iii.
And later, at the ‘private soirée’ held to honour my induction, I walked through the party and felt like a changed woman. Yes, perhaps they thought I couldn’t hear them gossiping behind their fans, telling each other how I spent my days drinking and gambling. They whisper how they pity my father. They make disparaging comments about my clothes.
But their words were water off a duck’s back. My mother hated these courtly women and raised me to put no store by what they said. Her lessons serve me well. These women couldn’t hurt me now.
And then I saw him. I saw Arno.
iv.
I led him a merry dance, of course, partly for old times’ sake and partly so that I could compose myself ahead of meeting him again.
Aha. It seemed that Arno’s presence at the party was not officially ratified. Either that or, true to form, he had made an enemy. Knowing him, probably a bit of both. In fact, as I made my way quickly along the corridors, picking up my skirts and weaving between party-goers, keeping him just on my tail, it appears that we formed something of a procession.
Of course, it would not do for the newly initiated daughter of the Grand Master to be seen to be participating in, even encouraging such behaviour. (See, Mr Weatherall? See, Father? I was maturing. I was growing up.) And so I decided to end the chase, ducked into a side room, waited for Arno to appear, dragged him inside and stood facing him at last.
‘You seem to have caused quite a commotion,’ I told him, drinking him in.
‘What can I say?’ he said, ‘You were always a bad influence …’
‘You were a worse one,’ I told him.
And then we kissed. How it happened I couldn’t for certain say. One moment we were reunited friends, the next we were reunited lovers.
Our kiss was long, and passionate, and when we eventually broke apart we stared at each other for some moments.
‘Are you wearing one of my father’s suits?’ I teased him.
‘Are you wearing a dress?’ he retorted. For which he earned a playful smack.
‘Don’t even start. I feel like a mummy wrapped up in this thing.’
‘Must be quite an occasion to get you so fancy,’ he said, smiling.
‘It’s not like that. Truth be told it’s a lot of ceremony and pontification. Dull as dirt.’
Arno grinned. Oh, the old Arno. The old fun come back into my life. It was as though it had been raining and on seeing him the sun had come out – like returning home from faraway and at last seeing your front door in the distance. We kissed again and held each other close.
‘Well, when you don’t invite me to your parties, everyone suffers,’ he joked.
‘I did try, but father was adamant.’
‘Your father?’
From the other side of the door came the muted sound of the band, the laughter of party-goers making their way back and forth in the corridor outside, and heavy footfalls, running feet – the guards still in search of Arno. Then suddenly the door shook, thumped from the other side, and a gruff voice called, ‘Who’s in there?’
Arno and I looked at one another, kids again – kids caught stealing apples or taking pies from the kitchen. If I could bottle that moment I would.
Something tells me I’m never going to feel happiness like that again.
v.
I bundled Arno out of the window, snatched up a goblet then burst out of the door, affecting an unsteady look. ‘Oh my. That wasn’t the billiard room at all, was it?’ I said gaily.
The soldiers shifted uncomfortably on seeing me. And so they should. After all, this ‘private soirée’ was being held in my honour …
‘We are pursuing an interloper, Mademoiselle de la Serre. Have you seen him?’
I gave the man a deliberately fuzzy look. ‘Antelope? No, I shouldn’t think they can climb stairs, not with those little hooves, and how did they get out of the Royal Menagerie?’
The men shared an uncertain look. ‘Not an antelope, an interloper. A suspicious person. Have you seen anyone like that?’
By now the guards were anxious and on edge. Sensing their quarry was near, they were irritated by my stalling.
‘Oh, there was Madame de Polignac.’ I dropped my voice to a whisper. ‘Her hair has a bird in it. I think she stole it from the Royal Menagerie.’
Able to control his irritation no longer, another of the guards strode forward. ‘Please move aside so we may check this room, mademoiselle.’
I swayed drunkenly, and perhaps, I hoped, a little provocatively. ‘You’ll only find me, I’m afraid.’ I beamed at him, giving him the full benefit of my smile, not to mention my décolletage. ‘I’ve been searching for the billiard room for almost an hour.’
The guard’s eye wandered. ‘We can show you there, mademoiselle,’ he said with a short bow, ‘and we’ll lock the door to prevent any further misunderstandings.’
As the guards accompanied me away, I hoped, firstly, that Arno would be able to jump down to the courtyard, and, secondly, that something might happen to distract the guards from actually taking me all the way down to the billiards room.
There is a saying: be careful what you wish for, for you might just get it.
I got the distraction I wanted when I heard a shout: ‘My God, he’s killed Lord de la Serre.’
And my whole world changed.
1 July 1789
It feels as though France is falling down around my ears. The much-vaunted assembly of Estates General had been given a terrible birth by the king’s cure for insomnia masquerading as a speech, and sure enough the whole charade swiftly descended into a parade of bickering and in-fighting, and nothing was achieved.
How? Because prior to the meeting the Third Estate was angry. It was angry at being the poorest and being charged the most taxes, and its members were angry that despite making up the majority of the Estates General they had fewer votes than the nobility and the clergy.
After the meeting they were even more angry. They were angry that the king hadn’t addressed any of their concerns. They were going to do something. The whole country – unless they were stupid or being wilfully thick and stubborn – knew that something was going to happen.
But I didn’t care.
On 17 June the Third Estate voted to call itself the National Assembly, an assembly of ‘the people’. There was some support from the other estates but really this was the common man finding his voice.
But I didn’t care.
The king tried to stop them by closing the Salle des États, but that was like trying to shut the stable door after the horse had bolted. Not to be deterred they took their meeting to an indoor tennis court instead, and on 20 June the National Assembly swore an oath. The Tennis Court Oath they called it, which sounds comical, but it wasn’t really.
Not when you considered that they were planning to build a new constitution for France.
Not when you considered it spelled the end of the monarchy.
But I didn’t care.
By 27 June the king’s nerves were more apparent than ever. As messages of support for the Assembly poured in from Paris and other French cities, the military began to arrive in Paris and Versailles. There was a palpable tension in the air.
And I didn’t care about that either.
I should have done, of course. I should have had the strength of character to put my personal troubles behind me. But the fact was, I couldn’t.
I couldn’t because my father is dead, and grief has returned to my life like a dark mass living inside me, which awakes with me in the morning, accompanies me through the day and then is restless at night, keeping me from sleep, feeding on my remorse and my regrets.
I had spent so many years being a disappointment to him. The chance to be the daughter he deserved has been snatched away from me.
And yes, I’m aware that our homes in Versailles and Paris slip into neglect, their condition mirroring my own state of mind. I’m staying in Paris but letters from Olivier, our head butler
in Versailles arrive twice weekly, increasingly concerned and shrill as he relates details of maids and valets who leave and aren’t replaced. But I don’t care.
Here on the Paris estate I’ve banished staff from my rooms and skulk the lower floors at night, not wanting to see another soul. Trays bearing food and correspondence are left outside my door and sometimes I can hear the housemaid whispering with the lady’s maid, and I can imagine the kind of things they’re saying about me. But I don’t care.
I’ve had letters from Mr Weatherall. Among other things he wants to know if I’ve been to see Arno in the Bastille, where he is being held on suspicion of murdering my father, or even if I’m taking steps to protest his innocence.
I should write and tell Mr Weatherall that the answer is no, because shortly after Father’s murder I returned to the Versailles estate, went to his office, and found a letter that had been pushed beneath the door. A letter addressed to Father that read:
Grand Master de la Serre,
I have learnt through my agents that an individual within our Order plots against you. I beg you be on your guard at the initiation tonight. Trust no one. Not even those you call friends.
May the father of understanding guide you,
L
I wrote to Arno. A letter in which I accused him of being responsible for my father’s death. A letter in which I told him I never wanted to see him again. But I didn’t send it.
Instead my feelings for him festered. In the place of a childhood friend and latter-day lover came an interloper, a pathetic orphan who had arrived and stolen my father’s love, then helped to kill him.
Arno is in the Bastille. Good. I hope he rots in there.
4 July 1789
It hurt Mr Weatherall to walk too far. Not only that, but the area of the Maison Royale where they lived, far beyond the school and out of bounds to the pupils, was not exactly the best-kept area; negotiating it with crutches was difficult.
Nevertheless, he loved to walk when we visited. Just me and him. And I wondered if it was because we’d see the odd deer together, watching us from in the trees, or maybe because we would reach a sun-dappled clearing with a tree trunk on which to sit, and it would remind us of the years we had spent training.
We found our way there this morning, and Mr Weatherall sat with a grateful sigh as he took the weight off his good foot, and sure enough I felt a huge pang of nostalgia for my old life, when my days had been full of swordsmanship with him and play with Arno. When Mother had been alive.
I missed them. I missed them both so much.
‘Arno should have delivered it, the letter?’ he asked after a while.
‘No. He should have given it to Father. Olivier saw him with a letter.’
‘So he should and he didn’t. And how do you feel about that?’
My voice was quiet. ‘Betrayed.’
‘Do you think the letter might have saved your father?’
‘I think it might have.’
‘And is that why you’ve been so quiet on the small matter of your boyfriend currently residing in the Bastille?’
I said nothing. Not that there was anything to say. Mr Weatherall spent a moment with his face upturned to a beam of sunlight that broke the canopy of the trees, the light dancing over his whiskers and the folds of flesh on his closed eyes, drinking in the day with an almost beatific smile. And then, with a short nod to thank me for indulging him in silence, he held out a hand. ‘Let me see that letter again.’
I dug into my tunic and passed it to him. ‘Who is “L”, do you think?
Mr Weatherall cocked an eyebrow at me as he handed back the letter. ‘Who do you think “L” is?’
‘The only “L” I can think of is our friend, Monsieur Chretien Lafrenière.’
‘But he’s a Crow.’
‘Would that put paid to the theory that the Crows were conspiring against your mother and father?’
I followed his line of reasoning. ‘No, it could just mean that some of them were conspiring against my mother and father.’
He chuckled and scratched his beard. ‘That’s right. “An individual”, according to the letter. Only, as far as we know, none has yet made a bid for Grand Master.’
‘No,’ I said quietly.
‘Well, here’s the thing – you’re the Grand Master now, Élise.’
‘They know that.’
‘Do they? You could have fooled me. Tell me, how many meetings have you had with your advisors?’
I gave him a narrow-eyed look. ‘I must be allowed to grieve.’
‘Nobody says different. Just that it’s been two months now, Élise. Two months and you’ve not conducted one bit of Templar business. Not one bit. The Order knows that you’re Grand Master in name but you’ve done nothing to reassure them that the stewardship is in safe hands. If there was a coup – if another knight were to step forward and declare him or herself Grand Master, well, he or she wouldn’t have much of a challenge on their hands, now, would they?
‘Grieving for your father is one thing, but you need to honour him. You’re the latest in a line of La Serres. The first female Grand Master of France. You need to get out there and prove you’re worthy of them, not be hanging around your estate moping.’
‘But my father was murdered. What example would I set if I were to let his murder go unavenged?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong but you ain’t exactly doing one thing or another at the moment, are you? Best course of action: you take control of the Order and help steer it through the hard times ahead. Second-best course of action, you show a bit of La Serre spirit and let it be known that you’re hunting your father’s killer – and maybe help flush out this “individual”. Worst course of action: you sit on your arse moping about your dead mum and dad.’
I nodded. ‘So what do I do?’
‘Fist thing is to contact Lafrenière. Don’t mention the letter but do tell him you’re keen to take command of the Order. If he is loyal to the family then he’ll hopefully show his hand. Second thing is, I’m going to find you a lieutenant. Someone I know we can trust. Third thing, you should think about going to see Arno as well. You should remember that it wasn’t Arno who killed your father. The person who killed your father was the person who killed your father.’
8 July 1789
A letter has arrived:
My dearest Élise,
Firstly, I must apologize for not having replied to your letters before now. I confess my failure to give you the courtesy of a reply has been mainly out of anger that you deceived your way into my confidences, but on reflection there is much we have in common and, in fact, I am grateful that you chose to confide in me, and would like to assure you that your apologies are accepted.
I am most gratified that you have taken my brother’s writings to heart. Not solely because it justifies my decision to give them to you, but because I believe that had he lived my brother might have gone on to achieve some of his aims, and I hope that you might do so in his stead.
I note that your intended, Arno, boasts an Assassin heritage and the fact that you are in love with him bodes well for a future accord. I do believe you are right in having misgivings over your father’s plans to convert him, and while I also agree that your misgivings may have their roots in rather more selfish motives, that doesn’t necessarily make them the wrong course of action. Equally, if Arno were to be discovered by the Assassins, the creed might be persuasive enough to turn him. Your beloved might easily become your enemy.
On this note, I have information that may be of use to you. Something that has appeared in what I can only describe as Assassin communiqués. As you can imagine I would not normally involve myself in such matters; what information on the Creed’s activities I receive in passing tends to go no further, as much a function of my own disinterest as any particular discretion. But this titbit may be of importance to you. It involves a high-ranking Assassin named Pierre Bellec, who is currently imprisoned in the Bas
tille. Bellec has written to say that he has discovered a young man possessing enormous Assassin gifts. The communiqué names this young prisoner as ‘Arnaud’. However, as I’m sure you can imagine, the similarities in the name struck me as more than coincidental. If nothing else it may be something worth you looking into.
I remain, yours truly,
Jennifer Scott
14 July 1789
i.
Paris was in a state of uproar as I made my way through the streets. It had been this way for over two weeks now, ever since twenty thousand of the king’s men had arrived to put down disturbances, as well as threatening Count Mirabeau and his Third Estate deputies. Then, when the king dismissed his finance minister, Jacques Necker, a man who many believed was the saviour of the French people, there were more uprisings.
Days ago, the Abbaye prison was stormed to free the guardsmen imprisoned for refusing to fire on protestors. These days it was said that the common soldier was giving his loyalties to the people, not the king. Already it felt as though the National Assembly – now called the Constituent Assembly – was in charge. They had created their own flag: a tricolore, which was everywhere. And if ever there was a symbol of the Assembly’s fast-growing dominance, that was it.
Since the Abbaye prison revolt the streets in Paris had been thronged with armed men. Thirteen thousand of them had joined a people’s militia and they roamed the districts looking for weapons, the call to find arms becoming louder and louder and more intense. This morning, it had reached a crescendo.
In the early hours the militia had stormed the Hôtel des Invalides and got their hands on muskets – tens of thousands of muskets, by all accounts. But they had no gunpowder, so now they needed gunpowder. Where was there gunpowder?
The Bastille. That’s where I was heading. Early morning in a Paris boiling over with repressed fury and vengeance. Not a good place to be.
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