6 December 1788
This evening Mr Weatherall and I took the cart into Châteaufort, and a house there he called his ‘drop’.
‘You’re a more agreeable coachman than young Jacques, I must say,’ he’d said, settling in at my side. ‘Although I’ll say this, he’s a cracking horseman. Never needs to use the whip and rarely even touches the reins. Just sits there on the shaft with his feet up, whistling through his teeth, like this …’
He whistled in an approximation of his usual coachman. Well, I was no Jacques, and my hands froze on the reins but I enjoyed the scenery as we rode. Winter had begun to bite hard and the fields on either side of the track into town were laced with ice that glimmered beneath a low skirt of early evening fog. It would be another bad winter, that was for certain, and I wondered how the peasants who worked the fields felt, looking from their windows. My privilege allowed me to see the beauty ushered into the landscape. They would see only hardship.
‘What’s a “drop”?’ I asked him.
‘Aha,’ he laughed, slapping his gloved hands together, his cold breath clouding around his upturned collar. ‘Ever seen a dispatch arrive to the lodge? No. That’s because they come from here.’ He pointed up the highway. ‘A drop is how I can conduct my business without giving away my exact location. The official story is that you’re completing your education and I’m whereabouts unknown. That’s how I want things to remain for the time being. And to do that I have to route my correspondence through a series of contacts.’
‘And who are the people you’re hoping to hoodwink. The Crows?’
‘Could be. Don’t know yet, do we? We’re still no closer to finding out who hired Ruddock.’
There was an awkward moment between us. Almost everything about the trip to London had remained unspoken, but most of all the fact that it had achieved little of real worth. Yes, I now had the letters and had returned a different, more enlightened woman, but the fact was that we’d gone there to find Ruddock and had done nothing of the sort.
Well, we had found him. Only, I had let him go. And the sole pieces of information we had from the experience were that Ruddock no longer dressed like a doctor, and that he sometimes went under the alias Gerald Mowles.
‘He won’t be using that alias again, will he? He’d have to be a bloody idiot to try that again,’ Mr Weatherall had grunted, which reduced the pieces of information I had to one.
Plus, of course, I had killed May Carroll.
Over the kitchen table at the lodge we had discussed how the Carrolls might respond. For a month or so, Mr Weatherall had monitored the dispatches and found no mention of the incident.
‘I didn’t think they’d want to make it official business,’ Mr Weatherall had said. ‘Fact is, they were about to bump off the Grand Master’s daughter, herself a Grand Master in waiting. Try explaining that one. No. The Carrolls will want their revenge, but they’ll take it the clandestine way. They’ll want you, me, and maybe even Hélène dead. And sooner or later, probably just when we least expect it, someone will pay us a visit.’
‘We’ll be ready for them,’ I told him. But I remembered the battle in the Boar’s Head Inn, when Mr Weatherall had been a shadow of his former self. The drink, the advancing years, a loss of confidence – whatever the reason, he was no longer the great warrior he’d been. And now, of course, he’d lost a leg. I’d been training with him, and while he’d continued coaching me in swordsmanship, for his own part he had begun to concentrate more on his knife-throwing skills.
We were greeted by the sight of the three castles of Châteaufort, and in the square I climbed down, collected Mr Weatherall’s crutches and helped him out.
He led us to a shop in one corner of the square.
‘A cheese shop?’ I said, eyebrows arching.
‘Poor old Jacques can’t stand the smell of it; I have to leave him outside. You coming in?’
I grinned and followed as he bowed his head and removed his hat, stepping inside. He greeted a young girl behind the counter, then moved through to the rear. Resisting the urge to hold a hand over my mouth I followed to find him surrounded by wooden shelves on which were wheels of cheese. His nose was raised as he enjoyed the scent of the pungent cheese fumes.
‘You smell that?’ he asked.
I could hardly miss it. ‘This is the drop, is it?’
‘Indeed it is. If you look beneath that cheese there, you may find some correspondence for us.’
It was a single letter that I handed to him. I waited as he read it.
‘Right,’ he said, when he’d finished, folding the letter and tucking it into his greatcoat. ‘You know how I said that our friend Mr Ruddock would have to be bloody stupid to use his Gerald Mowles identity again?’
‘Yes,’ I said cautiously, feeling a little tingle of excitement at the same time.
‘Well, he is – he’s bloody stupid.’
12 January 1789
It was dark and smoky in the Butchered Cow, as I imagine it always was, and the gloom was oppressive, despite the noise of the place. You know what it reminded me of? The Antlers in Calais. Only the Antlers in Calais removed to the harsh fields and even harsher living conditions of the fields of Rouen.
I was right. Winter had bit hard. Harder than ever.
The smell of ale seemed to hang about the damp boards like mist; it was ingrained in the walls and in the woodwork, and the tables at which the drinkers sat stank of it – not that they minded. Some were hunched over their tankards, so low that the brims of their hats were almost touching the tabletops, talking in low voices and whiling the evening away with grumbles and gossip; others were in groups, rattling dice in cups or laughing and joking. They banged their empty tankards on the table and called for more ale, brought to them by the only woman in the room, a smiling barmaid who was as practised at dispensing ale as she was at dancing out of the way of the men’s grabbing hands.
It was into this tavern that I went, escaping a biting wind that whistled and swirled about me as I heaved the door shut and stood for a second on the threshold, stamping the snow off my boots.
I wore robes that almost reached the floor, a hood pulled up to hide my face. The loud chatter in the tavern was suddenly hushed, replaced instead by a low murmur. The brims of hats dipped lower; the men watched as I turned, closed the door, then stood in the shadows for a moment.
I moved across the room, boots clacking on the boards, to a counter where stood the barkeeper, the barmaid and two regulars clutching tankards, one of them regarding the floor, the other watching with flinty eyes and a set mouth.
At the counter I reached for my hood and drew it back to reveal red hair that I shook loose a little. The barmaid pursed her lips a little, and almost reflexively her hands went to her hips and her chest wiggled a little.
I looked carefully around the room, letting them know I was not at all intimidated by my surroundings. The men regarded me back with watchful eyes, no longer studying the tabletops, fascinated and entranced by the new arrival. Some licked their lips and there was much nudging, some sniggers. Ribald remarks were exchanged.
I took it all in, and then I turned to give the room my back, moving up to the counter, where one of the regulars shifted to let me in. The other one, however, remained where he was, so that he was standing close to me, deliberately looking me up and down.
‘Good evening,’ I said to the barman. ‘I’m hoping you might be able to help me – I’m looking for a man.’ I said it loudly enough for the entire tavern to hear.
‘Looks like you’ve come to the right place then,’ rasped the potato-nosed drinker by my side, although he said it to the room, which roared with laughter.
I smiled and ignored him. ‘He goes by the name of Bernard,’ I added. ‘He has some information I require. I was told I might find him here.’
All eyes turned to a corner of the tavern, where Bernard sat, his eyes wide,
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Bernard, perhaps we could step outside fo
r a moment in order that we can talk.’
Bernard stared but didn’t move.
‘Come on, Bernard, I won’t bite.’
Then Potato-Nose stepped away from the counter so that he was in front of me, facing me. His stare grew harder, if such a thing were possible, but his grin was sloppy and he swayed slightly as he stood.
‘Now you just wait a minute, girlie,’ he said, with a sneering tone. ‘Bernard ain’t going nowhere, especially not till you tell us what’s on your mind.’
I frowned a little. Looked him over. ‘And how are you related to Bernard?’ I asked politely.
‘Well, it looks like I’ve just become his guardian,’ replied Potato-Nose. ‘Protecting him against a red-haired bint who seems to be getting a bit above herself, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
There was a chortle from around the tavern.
‘My name is Élise de la Serre of Versailles,’ I smiled. ‘To be honest, if you don’t mind me saying, it’s you who’s getting above himself.’
He snorted. ‘I doubt that to be the truth. Way I see it, it’s soon coming to the end of the road for the likes of you and your kind.’ He threw the last words over his shoulder, slurring them slightly.
‘You would be surprised,’ I said evenly. ‘We red-haired bints have a habit of getting the job done. The job in this case being to speak to Bernard. I intend to get it done, so I suggest that you go back to your ale and leave me to my business.’
‘And what business might that be? Far as I can see, the only business a lady has in a tavern is serving the ale, and I’m afraid that position is already taken.’ More titters, this time led by the barmaid.
‘Or perhaps you have come to entertain us. Is that right, Bernard, have you paid for a singer for the evening?’ Potato-Nose licked lips that were already wet. ‘Or perhaps another kind of entertainment?’
‘Look, you’re drunk, you’re forgetting your manners, so I’ll forget you said that on condition you stand aside.’
My voice was steely, and the men in the tavern noticed.
Not Potato-Nose, though, who was oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere and enjoying himself too much. ‘Perhaps you are here to entertain us with a dance,’ he said loudly. ‘What is it you’re hiding under there?’ And with that he reached forward to pluck at my robes.
He froze. My hand went to his. My eyes narrowed. Then Potato-Nose was pulling back and snatching a dagger from his belt.
‘Well, well,’ he continued, ‘it looks as though the red-haired bint is carrying a sword.’ He waved the knife. ‘Now what you be needing with a sword, mademoiselle?’
I sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. In case I need to cut some cheese? Why would it matter to you anyway?’
‘I’ll take it if you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘then you can be on your way.’
Behind, the other customers watched wide-eyed. Some of them began to edge away, sensing that their visitor was unlikely to give up her weapon willingly.
Instead, after a moment of seeming to consider, I reached a hand to my robes. Potato-Nose jabbed threateningly with the dagger but I held my palms out and moved slowly, drawing back the robes.
Below I wore a leather tunic. At my waist was the hilt of my sword. I reached for it, my eyes never leaving those of Potato-Nose.
‘Other hand,’ said Potato-Nose, grinning at his own cleverness, insisting with the knife.
I obliged. With finger and thumb I used my other hand to remove the sword gently by its handle. It slid slowly from the scabbard. All held their breath.
Then with a sudden movement of my wrist I flicked the sword up and out of the sheath so that one moment it was in my fingers, the next gone.
It happened in the blink of an eye. For a fraction of a second Potato-Nose gaped at the spot where the sword should have been, then his eyes jerked up in time to see it slice down towards his knife hand. Which he snatched out of the way, the sword thunking to the wood, where it stuck, vibrating slightly.
A smile of victory had already begun to gather at Potato-Nose’s mouth before he realized he had left himself exposed, his knife pointing in the wrong direction, giving me enough room to step forward, twist and smash him across the nose with my forearm.
Blood fountained from his nose, and his eyes rolled upwards. His knees met the boards as he sank downwards, then seemed to wobble as I stepped forward, put my boot to his chest and was about to push him gently backwards when I thought better of it, took a step back and kicked him in the face instead.
He dropped face first and lay still, breathing but out for the count.
There was silence in the tavern as I beckoned Bernard then retrieved my sword. Bernard was already scrambling obediently over as I sheathed it.
‘Don’t worry,’ I told him as he stood some feet away, Adam’s apple bobbing, ‘you’re in no danger – unless you’re planning on calling me a red-haired bint.’ I looked at him. ‘Are you planning on calling me a red-haired bint?’
Bernard, younger, taller and more spindly than Potato-Nose, shook his head vigorously.
‘Good, then let’s take this outside.’
I glanced around to check whether or not there were any more challengers – the customers, owner and barmaid all found something of interest to study at their feet – and satisfied, I ushered Bernard outside.
‘Right,’ I said, once there. ‘I’m told you may know something about the whereabouts of a friend of mine – he goes by the name of Mowles.’
14 January 1789
i.
On a hillside overlooking a village outside Rouen, three landworkers wearing leather jerkins laughed and joked, and then, on the count of three, heaved a gallows on to a low wooden platform.
One of the men placed a three-legged stool beneath the gallows then bent to help his two companions as they went to work hammering in the struts that would keep the gallows in place, the rhythmic knock-knock carried on the wind to where I sat on my horse, a beautiful and calm gelding that I’d called Scratch, in honour of our beloved and long since departed wolfhound.
At the bottom of the hill was a village. It was tiny, more like a cluster of disconsolate shacks and a tavern that had been scattered along the perimeter of a brown and muddy square, but it was a village all the same.
A freezing rain had eased to a steady and just as freezing drizzle, and a fierce, bone-chilling wind had blown up. The villagers waiting in the square wrapped shawls tightly round themselves, clasping shirts at their necks as they awaited the day’s entertainment – a hanging. What could be better? Nothing like a good hanging to raise the spirits when the frost had killed the crops and the local landowner was raising his rents and the king had new taxes he hoped to enforce.
From a building I guessed was the jailhouse there came a noise, and the frozen spectators turned to see a priest wearing a black hat and robes emerge, his voice rich with solemnity as he read from the bible. Behind him came a jailer, who held a length of rope, the other end of which tied the hands of a man who wore a hood over his head and staggered and slipped in the mud of the square, blindly shouting protestations in the direction of no one in particular.
‘I think there’s been some mistake,’ he was shouting – except he shouted it in English, before remembering to do it in French. Villagers stood watching him as he was led towards the hill, some crossing themselves, some jeering. There was not a gendarme to be seen. No judge or officer of the law. This was what passed for justice out here in the country, it seemed. And they said Paris was uncivilized.
The man, of course, was Ruddock, and looking down the hill upon him, as he was pulled by rope so that he could swing at the end of another one, it was difficult to believe he had ever been an Assassin. No wonder the creed had washed their hands of him.
I pushed back the hood of my robes, shook my hair free, and looked down upon Bernard who stood gazing up at me with wide, adoring eyes.
‘Here they come, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘just as I promised they would.’
>
I dangled a purse into his palm then tweaked it away when he went to grasp it.
‘And that’s definitely him, is it?’ I asked.
‘That’s him all right, mademoiselle. Man who goes by the name of Monsieur Gerald Mowles. They say he tried to swindle an elderly lady out of her money but was caught before he could leave.’
‘And then sentenced to death.’
‘That’s right, mademoiselle; the villagers sentenced him to death.’
I gave a short laugh and looked back to where the grim procession had reached the foot of the hill and was climbing towards the gallows, shaking my head at how low Ruddock had sunk and wondering if it might be better to do the world a favour and let him swing. After all, this was a man who had tried to kill me and my mother.
Something Mr Weatherall had said to me before I left played over in my mind. ‘If you find him, do me a favour and don’t bring him here.’
I’d looked sharply at him. ‘And why would that be, Mr Weatherall?’
‘Well, two reasons. Firstly, because this is our hidey-hole and I don’t want it compromised by some scumbag who sells his services to the highest bidder.’
‘And the second reason?’
He shifted uncomfortably and reached to scratch at the stump of his leg, something he had a habit of doing. ‘The other reason is that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our Mr Ruddock. Maybe too much thinking, you might say, than is healthy. And I suppose I blame him for this.’ He indicated his leg. ‘And also because, well, he tried to kill you and Julie, and I’ve never quite got over that.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Was there ever anything between you and my mother, Mr Weatherall?’
He smiled and tapped the side of his nose. ‘A gentleman never tells, young Élise, you should know that.’
But he was right. This man had attacked us. Of course I was going to save him from the gallows, but that was because there were things I wanted to know. But what about after that? Did I exact my revenge?
Assassin’s Creed® Page 210