just a girl this house was the scene of an attack during which her father was killed.’

  I knew this, but nodded anyway as he continued. ‘The family had soldiers on duty and guard dogs, too, but the raiders still managed to gain entrance. The house was badly burned during the attack. Since her return, the mistress has insisted that doors are barred at all hours. While you are, of course, quite welcome to leave the house at any time –’ he gave a short mirthless smile – ‘I must insist that a member of staff be present to ensure the bolts are thrown after your exit and return.’

  I smiled. ‘Of course. I quite understand. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Thank you. That would be much appreciated.’ His eyes roamed over my clothes, leaving me in no doubt that he considered my garb a little unusual, and then he stepped aside, one hand indicating the stairs.

  I left, cursing my own stupidity. Mr Weatherall was right. I should never have taken such a risk.

  ii.

  The next day was the same. Well, not exactly the same, just maddeningly similar. Once again I breakfasted alone; once more I was told that she would see me at some point today and asked to remain in the vicinity of the house. There was more wandering of corridors, more cack-handed sewing, more small talk, not to mention a thrilling turn round the grounds.

  There was at least one aspect to our perambulations that had changed for the better. My route was a little more purposeful than before. I found myself wondering where Jennifer might hide the letters. One of the doors off the reception hall led to a games room and I took the opportunity for a quick inspection of the wood panels inside, pondering whether any of them might slide away to reveal a secret compartment beneath. To be honest I needed a more thorough look through the entire house, but it was huge; the letters could have been in any one of two dozen rooms, and after my scare last night I wasn’t keen on creeping around after dark. No, my best chance of recovering the letters was getting to know Jennifer.

  But how could I do that if she wasn’t even leaving her room?

  iii.

  The same thing happened on the third day. I won’t go into it. Just more sewing, small talk, and, ‘Oh, I think we’ll take the air, Hélène, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ mouthed Mr Weatherall when we liaised that night.

  It was difficult to communicate via signals and lip-reading, but it would have to do. He wasn’t keen on me sneaking out and, after my encounter with Smith the other night, neither was I.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean they could be checking out your cover story.’

  And if they did, would my cover story stand up? Only the Carrolls knew that. I was as much at their mercy as I was a prisoner of Jennifer Scott.

  And then, on the fourth day – at last! – Jennifer Scott emerged from her room. I should meet her by the stables, I was told. The two of us were to promenade at Rotten Row in Hyde Park.

  When we arrived we joined other midday promenaders. These were men and women who walked together under slightly unnecessary parasols and wrapped up against the chill. The walkers waved to carriages and were awarded with imperious waves in return, while those on horseback waved to the walkers and the carriage riders, and every man, woman and child was resplendent in their best finery, waving, walking, smiling, more waving …

  All apart from Miss Jennifer Scott, who, though she had dressed up for the occasion and wore a stately dress, peered distastefully out at Hyde Park from behind a veil of her grey-streaked hair.

  ‘Was this the kind of thing you hoped to see when you came to London, Yvonne?’ she asked with a dismissive hand at the wavers, smilers and small children buttoned into suits. ‘Idiots whose horizons barely stretch beyond the walls of the park?’

  I suppressed a smile, thinking that she and my mother would have got along. ‘It was you I hoped to see, Mademoiselle Scott.’

  ‘And why was that again?’

  ‘Because of my father. His dying wish, remember?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘I may seem old to you, Miss Albertine, but I can assure you I’m not so old that I forget things like that.’

  ‘Forgive me, I meant no offence.’

  That dismissive hand again. ‘None taken. In fact, unless I indicate otherwise assume that no offence has been taken. I do not offend easily, Miss Albertine, of that you may be certain.’

  I could well believe it.

  ‘Tell me, what happened to your father and grandmother after they left us that day?’ she asked.

  I steeled myself and told the story I had learnt. ‘After your brother was merciful my father and grandmother settled just outside Troyes. It was they who taught me English, Spanish and Italian. Their skills in language and translation became much in demand and they made a good living from the services they offered.’

  I paused, searching her face for signs of disbelief. Thanks to my years of woe at the Maison Royale I could just about pass in the languages if she decided to test me.

  ‘Enough to afford servants?’ she asked.

  ‘We were fortunate in that regard,’ I said, and in my mind I tried to reconcile the image of the two ‘language experts’ being able to afford a household full of staff, and found that I couldn’t.

  Even so, if she had her doubts then she kept them hidden behind those grey, half-lidded eyes.

  ‘What of your mother?’

  ‘A local girl. Alas, I never knew her. Shortly after they were married she gave birth to me – but died in childbirth.’

  ‘And what now? With both your grandmother and your father dead, what will you do when you leave here?’

  ‘I shall return to Troyes and continue their work.’

  There was a long pause. I waved at promenaders.

  ‘I wonder,’ I said at last, ‘was Mr Kenway in contact with you before his death? Did he write to you, perhaps?’

  She gazed from the window but I realized she was looking at her own reflection. I held my breath.

  ‘He was struck down by his own son, you know,’ she said a little distantly.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Haytham was an expert fighter, like his father,’ she said. ‘Do you know how our father died?’

  ‘Smith has mentioned it,’ I replied, then added quickly as she shot me a look, ‘by way of explaining the security-conscious nature of the household.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, Edward – our father – was struck down by our attackers. Of course, the first fight you lose is the one that kills you, and nobody can win every fight, and he was an older man by then. But notwithstanding those facts he had the skills and experience to defeat two other swordsmen. I believe he lost the fight because of an injury he’d sustained years before. It slowed him down. Likewise, Haytham lost a fight against his own son, and I have often wondered why. Was he, like Edward, handicapped by an injury? Was that injury the sword your father pushed into him? Or perhaps Haytham had another sort of handicap? Perhaps Haytham had simply decided that now was his time, and that dying at the hands of his son might be a noble thing to do. Haytham was a Templar, you see. The Grand Master of the Thirteen Colonies no less. But I know something that very few people know about Haytham. Those who have read his journals, perhaps; those who have read his letters …’

  The letters. I felt my heart hammering in my chest. The clip-clopping of the horses and the incessant chatter from the promenaders outside seemed to fade into the background as I asked, ‘What was that, Jennifer?
What did you know of him?’

  ‘His doubts, my child. His doubts. Haytham had been the subject of indoctrination by his mentor, Reginald Birch, and to all intents and purposes that indoctrination had worked. After all, he ended his life a Templar. Yet he could not help but question what he knew. It was in his nature to do that. And though it’s unlikely that he ever had answers to his questions, the very fact that he had them was enough. Do you have beliefs, Yvonne?’

  ‘Doubtless I have inherited the values of my parents,’ I replied.

  ‘Indeed, I expect your manners are impeccable and that you are endlessly considerate of your fellow man …’

  ‘I try to be,’ I said.

  ‘How about in more universal issues, Yvonne? Take matters in your home country, for example. Where do your sympathies lie?’

  ‘I daresay the situation is more complex than a simple allotment of sympathy, Mademoiselle Scott.’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘A very sensible answer, my dear. You strike me as one who is not a born follower.’

  ‘I like to feel I know my own mind.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. But tell me, in a little more detail this time, what do you make of the situation in your home country?’

  ‘I have never given the matter much thought, mademoiselle,’ I protested, not wanting to give myself away.

  ‘Please, humour me. Give the matter some thought now.’

  I thought of home. Of my father, who so fervently believed in a monarch appointed by God, and that every man should know his place; the Crows who wanted to depose the king altogether. And Mother, who believed in a third way.

  ‘I believe that reform of some kind is needed,’ I told Jennifer.

  ‘You do?’

  I paused. ‘I think I do.’

  She nodded. ‘Good, good. It is good to have doubts. My brother had doubts. He put them into his letters.’

  The letters again. Not sure where this was going, I said, ‘It sounds as though he was a wise man as well as a merciful one.’

  She chortled. ‘Oh, he had his faults. But at heart, yes, I think he was a wise man, a good man. Come –’ she tapped the ceiling of the carriage with a handle of her cane – ‘let us return. It is almost time for lunch.’

  I was close now, I thought, as we returned to Queen Square. ‘I have something I want to show you before we dine,’ she said as we drove, and I wondered whether it could be the letters.

  At the square the coachman helped us down, but then, instead of accompanying us up the steps to the front door, returned to the driver’s seat, shook the reins and was gone, clip-clopping away into a curtain of fine mist that swirled around the wheels of his vehicle.

  Then we walked to the door, where Jennifer pulled the bell once, then with two more quick jerks.

  And maybe I was being paranoid, but …

  The coachman leaving like that. The bell pull. On edge now I kept the smile on my face as bolts were drawn back, the door opened, Jennifer greeting Smith with just the faintest nod before stepping inside.

  The front door shut. The soft hum of the square was banished. The now-familiar sense of imprisonment washed over me, except this time mixed with a genuine fear, a sense that things were not right. Where was Hélène? I wondered.

  ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to let Hélène know I have returned, please, Smith?’ I asked the butler.

  In return, he inclined his head the usual way and with a smile said, ‘Certainly, mademoiselle.’ But did not move.

  I looked enquiringly at Jennifer. I wanted for things to be normal. For her to chivvy along the butler, but she didn’t. She looked at me and said, ‘Come, I wish to show you the games room, for it was in there that my father died.’

  ‘Certainly, mademoiselle,’ I said, with a sideways look at Smith as we moved over to the wood-panelled door, closed as usual.

  ‘Though I think you’ve seen the games room, haven’t you?’ she said.

  ‘During the last four days I have had ample opportunity to view your beautiful property, mademoiselle,’ I told her.

  She paused with her hand on the doorknob. Looked at me. ‘Four days has given us the time we needed, too, Yvonne …’

  And I didn’t like that emphasis. I really didn’t like that emphasis.

  She opened the door and ushered me inside.

  The curtains were shut. The only light came from candles placed along ledges and mantelpieces, giving the room a flickering orange glow as though in preparation for some sinister religious ceremony. The billiards table had been covered and moved to one side, leaving the floor bare apart from two wooden kitchen chairs facing each other in the middle of the room. Also, there was a footman who stood with his gloved hands clasped in front of him. Mills, I think his name was. And usually Mills smiled, bowed and was as unfailingly polite and decorous as a member of staff should be to a visiting noblewoman from France. Now, however, he simply stared, his face expressionless. Cruel, even.

  Jennifer was continuing. ‘Four days gave us the time we needed to send a man to France in order to verify your story.’

  Smith had stepped in behind us and stood by the door. I was trapped. How ironic that having spent the last few days moaning about being trapped, now I really was.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ I said, sounding more flustered than I wanted to, ‘I must be honest and say I find this whole situation as confusing as I do uncomfortable. If this is perhaps some practical joke or English custom of which I am unaware, I would ask you please to explain yourself.’

  My eyes went to the hard face of Mills the footman, to the two chairs and then back to Jennifer. Her face was impassive. I yearned for Mr Weatherall. For my mother. My father. Arno. I don’t think I have ever felt quite so afraid and alone as I did at that moment.

  ‘Do you want to know what our man discovered there?’ asked Jennifer. She had ignored my question.

  ‘Madame …’ I said in an insistent voice, but still she took no notice.

  ‘He discovered that Monica and Lucio Albertine had indeed been making a living from their language skills, but not enough to afford staff. There was no local girl either. No local girl, no wedding and no children. Certainly not an Yvonne Albertine. Mother and son had lived in modest circumstances on the edge of Troyes – right up until the day they were murdered just four weeks ago.’

  iv.

  I caught my breath.

  ‘No.’ The word was out of me before I had a chance to stop it.

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid so. Your friends the Templars cut their throats as they slept.’

  ‘No,’ I repeated, my anguish as much for myself – for my fraud laid bare – as it was for poor Monica and Lucio Albertine.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me a minute,’ said Jennifer, and departed, leaving me under the gaze of Smith and Mills.

  She returned. ‘It’s the letters you want, isn’t it? You all but told me on Rotten Row. Why do your Templar masters want my brother’s letters? I wonder.’

  My thoughts were a jumble. Options raced across my brain: confess, brazen it out, make a break for it, be indignant, break down and cry …

  ‘I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, mademoiselle,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Oh I’m quite sure you do, Élise de la Serre.’

  Oh God. How did she know that?

  But then I had my answer, as in response to a signal from Jennifer, Smith opened the door and another footman entered. He was manhandling Hélène into the room.

  She was dumped into one of the wooden chairs, where she sat and regarded me with exhausted, beseeching eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘They told me you were in danger.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Jennifer, ‘and neither did we lie, because, in fact, you are both in danger.’

  v.

  ‘Now tell me, what does your Order want with the letters?’

  I looked from her to the footmen and knew the situation was hopeless.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jennifer,’ I told her, ‘I truly
am. You’re right, I am an impostor in your home, and you’re right that I hoped to lay my hands on the letters from your brother –’

  ‘To take them from me,’ she corrected tautly.

  I hung my head. ‘Yes. Yes, to take them from you.’

  She brought two hands to the handle of her cane and leaned towards me. Her hair had fallen over her glasses and the one eye I could see blazed with fury.

  ‘My father, Edward Kenway, was an Assassin, Élise de la Serre,’ she said. ‘Templar agents attacked my house and killed him in the very room in which you now sit. They kidnapped me, delivering me into a life that even in my most fetid nightmares I could never have imagined for myself. A living nightmare that continued for years. I’ll be honest with you, Élise de la Serre, I’m not best disposed towards Templars, and certainly not Templar spies. What do you suppose is the Assassin punishment for spies, Élise de la Serre?’

  ‘I don’t know, mademoiselle,’ I implored, ‘but please don’t hurt Hélène. Me, if it pleases you, but not her. She has done nothing. She is an innocent in all of this.’

  But now Jennifer gave a short, barked laugh. ‘An innocent? Then I can sympathize with her plight because I, too, was once an innocent.

  ‘Do you think I deserved everything that happened to me? Kidnapped and kept a prisoner? Used as a whore. Do you think that I, an innocent, deserved to be treated in such a way? Do you think that I, an innocent, deserve to live out the rest of my years in loneliness and darkness, terrified of demons that come in the night?

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do. But, you see, innocence is not the shield you wish it to be, not when it comes to the eternal battle between Templar and Assassin. Innocents die in this battle you seem so eager to join, Élise de la Serre. Women and children who know nothing of Assassins and Templars. Innocence dies and innocents die – that is what happens in a war, Élise, and the conflict between Templars and Assassins is no different.’

  ‘This isn’t you,’ I said at last.

  ‘What on earth can you mean, child?’