Scrambling towards the gallows was a group of women who formed a disorderly line, as Ruddock, still protesting his innocence, was dragged to where the gallows stood silhouetted against the winter-grey skyline.
‘What are they doing?’ I asked Bernard.
‘They’re barren women, mademoiselle. They hope that by touching the hand of the condemned man it will help them conceive.’
‘You’re a superstitious, man, Bernard.’
‘It’s not superstition if I know it to be true, mademoiselle.’
I looked at him, wondering what went on his head. How did Bernard and people like him get to be so medieval?
‘Did you want to save Monsieur Mowles, mademoiselle?’ he asked me.
‘Indeed I do.’
‘Well, you’d better hurry then, they’ve started.’
What? I swivelled in the saddle in time to see one of the leather jerkins haul the stool away and Ruddock’s body fall and be snapped tight by the noose.
‘Mon dieu,’ I cursed and set off across the hillside, low in the saddle, hair out straight behind me.
Ruddock jerked and writhed on the rope.
‘Gah!’ I urged my horse – ‘Come on, Scratch!’ – and thundered towards the gallows as Ruddock’s dangling legs pumped. I drew my sword.
I dropped the reins and sat upright in the saddle, a matter of yards from the gallows now. I tossed my sword from my right to my left hand, brought the weapon across my body, then flung out my right arm. I leaned to the right, dangerously low in the saddle.
His legs gave one last convulsion.
I swept the sword, sliced the rope and at the same time grabbed Ruddock’s spasming body with my right arm, heaving it on to Scratch’s neck and hoping to God he could bear the sudden extra weight and that with God’s grace, and maybe just a little bit of luck, we’d somehow stay on all four legs.
Come on, Scratch.
But it was too much for Scratch, whose legs buckled, and we all came crashing to the ground.
In a trice I was on my feet, sword drawn. An enraged villager, deprived of his day’s hanging, lumbered out of the small crowd towards me, but I stood, pivoted and kicked, choosing to stun rather than hurt him, and sent him reeling back into the knot of villagers. Collectively they thought twice about trying to stop me, deciding instead to stand and mutter darkly, the women pointing at me – ‘Oi, you can’t do this’ – and prodding their men into doing something – and all of them looking pointedly at the priest, who merely looked worried.
Beside me, Scratch had scrambled to his feet. As had Ruddock, who’d immediately set off in a run. Still hooded, panicking, he dashed in the wrong direction, back towards the gallows, his hands tied, the severed noose dancing on his back.
‘Watch out,’ I tried to shout. But with a solid thump he ran into the platform, spinning off with a yell of pain then falling to the ground where he lay, coughing and obviously hurt.
I flipped back my robes and sheathed my sword, and turned to gather Scratch. Next I caught the eye of a young peasant at the front of the crowd.
‘You,’ I said. ‘You look like a big strong lad. You can help me with a bit of lifting. That barely conscious man on this horse, please.’
‘Oi, you can’t –’ began an older woman nearby, but in a second my sword was at her throat. She looked disdainfully down the blade at me. ‘You lot think you can do what you want, don’t you?’ she sneered.
‘Really? Then tell me on whose authority is this man condemned to death. You can all count yourselves lucky I don’t report your actions to the gendarmes.’
They looked bashful; there was some clearing of throats and the woman at the end of my blade shifted her gaze.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘I just want some help with some lifting.’
My helper did as he was told.
Next, making sure Ruddock was secure, I mounted Scratch, and as I pulled him round to leave I caught the eye of the lad who had helped me, gave him a wink – and then was off.
I rode for miles. There were plenty of people abroad, most hurrying home before darkness fell, but they paid me no mind. Perhaps they came to the conclusion that I was a long-suffering wife carrying her drunken husband home from the tavern. And if they did come to that conclusion, well, then I was certainly long-suffering where Ruddock was concerned.
From the draped body in front of me came the sound of a gurgle, so I dismounted, laid my prisoner on the ground, reached for a water bottle and squatted by his side. The stench of him assaulted my nostrils.
‘Hello again,’ I said when his eyes opened and he gazed glassily at me. ‘It’s Élise de la Serre.’
He groaned.
ii.
Ruddock tried to pull himself up on his elbows, but he was as weak as a kitten and from my squatting position I easily held him down with the fingertips of one hand, placing the other to the hilt of my sword.
For a moment or so he writhed pathetically, more as though he was having a grown-up-baby tantrum than any concerted effort to escape.
Once he settled, he stared up at me balefully. ‘Look, what do you want?’ he said with a hurt tone. ‘I mean, you obviously don’t want to kill me, otherwise you would have done it by now …’
Something occurred to him. ‘Oh no. You haven’t been saving my life in order to have the pleasure of killing me yourself, have you? I mean, that would be cruel and unusual. You’re not doing that, are you?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not doing that. Not yet.’
‘So what is it you want?’
‘I want to know who hired you to kill me and my mother in Paris in ’75.’
He snorted disbelievingly. ‘And if I tell you, then you’ll kill me.’
‘Try this: if you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you.’
He turned his head to one side. ‘And what if I don’t know?’
‘Well, then I’ll torture you until you tell me.’
‘Well, then I’ll just say any name until you let me go.’
‘And then when I find out you lied I’ll come after you again, and I’ve found you twice, Monsieur Ruddock, I’ll find you again, and then again, if necessary, and then again. And you’ll never be rid of me, not until I have satisfaction.’
‘Oh for crying out loud,’ he said. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’
‘You tried to kill my mother and me.’
‘Well, yes,’ he admitted, ‘but I didn’t succeed, did I?’
‘Who hired you?’
‘I don’t know.’
I went up to one knee, drew my sword and held it to his face, the tip of it just under his eyeball.
‘Unless you were hired by a ghost, you know who hired you. Now who hired you?’
His eyeballs darted furiously as though trying to get a fix on the point of the blade. ‘I promise you,’ he wheedled, ‘I promise you I don’t know.’
I jogged the blade slightly.
‘A man!’ he squealed. ‘A man in a coffee house in Paris.’
‘Which coffee house?’
‘The Café Procope.’
‘And what was his name?’
‘He didn’t tell me.’
I flashed the blade across his right cheek, giving him a cut. He screamed and though inside I flinched I kept my face blank – cruel, even – the face of someone determined to get what she wants, even though I was fighting a sinking feeling inside, a sense that I’d come to the end of a decade-long wild-goose chase.
‘I promise. I promise. He was a stranger to me. He didn’t tell me, I didn’t ask. I took half the money then and was to return for it when the job was done. But, of course, I never went back.’
With a sinking heart I realized he was telling the truth: that fourteen years ago an anonymous man had hired another anonymous man to do a job. And there the story ended.
I had one last bluff up my sleeve, and I stood, keeping the blade where it was.
‘Then all that remains is to exact revenge for what you did in ’75.’
His eyes widened. ‘Oh for God’s sake, you are going to kill me.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I can find out,’ he said quickly. ‘I can find out who the man was. Let me find out for you.’
I regarded him carefully, as though mulling it over, even though the truth was I had no intention of killing him. Not like this. Not in cold blood.
At last I said, ‘I’ll spare your life so that you can do as you say. Know this, though, Ruddock, I want to hear from you within six months – six months. You can find me at the La Serre’s Île Saint-Louis estate in Paris. Whether you have learnt anything or not, you come to find me or you can spend the rest of your days expecting me to appear from the shadows and slit your throat. Do I make myself clear?’
I sheathed my sword, mounted Scratch. ‘There’s a town two miles in that direction,’ I said, pointing. ‘See you in six months, Ruddock.’
I rode away. And I waited until I was out of sight of Ruddock to let my shoulders slump.
Wild-goose chase indeed. All I’d learnt was that there was nothing to learn.
Would I ever see Ruddock again? I doubted it. I wasn’t sure if my promise to hunt him down was an empty threat or not, but I knew this: like much else in life it was a lot easier said than done.
4 May 1789
This morning I woke early, dressed and went to where my trunk was waiting for me by the front door of the lodge. I’d hoped to slip out quietly, but when I crept through to the entrance hall they were all were: Madame Levene and Jacques; Hélène and Mr Weatherall.
Mr Weatherall held out his hand. I looked at him.
‘Your short sword,’ he prompted. ‘You can leave it here. I’ll take good care of it.’
‘But then I won’t have a …’
He’d reached for another sword. He tucked his crutches into his armpits and held it out to me.
‘A cutlass,’ I said, turning it over in my hands.
‘Indeed, it is,’ said Mr Weatherall. ‘Lovely fighting weapon. Light and easy to handle; great for close combat.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said.
‘Too blinkin’ right it’s beautiful. It’ll stay beautiful if you take good care of it. And no naming it now, you hear?’
‘I promise,’ I said, and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. ‘Thank you, Mr Weatherall.’
He blushed. ‘You know, you’re a grown woman now, Élise. A grown woman who’s saved my life. You can stop calling me Mr Weatherall. You can call me Freddie.’
‘You’ll always be Mr Weatherall to me.’
‘Oh, suit your bloody self,’ he said, pretending to be exasperated, and used the opportunity to turn and wipe a tear from his eye.
I kissed Madame Levene and thanked her for everything. With gleaming eyes she held me at arm’s length, as though wanting to study me. ‘I asked you to come back from London a changed person, and you did me proud. You went an angry girl, and came back a young woman. You are a credit to the Maison Royale.’
I brushed aside the proffered hand of Jacques, and instead took him in a hug and gave him a kiss that made him blush. I cast a sideways glance at Hélène, and in an instant I realized that they had formed a bond.
‘He’s a lovely lad,’ I whispered into her ear as I gave her a goodbye kiss, and I’ll eat my hat if they aren’t together by the time of my next visit.
Talking of which, I put on my hat and took hold of my trunk. Jacques bounded forward to take it from me but I stopped him. ‘That’s very kind of you, Jacques, but I wish to meet the carriage alone.’
And so I did. I took my trunk to the service highway close to the gates of the Maison Royale. The school building stood on the hillside watching me, and where once upon a time I would have seen malevolence in that stare, now I saw comfort and protection – which I was leaving behind.
It wasn’t far from the Maison Royale to home, of course. I’d barely settled by the time we came to the tree-bordered drive of our chateau, which ahead of me looked like a castle with its turrets and towers, presiding over the gardens that swept away in all directions.
There I was met by Olivier, and once inside greeted by staff, some of whom I knew well – Justine, the sight of her bringing the memories of Mother flooding back – some who were unfamiliar faces to me. When my trunk was installed in my room I took a tour of the house. I’d returned in the school holidays, of course. It wasn’t as if this was some great homecoming. But even so, it felt like one. And for the first time in years I climbed the stairs to Mother’s rooms and went to her bedchamber.
The fact that it was serviced but otherwise left as it had been created a strong, almost overwhelming sense of her presence, as though she might walk in at any moment, find me sitting on the end of her bed and sit down next to me, putting an arm round my shoulders. ‘I’m very proud of you, Élise. We both are.’
I stayed like that for a while, with her phantom arm round my shoulder. It wasn’t until I felt the tickle of tears on my cheeks that I realized I was crying.
5 May 1789
i.
In a courtyard of the Hôtel des Menus-Plaisirs in Versailles, the king addressed the 1,614-strong meeting of the Estates General. It was the first time that the representatives of the three estates – the clergy, the nobility and the common man – had officially met since 1614, and the huge vaulted chamber was full, with row upon row of expectant Frenchmen hoping that the king would say something – anything – that would help pull his country from the swamp in which it was apparently mired. Something to point the way forward.
I sat beside my father during the speech and the two of us were positively vibrating with hope before it began, a feeling which soon dissipated as our beloved leader began to drone on – and on, and on – saying nothing of any significance, offering no comfort to the downtrodden Third Estate, the common man.
Across the way, seated together, were the Crows. Messieurs Lafrenière, Le Peletier and Sivert, and Madame Levesque, wearing scowls that went with the black of their clothes. As I took my seat I caught their eye and gave a short deferential bow, hiding my true feelings behind a false smile. In return they nodded back with false smiles of their own and I felt their eyes on me, assessing me as I took my seat.
When I pretended to inspect something at my feet I looked at them surreptitiously from beneath my curls. Madame Levesque was whispering something to Sivert. Receiving a nod in return.
When the boring speech was over the estates began shouting at one another. Father and I took our leave of the Hôtel des Menus-Plaisirs, dismissed our carriage and walked along the avenue de Paris before taking a footpath that led across to the rear lawns of our chateau.
We chatted idly as we walked. He asked me about my final year at the Maison Royale but I steered the conversation to less dangerous and lie-filled waters, and so for a while we reminisced about when Mother was alive, and when Arno had joined the household. And then, when we had left the crowds behind and had open fields to one side, the palace watching over us on the other, he broached the subject – the subject being my failure to bring Arno into the fold.
‘Indoctrinate him, you mean,’ I said at the mention of the idea.
Father sighed. He was wearing his favourite hat, a black beaver which he now removed, first scratching at the wig below, which irritated him, and then passing a hand across his forehead and regarding his palm as though expecting to find it slicked with sweat.
‘Do I need to remind you, Élise, that there is a very real possibility that the Assassins might reach Arno first? You forget I have spent a great deal of time with him. I am aware of his abilities. He is … gifted. It can only be a matter of time before the Assassins sniff that out, too.’
‘Father, what if I were to bring Arno over to the Order …’
He gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘Well, then it would be about time.’
I ploughed on. ‘You say he’s gifted. What if Arno could somehow combine the two creeds? What if he is the one capable of doing that?’
> ‘Your letters,’ said Father, nodding thoughtfully. ‘You spoke about this in your letters.’
‘I’ve given the matter much thought.’
‘I can tell. Your ideas, they had a certain youthful idealism, but they also showed a certain … maturity.’
For that I offered a silent thanks (not to mention an apology) to Haytham Kenway.
‘Perhaps it may interest you to know that I have arranged to meet the Assassin Grand Master, Count Mirabeau,’ continued Father.
‘Really?’
He held a finger to his lips. ‘Yes, really.’
‘Because you want our two orders to begin talks?’ I asked, whispering now.
‘Because I think we may have some common ground on the issue of our country’s future.’
Perhaps, dear journal, you’re wondering if my conversion to the idea of Assassin–Templar unity had anything to do with the fact that I was a Templar and Arno an Assassin?
No, is the answer. Any vision I had for the future was for the good of us all. But if that meant that Arno and I could be together, with no pretence or lies between us, then of course I embraced that, too, but as a pleasant side effect only. Promise.
ii.
Later, in the palace, a ceremony took place – my induction to the Order. My father wore the ceremonial robes of the Grand Master: a long, flowing ermine-lined cloak and a silk stole draped round his neck, his waistcoat buttoned and the buckles of his shoes polished to a shine.
As he gave me the Templar pin of initiation I gazed into his smiling eyes, and he looked so handsome, so proud.
I had no idea it would be the last time I saw him alive.
But during the initiation there was no sign of the fact that we had disagreed. Instead of fatigue there was pride in his eyes. There were others there too, of course. The dreaded Crows as well as other knights of the Order, and they smiled weakly and offered insincere congratulations, but the ceremony belonged to the de la Serre family. I felt the spirit of my mother watching over me as they made me a Templar knight at last, and I vowed to uphold the name of the de la Serres.
Assassin’s Creed® Page 211