Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘I mean you won’t kill us.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Why not? An eye for an eye. Men of your stripe slaughtered Monica and Lucio, and they were innocents, too, were they not?’

  I nodded.

  She straightened. Her knuckles whitened as her fingers flexed on the ivory handle of her cane, and watching her gaze off into space reminded me of when we’d first met, when she’d sat staring into the fire. The painful thing was that in our short time together I’d come to like and admire Jennifer Scott. I didn’t want her to be capable of hurting us. I thought she was better than that.

  And she was.

  ‘The truth is, I hate the bloody lot of you,’ she said at last, exhaling the words at the end of a long sigh as though she’d waited years to say them. ‘I’m sick of you all. Tell that to your Templar friends when I send you and your lady’s maid –’ She stopped and pointed the cane towards Hélène. ‘She’s not really a lady’s maid, is she?’

  ‘No, mademoiselle,’ I agreed and looked over at Hélène. ‘She thinks she owes me a debt.’

  Jennifer rolled her eyes. ‘And now you owe her a debt.’

  I nodded gravely. ‘Yes – yes, I do.’

  She looked at me. ‘You know, I see good in you, Élise. I see doubts and questions and I think those are positive qualities, and because of that I’ve come to a decision. I’m going to let you have the letters you seek.’

  ‘I no longer want them, mademoiselle,’ I told her tearfully. ‘Not at any price.’

  ‘What makes you think you have a choice?’ she said. ‘These letters are what your colleagues in the Templars want, and they shall have them on the condition, firstly, that they leave me out of their battles in future – that they leave me alone – and, secondly, that they read them. They read what my brother has to say about how Templar and Assassin can work together and then maybe, just maybe, act upon them.’

  She had waved a hand at Smith, who nodded, then moved over to the panels inset into the wall.

  She smiled at me. ‘You’d wondered about those panels, hadn’t you? I know you had.’

  I avoided her eye. Meantime, Mills had triggered a switch so that one of the panels slid back and taken two cigar boxes from a compartment. Returning to stand beside his mistress he opened the top one to show me what was inside: a sheaf of letters tied with a black ribbon.

  Without looking at them she indicated them. ‘Here it is, the sum total of Haytham’s correspondence from America. I want you to read the letters. Don’t worry, you won’t be eavesdropping on any private family matters; we were never close, my brother and I. But what you will find is my brother expanding upon his personal philosophies. And you may find in them – if I have read you correctly, Élise de la Serre – a reason to alter your own thinking. Perhaps take that mode of thinking into your role as a Templar Grand Master.’

  She passed the first box back to Mills then opened the second. Inside was a silver necklace. On it hung a pendant inset with sparking red jewels in the shape of a Templar cross.

  ‘He sent me this, too,’ she explained. ‘A gift. But I have no desire for it. It should go to a Templar. Perhaps one like you.’

  ‘I can’t accept this.’

  ‘You have no choice,’ she repeated. ‘Take them – take them both. Do what you can to bring an end to this fruitless war.’

  I looked at her, and though I didn’t want to break the spell or change her mind, I couldn’t help but ask, ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Because there has been enough blood spilt,’ she said, turning smartly away as though she could no longer bear to look at me – as though she was ashamed of the mercy she felt in her soul and wished she were strong enough to have me killed.

  And then with a gesture she ordered her men to carry Hélène away, telling me when I looked like I might protest, ‘She will be looked after.’

  Jennifer continued, ‘Hélène didn’t want to talk, because she was protecting you. You should be proud to inspire such loyalty in your followers, Élise. Perhaps you can use those gifts to inspire your Templar associates in other ways. We shall see. These letters are not given lightly. I can only hope that you read them and take note of the contents.’

  She gave me two hours with them. It was enough time to read them and form questions of my own. To know that there was another way. A third way.

  vi.

  Jennifer did not bid us goodbye. Instead we were shown out of a rear entrance and into the stable yard where a carriage had been asked to wait. Mills loaded us inside and we left without another word.

  The coach rattled and shook. The horses snorted, their bridles jangled as we made our way across London and towards Mayfair. In my lap I carried the box, inside it Haytham’s letters and the necklace I had been given by Jennifer. I held them tight, knowing that they provided the key to future dreams of peace. I owed it to her to see that they fell into the right hands.

  By my side Hélène sat silent. I reached for her, fingertips stroking the back of her hand as I tried to reassure her.

  ‘Sorry I got you into this,’ I said.

  ‘You didn’t get me into anything, mademoiselle, remember? You tried to talk me out of coming.’

  I gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘I expect you wish you’d done as I’d asked now.’

  She gazed from the glass as the city streets tumbled past as. ‘No, mademoiselle, not for a second did I wish otherwise. Whatever is my fate it is better than what those men had planned for me in Calais. The ones you saved me from.’

  ‘In any case, Hélène, the debt is paid. When we reach France you must go your own way, as a free woman.’

  The ghost of a smile stole across her lips. ‘We shall see about that, mademoiselle,’ she said. ‘We shall see.’

  As the carriage trundled into the tree-lined square at Mayfair I saw activity outside the home of the Carrolls some fifty yards away.

  I called to the driver to stop by banging on the ceiling hatch and as the horses complained and stamped, I opened the carriage door and stood on the running board, shielding my eyes to look towards the distance. There I saw two carriages. The footmen of the Carroll household were milling around. I saw Mr Carroll standing on on the steps of the house, pulling on a pair of gloves. I saw Mr Weatherall come trotting down the steps, buttoning his jacket. At his side hung his sword.

  That was interesting. The footmen were armed, too, and so was Mr Carroll.

  ‘Wait here,’ I called to the driver, then peered inside.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ I said to Hélène softly and then, picking up my skirts, I hurried to a spot near a set of railings from which I could see the carriages more closely. Mr Weatherall stood with his back to me. I cupped my hands to my mouth, made our customary owl sound and was relieved when only he turned round, everybody else too embroiled in their tasks to wonder why they could hear an owl at that time of the early evening.

  Mr Weatherall’s eyes searched the square until they found me and he shifted position, drawing his hands across his chest, assuming a casual pose as, with a hand covering one side of his mouth and the side of his face, he mouthed to me, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Thank God for our lip-reading conversations.

  ‘Never mind that. Where are you going?’

  ‘They found Ruddock. He’s staying at the Boar’s Head Inn on Fleet Street.’

  ‘I need my things,’ I told him. ‘My trunk.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll fetch it and leave it in one of the stables round the back. Don’t hang around; we’re leaving any moment now.’

  All my life I’ve been told I’m beautiful, but I don’t think I’d ever really used it until then, when I returned to our carriage, fluttered my eyelashes at the coachman and persuaded him to fetch my trunk from the mews.

  When he returned I asked him to sit up top while, with a feeling like greeting an old friend, I delved into my trunk. My proper trunk. The trunk of Élise de la Serre rather than Yvonne Albertine. I performed my customary car
riage change. Off came the accursed dress. I slapped Hélène’s hands away as she tried to help then slipped into my breeches and shirt, pummelled my tricorn into shape and strapped on my sword. I shoved a sheaf of letters into the front of my shirt. Everything else I left in the carriage.

  ‘You’re to take this carriage to Dover,’ I told Hélène, opening the door. ‘You’re to go. Meet the tide. Take the first ship back to France. God willing, I will meet you there.’

  I called up to the driver. ‘Take this girl to Dover,’ I called up at him.

  ‘Is she sailing to Calais?’ he asked, having performed the usual double-take at my change of clothes.

  ‘As am I. You’re to wait for me there.’

  ‘Then she might catch the tide. The road to Dover is full of coaches right now.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, and tossed him a coin. ‘Be sure to look after her, and know that if any harm should come to her I’ll come looking for you.’

  His eyes went to my sword. ‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘Good,’ I grinned. ‘Then we understand each other.’

  ‘Seems like we do.’

  Right.

  I took a deep breath.

  I had the letters. I had my sword and a pouch of coins. Everything else went with Hélène.

  The coachman found me another carriage, and as I climbed in I watched Hélène pull away, and silently offered up a prayer for her safe delivery. To my coachman I said, ‘Fleet Street, please, monsieur, and don’t spare the horses.’

  With a smile he nodded, and we were in motion. I slid down the window and looked behind us just in time to see the last of the Carroll party board the coaches. Whips split the air. The two carriages moved off. Through the hatch I called, ‘Monsieur, there are two coaches some distance behind. We must reach Fleet Street ahead of them.’

  ‘Yes, mademoiselle,’ said the driver, unperturbed. He shook the reins. The horses whinnied and their hooves clattered more urgently upon the cobbles as I sat back with my hand gripping the hilt of my sword, and knew that the chase was on.

  vii.

  It wasn’t long before we were pulling into the Boar’s Head Inn on Fleet Street. I tossed coins and gave a grateful wave to the coachman and then, before he had time to open my door, jumped out into the courtyard.

  It was full of stagecoaches and horses, and ladies and gentlemen directing lackeys who groaned beneath the weight of parcels and trunks. I glanced at the entranceway. There was no sign of the Carrolls. Good. It gave me a chance to find Ruddock. I slipped into the back door then along a half-dark passage into the tavern itself, which was dark with low wooden beams. Like the Antlers in Calais, it was alive with the jagged laughter of thirsty travellers, the air thick with smoke. I found a barkeeper who stood with his mouth hidden in his jowls, half asleep and working a towel round a pewter tumbler, eyes faraway, as though dreaming of a better place.

  ‘Hello? Monsieur?’

  Still he stared. I flicked my fingers, called him even more loudly over the din of the tavern and he came to.

  ‘What?’ he growled.

  ‘I’m looking for a man who stays here, a Mr Ruddock.’

  His jowls and the folds of skin at his neck shuddered as he shook his head no. ‘Nobody here by that name.’

  ‘Perhaps he is using a false name,’ I said hopefully. ‘Please, monsieur, it is important that I find him.’

  He squinted at me with renewed interest. ‘What does he look like, this Mr Ruddock of yours?’ he asked me.

  ‘He dresses like a doctor, monsieur, at least he did the last time I saw him, but one thing he can’t change is the distinctive shade of his hair.’

  ‘Almost pure white?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘No, not seen ’im.’

  Even in the thick clamour of the inn I could hear it – a disturbance in the courtyard. The sound of carriages arriving. It was the Carrolls.

  The innkeeper had seen me notice. His eyes glittered.

  ‘You have seen him,’ I pressed.

  ‘Might have,’ he said and with unwavering eyes held out a hand. I crossed his palm with silver.

  ‘Upstairs. First room on the left. He’s using the name Mowles. Mr Gerald Mowles. Sounds like you’d better hurry.’

  The commotion from outside had increased and I could only hope they’d take their time assembling and helping Mrs Carroll and her hideous daughter out of the carriage before they swept into the Boar’s Head Inn like minor royalty, giving me plenty of time to …

  Get upstairs. First door on the left. I caught my breath. I was in the eaves, the slanting beams almost brushing the top of my hat. Even so it was quieter upstairs, the noise from below reduced to a constant background clatter, no hint of the impending invasion.

  I took the few moments of calm before the storm to compose myself, raised my hand, about to knock, then had second thoughts and instead crouched to peer through the keyhole.

  He sat on the bed with one leg pulled up beneath him, wearing breeches and a shirt unlaced to show a bony chest tufted with hair. Though he no longer looked like a doctor, there was no mistaking the shock of white hair and the fact that it was definitely him, the man who had populated my nightmares. Funny how this terror of my childhood now looked very unthreatening indeed.

  From downstairs came the sound of a minor uproar as the Carrolls burst in. There were raised voices and threats and I heard my friend the innkeeper protesting as they made their presence felt. In moments Ruddock would be aware of what was happening and any element of surprise I had would be lost.

  I knocked.

  ‘Enter,’ he called, which surprised me.

  As I came into the room he raised himself to meet me with one hand on his hip, a stance I realized with a puzzled start was supposed to be provocative. For a second or so we were both confused by the sight of one another: him, posing with his hand on his hip; me, bursting in.

  Until at last he spoke in a voice that I was surprised to hear was cultured. ‘I’m sorry, but you don’t look much like a prostitute. I mean, no offence, and you’re most attractive, but just not much like a … prostitute.’

  I frowned at him. ‘No, monsieur, I am not a prostitute, I am Élise de la Serre, daughter of Julie de la Serre.’

  He looked at once blank and quizzical.

  ‘You tried to kill us,’ I explained.

  His mouth formed an O.

  viii.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘and you’re the grown-up daughter come to take revenge, are you?’

  My hand was on the hilt of my sword. From behind I heard the rattle of boots on wooden steps as the Carrolls’ men made their way upstairs. I slammed the door and threw the bolt.

  ‘No. I’m here to save your life.’

  ‘Oh? Really? That’s a turn-up.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky,’ I said. The footsteps were just outside the door. ‘Leave.’

  ‘But I’m not even dressed properly.’

  ‘Leave,’ I insisted, and pointed at the window. There was banging on the door, which shook in its frame, and Ruddock didn’t need telling a third time. He slung one leg over the casement and disappeared, leaving a strong whiff of stale sweat behind, and I heard him skidding down the sloped roof outside. Just then the door splintered and swung open, and the Carrolls’ men burst inside.

  There were three of them. I drew my sword and they drew theirs. Behind them came Mr Weatherall and the three Carrolls.

  ‘Stop,’ called Mr Carroll. ‘For God’s sake, it’s Mademoiselle de la Serre.’

  I stood with my back to the window, the room crowded with people now, swords drawn. From behind I heard a clatter as Ruddock made his way to safety.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Mr Carroll, though not with the urgent tones I might have expected.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I told them. ‘I came looking for him myself.’

  At a gesture from Mr Carroll, the three swordsmen stood down. Carroll looked confused. ‘I see
. You’re here looking for Mr Ruddock. But I thought we were the ones supposed to be looking for Mr Ruddock. Indeed, I was of the understanding that while we were doing that, you would at the home of Jennifer Scott attending to business there. Very important Templar business, yes?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I have been doing,’ I told him.

  ‘I see. Well, first, why don’t you put your sword away? There’s a good girl.’

  ‘It’s because of what I learnt from Jennifer Scott that my sword stays unsheathed.’

  He raised an eyebrow. Mrs Carroll curled a lip and May Carroll sneered. Mr Weatherall shot me a be-careful look.

  ‘I see. Something you were told by Jennifer Scott, the daughter of the Assassin Edward Kenway?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. My colour rose.

  ‘And do you plan to tell us what this woman, an enemy of the Templars, told you about us?’

  ‘That you arranged for Monica and Lucia to be killed.’

  Mr Carroll gave a short, sad shrug. ‘Ah, well, that is true, I’m afraid. A necessary precaution, in order that the subterfuge should not lack veracity.’

  ‘I would never have agreed to take part had I known.’

  Mr Carroll spread his hands as though my reaction were a vindication of their actions. The point of my short sword stayed steady. I could run him through – run him through in an instant.

  But if I did that I’d be dead before his body even hit the floor.

  ‘How did you know to come here?’ he said, with a look at Mr Weatherall, realizing, surely, what the truth of it was. I saw Mr Weatherall’s fingers flex, ready to reach for his sword.

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘The important thing is that you upheld your end of the bargain.’

  ‘Indeed we did,’ he agreed, ‘but did you uphold yours?’

  ‘You asked me to recover some letters from Jennifer Scott. It was at great cost to myself and my lady’s maid, Hélène, but I have managed to do it.’

  He shared a look with his wife and daughter. ‘You did?’

  ‘Not only that, but I’ve read the letters.’