Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  Unexpectedly, he chuckled. ‘He would have called for help from overseas, child. From England, probably. Tell me, what is the state of your relationship with the English Templars?’

  I shot him a withering look. ‘What else?’

  ‘Well, he would have tried to rally support. And before you say anything, yes, what else do you think I’ve been doing while you’ve been in here screaming the place up and sweating for France? I’ve been trying to rally support.’

  ‘And?’

  He sighed. ‘Not much to report. My network is slowly falling silent.’

  I hugged my knees and felt a twinge of pain from my ribs, still not fully healed. ‘What do you mean, “slowly falling silent”?’

  ‘I mean that after months of sending letters and receiving evasive replies, no one wants to know, do they? Nobody will speak to me – to us – not even in secret. They say there’s a new Grand Master now, that the La Serre era has come to an end. My correspondents no longer sign their letters. They implore me to burn them once I’ve read them. Whoever this new leader is, he’s got them scared.’

  ‘ “The La Serre era has come to an end.” That’s what they say?’

  ‘That’s what they say, child. Yes, that’s about the size of it.’

  I gave a short, dry laugh. ‘You know, Mr Weatherall, I don’t know whether to be offended or grateful when people underestimate me. The La Serre era has not come to an end. Tell them that. Tell them that the La Serre era will never come to an end while I still have breath in my lungs. These conspirators think they’re going to get away with it – with killing my father and deposing my family from the Order. Really? Then they deserve to die just for their stupidity.’

  He bristled. ‘You know what that is? That’s revenge talk.’

  I shrugged. ‘You call it revenge. I call it fighting back. Either way it’s not sitting here – as you would say, “on my arse” – hiding out in the grounds of a girls’ school, creeping around and hoping that someone will write to our secret letter box. I intend to fight back, Mr Weatherall. Tell that to your contacts.’

  But Mr Weatherall could be persuasive. Plus my skills were rusty, my strength depleted – my ribs still hurt for one thing – so I stayed on at the lodge while he went about his business, writing his letters and trying to rally support for my cause beneath the cloak of subterfuge.

  News has reached me that the last of the staff have left the chateau in Versailles and I yearn to go there, but of course I cannot, because it isn’t safe, and so I must leave my beloved family home at the mercy of looters.

  But I promised Mr Weatherall I would be patient so I’m being patient. For now.

  16 November 1790

  Seven months of letter writing and we know this much: my allies and friends are now former allies and friends.

  The purge is complete. Some turned, some were bribed and the others – the ones who were more resilient and tried to pledge their support, men like Monsieur Le Fanu – well, they were dealt with in other ways. One morning Le Fanu had his throat cut, was carried feet first and naked from a Parisian whorehouse, then left in the street to be gawped at by passers-by. For that dishonour he was posthumously stripped of his Order status, and his wife and children, who under normal circumstances would have benefitted from financial help, were left in penury.

  Now, Le Fanu was a family man, as devoted to his wife, Claire, as a man ever was. Not only would he never have visited a whorehouse, but I doubt he would have known what to do when he got there. Never did a man less deserve his fate than he.

  And that was what his loyalty to the name of La Serre had cost him. It had cost him everything: his life, his reputation and honour, everything.

  I knew that any member of the Order who hadn’t come into line was going to do so after that, when they knew the potential ignominy of their end. And sure enough, they had.

  ‘I want the wife and children of Monsieur Le Fanu taken care of,’ I’d said to Mr Weatherall.

  ‘Madame Le Fanu took her own life and those of the children,’ Mr Weatherall told me. ‘She couldn’t live with the disgrace.’

  I closed my eyes, breathing in and out, trying to control a rage that threatened to boil over. More lives to add to the list.

  ‘Who is he, Mr Weatherall?’ I asked. ‘Who is this man doing all this?’

  ‘We’ll find out,’ he sighed. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  But nothing was done. No doubt my enemies thought that their takeover was complete, that I was no longer dangerous. They were wrong about that.

  12 January 1791

  My sword skills are back and sharper than ever before, my marksmanship at its most accurate, and I warned Mr Weatherall that it would be soon – that I would be leaving soon – because I was achieving nothing here, that each day I spent in hiding was a day of the fight-back wasted, and he reacted by trying to persuade me to stay. There was always a reply he was waiting for. One more avenue to explore.

  And when that didn’t work he threatened me. Just I try leaving and I’d know what it felt like to be resoundingly thrashed with the sweaty-armpit end of a crutch. Just I try it.

  I remain (im)patient.

  26 March 1791

  i.

  This morning Mr Weatherall and Jacques arrived home from the drop at Châteaufort hours after they were due – so late that I’d begun to worry.

  For a while we’d been talking about moving the drop. Sooner or later someone would come. According to Mr Weatherall anyway. The issue of whether to move it had become another weapon in the war the two of us constantly waged, the push and pull of should I stay (him: yes) or should I go (me: yes). I was strong now. I was back to full fitness, and in private moments I’d seethe with the frustration of inaction; I’d picture my faceless enemies gloating with victory and raising ironic toasts in my name.

  ‘This is the old Élise,’ Mr Weatherall had warned, ‘by which I mean the young Élise. The one who comes sailing over to London and ignites a feud we’re yet to live down.’

  He was right, of course; I wanted to be an older, cooler Élise, a worthy leader. My father never rushed into anything.

  But, on the other hand, my thoughts would return to the question of doing something. After all, where a wiser head might have waited to finish her education like a proper little poppet, the young Élise had sprung into action, taken a carriage to Calais and her life had begun. The fact was that sitting here doing nothing made me feel agitated and angry. It made me feel even more angry. And I was already a lot angry.

  In the end my hand has been forced by what happened this morning, when Mr Weatherall aroused my anxiety by arriving home late from his visit to the drop. I dashed out to the yard to greet him as Jacques drew the cart round.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I asked, helping him down.

  ‘Tell you something,’ he said, frowning, ‘it’s bloody lucky that young lad hates the stink of cheese.’ He said it with an incline of the head towards Jacques.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Because it was while he was waiting for me outside the fromagerie that something odd happened. Or should I say he saw something very odd. A young boy hanging around.’

  We were halfway back to the lodge, where I planned to make Mr Weatherall a coffee and let him tell me all about it, but now I stopped.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m telling you, a little rapscallion, just hanging around.’

  This rapscallion, it turned out, had indeed been hanging around. Fancy that, I’d said, a young rapscallion hanging around a town square, but Mr Weatherall had admonished me with a peevish growl.

  ‘Not just any rapscallion, but an especially nosy one. He approached young Jacques when Jacques was waiting outside. This boy’s asking him questions, questions like, had he seen a man on crutches enter the fromagerie that morning? Jacques is a good lad and he told the lad he hadn’t seen a man on crutches at all that day but that he’d keep an eye out for him.

&n
bsp; ‘ “Great,” says the rascal, “I’ll be around, won’t be far. Might even be a little coin in it for you if you tell me something useful.” This little squirt’s no older than ten, Jacques reckons. Where do you suppose he’s getting the kind of money he needs to pay an informant?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘From whoever is paying him, that’s who! The kid’s working for the same Templars who plotted against us, or my name’s not Freddie Weatherall. They want to find the drop, Élise. They’re looking for you, and if they think they’ve located the drop they’ll be monitoring it from now on.’

  ‘Did you speak to the boy?’

  ‘Absolutely not. What do you think I am, some kind of bloody idiot? Soon as Jacques came into the shop and told me what happened we left by the back entrance and took the long route home, making sure we weren’t followed.’

  ‘And were you?’

  He shook his head. ‘But it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I argued. ‘There are so many “ifs”. If the rapscallion was working for the Templars and not just looking to rob you or beg for money or just kick one of your crutches away for the fun of it; if he’s seen enough activity to alert their suspicions; if they decide the drop is ours.

  ‘I think they have,’ he said quietly.

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘Because of this.’ He frowned, reached into his jacket and passed me the letter.

  ii.

  Mademoiselle Grand Master,

  I remain loyal to you and your father. We must meet in order that I can tell you the truth about the matter of your father’s death and events since. Write to me at once.

  Lafrenière

  My heart thudded. ‘I must respond,’ I said quickly.

  He shook his head in exasperation. ‘You’ll do no such bloody thing,’ he snapped. ‘It’s a trap. It’s a way of drawing us out. They’ll be waiting for us to reply to this. If this is a letter from Lafrenière, then I’m a monkey’s uncle. It’s a trap. And if we reply we’ll be walking right into it.’

  ‘If we reply from here, yes.’

  He shook his head. ‘You ain’t leaving.’

  ‘I have to know,’ I said, waving the letter.

  He scratched his head, trying to think. ‘You’re not going anywhere by yourself.’

  I gave a short laugh. ‘Well, who else can accompany me? You?’

  And then I stopped myself as his head dropped.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said quietly. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, Mr Weatherall. I didn’t mean …’

  He was shaking his head sadly. ‘No, no, you’re right, Élise, you’re right. I’m a protector who can’t protect.’

  I came to him, knelt by his chair and put my arms round him.

  There was a long pause and silence in the front room of the lodge save for Mr Weatherall’s occasional snuffles.

  ‘I don’t want you to go,’ he said at last.

  ‘I have to,’ I replied.

  ‘You can’t fight them, Élise,’ he said, pushing tears from his eyes with angry palms. ‘They’re too strong now, too powerful. You can’t go up against them alone.’

  I held him. ‘I can’t keep running either. You know as well as I do that if they’ve found our drop then they’ll reason we’re in the vicinity. They’ll draw a circle on a map with the drop at its centre and begin to search. And the Maison Royale, where Élise de la Serre finished her education, is as good a place as any to start the search.

  ‘You know as well as I do that we’ll have to leave here, you and I. We have to go somewhere else where we’ll make fruitless attempts to rally support and wait for our drop to be discovered before we have to move again. Leaving is not a choice.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Élise. I can think of something. So just you listen here. I’m your advisor, and I advise you to stay here while we formulate a response to this latest unwelcome development. How does that sound? Does that sound enough like an advisor to advise the idea right out of your head?’

  I hated the taste of the lie on my lips when I promised to stay. I wonder if he knew that while the household slept I would creep away.

  Indeed, as soon as the ink is dry on this entry, I’ll put the journal into my satchel and creep out. It will break his heart. For that I’m so sorry, Mr Weatherall.

  27 March 1791

  i.

  As I crossed silently to the front door on my way out of the lodge, a ghost flitted across the hallway.

  I cleared my throat and the ghost stopped, turned and put a hand to her mouth. It was Hélène, caught in the act of returning from Jacques’ room to her own.

  ‘I’m sorry I startled you,’ I whispered.

  ‘Oh, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Is all that creeping around really necessary?’

  She coloured. ‘I couldn’t have Mr Weatherall knowing.’

  I opened my mouth to argue but stopped and turned to the door instead. ‘Well, goodbye for a while.’

  ‘Where are you going, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Paris. There’s something I have to do.’

  ‘And you were leaving in the middle of the night, without saying goodbye?’

  ‘I have to, it’s … Mr Weatherall. He doesn’t want …’

  She scampered across the boards on her tiptoes, came to me and drew my face to hers, kissing me hard on both cheeks. ‘Please be careful, Élise. Please come back to us.’

  It’s funny. I embark on a journey supposedly to avenge my family, but really the lodge is my family. For a second I considered staying. Wasn’t it better to live in exile with those I loved than die in pursuit of revenge?

  But no. There was a ball of hate in my gut and I needed to get rid of it.

  ‘I will,’ I told her. ‘Thank you, Hélène. You know … You know I think so much of you.’

  She smiled. ‘I do.’ And I turned and left.

  ii.

  What I felt as I rode away from the lodge wasn’t happiness exactly. It was the exhilaration of action and sense of purpose as I spurred Scratch on to Châteaufort.

  First, I had a job to do, and, arriving in the early hours, I found board and a tavern that was still open, and in there I told anyone who was curious enough to ask that my name was Élise de la Serre, and that I had been living in Versailles but was now bound for Paris.

  The next morning I left, and came to Paris, crossing the Pont Marie to the Île Saint-Louis and going … home? Sort of. My villa, at least.

  What would it look like? I couldn’t even recall whether I’d been a diligent caretaker the last time I was there. Arriving, I had my answer. No, I hadn’t been a diligent caretaker, just a thirsty one, judging by the many wine bottles lying about the place. I suppressed a shiver, thinking of the dark hours I had spent in this house.

  I left the remnants of the past as they were. Next I wrote to Monsieur Lafrenière, a letter in which I asked him to meet me at L’Hôtel Voysin in two days’ time. When I’d hand delivered it to the address he’d given me, I returned to the villa, where I set tripwires, just in case they came to look for me here, and settled in the housekeeper’s study to wait.

  29 March 1791

  i.

  I made my way to L’Hôtel Voysin in Le Marais, where I had asked to meet Lafrenière. Who would turn up? That was the question. Lafrenière the friend? Lafrenière the traitor? Or somebody else altogether? And if this was a trap, had I walked into it? Or had I done the only possible thing I could do if I wanted to avoid a lifetime of hiding from men who wanted me dead?

  The courtyard of L’Hôtel Voysin was dusky grey. The building rose up on every side, and had once been grand, in looks as aristocratic as those who frequented it, but just as the aristocrats had been laid low by the revolution – and each day were stripped of further entitlements by the Assembly – so Voysin, too, seemed cowed by the events of the last two years: the windows in which lights would have burned were blacked out, some broken and boarded up. The grounds, which once would have been clipped and tende
d by cap-doffing gardeners, had been deserted and left to go to ruin, so that ivy climbed the walls unchecked, tendrils of it feeling their way towards the blank first-floor windows. Meanwhile, weeds grew between the cobbles and flagstones of the courtyard, which as I entered echoed to the sound of my boots on the stone.

  I fought a sense of disquiet, seeing all those darkened windows looking down on this once-bustling courtyard. Any one of them could have provided a hiding place for an assailant.

  ‘Hello?’ I called. ‘Hello, Monsieur Lafrenière?’

  I held my breath, thinking, This isn’t right. This isn’t right at all. Thinking that I was an idiot to arrange to meet here, and that wondering if it might be a trap was hardly the same as being prepared to meet one.

  Mr Weatherall was right. Of course he was, and I’d known it all along myself.

  It was a trap.

  From behind me I heard a sound and turned to see a man emerge from the shadows.

  I squinted, flexing my fingers, ready.

  ‘Who are you?’ I called.

  He darted forward, and I realized it wasn’t Lafrenière at the same time as I saw moonlight flash along a blade he brought from his waist.

  And maybe I would have cleared my sheath in time. After all, I was fast.

  And maybe I wouldn’t have cleared my sheath in time. After all, he was fast too.

  Either way, it didn’t matter. The question was decided by the blade of a third party, a figure who seemingly came from nowhere. I saw what I knew was a hidden blade cut across the darkness and my would-be killer fell, and standing behind him was Arno.

  For a second, I could only stand and gawp, because this wasn’t Arno as I’d ever seen him before. Not only was he wearing Assassin’s robes and a hidden blade, but the boy was gone. In his place, a man.

  It took me a moment to recover, and then, just as it struck me that they would never send a lone killer for me, that there would be others, I saw a man looming behind Arno, and all those months of target practice at the lodge counted as I snapped off a shot over his shoulder, gave the killer a third eye and sent him crashing dead to the stone of the courtyard.