Assassin's Creed: Unity

by Oliver Bowden

  I retired, then later, at eleven o’clock, signaled Mr. Weatherall again.

  This time I mouthed to him, “I’m coming out,” and watched his face register panic as he frantically mouthed back, “No, no,” but I had already disappeared from the casement, and of course he knew me too well. If I said I was coming out, then I was coming out.

  I pulled an overcoat over my nightdress, slipped my feet into slippers, then crept down to the front door. Very, very quietly, I drew back the bolts, then let myself out and darted across the road to his carriage.

  “You’re taking a big risk, child,” he said crossly. But still, I was pleased to see, unable to hide his pleasure at seeing me.

  “I haven’t seen her all day,” I told him quickly.

  “Really?”

  “No, and I’ve had to spend the entire day wandering around, like a particularly disinterested peacock. Perhaps if I knew what I was supposed to be doing there, then I might have been able to get on with it, complete my mission and leave that awful place.” I looked at him. “It’s bloody torture, in there, Mr. Weatherall.”

  He nodded, suppressing a grin at my use of his English curse word. “All right, Élise. Well, as it happens they told me today. You’re to recover letters.”

  “What sort of letters?”

  “The writing sort. Letters written by Haytham Kenway to Jennifer Scott before his death.”

  I looked at him. “Is that it?”

  “Isn’t that enough? Jennifer Scott is the daughter of an Assassin. The letters were written to her by a high-ranking Templar. The Carrolls want to know what they say.”

  “Seems like a fairly roundabout way of finding out.”

  “A previous agent placed on the house staff failed to come up with the goods. All he managed to establish was that wherever the letters were stored it wasn’t in some obvious and easy-to-reach place. Miss Scott isn’t keeping them in a pretty bow in a writing bureau somewhere. She’s hidden them.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “Ruddock, you mean? The Carrolls tell me that their people are making inquiries.”

  “They assured us they were making inquiries weeks ago.”

  “These things don’t happen quickly.”

  “They’re happening too slowly for my liking.”

  “Élise . . .” he warned.

  “It’s all right, I won’t do anything stupid.”

  “Good,” he said. “You’re in a dangerous enough position as it is. Don’t do anything else to make it worse.”

  I gave him a peck on the cheek, stepped out of the carriage and dashed back across the road. Letting myself quietly in, I stood for a second, getting my breath—then realized I was not alone.

  He stepped out of the gloom, his face in the shadows. Mr. Smith, the butler. “Miss Albertine?” he said quizzically, head on one side, eyes flashing in the dark, and for a second I forgot that I was Yvonne Albertine of Troyes.

  “Oh, Mr. Smith,” I spluttered, gathering my overcoat around me. “You startled me. I was just . . .”

  “It’s just Smith,” he corrected me. “Not Mr. Smith.”

  “I’m sorry, Smith, I . . .” I turned and indicated the door. “. . . I just needed some air.”

  “Your window not sufficient, miss?” he said agreeably, though his face remained in the shadows.

  I fought a little wave of irritation, my inner May Carroll outraged that I should be interrogated by a mere butler.

  “I wanted more air than that,” I said, rather weakly.

  “Well, that’s quite all right, of course. But you see, when Miss Scott was just a girl, this house was the scene of an attack during which her father was killed.”

  I knew this but nodded anyway as he continued. “The family had soldiers on duty and guard dogs, too, but the raiders still managed to gain entrance. The house was badly burned during the attack. Since her return, the mistress has insisted that doors are barred at all hours. While you are, of course, quite welcome to leave the house at any time”—he gave a short mirthless smile—“I must insist that a member of staff be present to ensure the bolts are thrown after your exit and return.”

  I smiled. “Of course. I quite understand. It won’t happen again.”

  “Thank you. That would be much appreciated.” His eyes roamed my clothes, leaving me in no doubt that he considered my garb a little “unusual,” then he stepped aside, one hand gesturing to the stairs.

  I left, cursing my own stupidity. Mr. Weatherall was right. I should never have taken such a stupid risk.

  ii

  The next day was the same. Well, not exactly the same, just maddeningly similar. Once again I breakfasted alone; once more I was told that she would see me at some point today and asked to remain in the vicinity of the house. There was more wandering of corridors, more clumsy sewing, more small talk, not to mention a thrilling turn around the grounds.

  There was at least one aspect to our perambulations that had changed for the better. My route was a little more purposeful than before. I found myself wondering where Jennifer might hide the letters. One of the doors off the reception hall led to a games room, and I took the opportunity for a quick inspection of the wood panels inside, wondering if any of them might slide away to reveal a secret compartment beneath. To be honest I needed a more thorough look through the entire house, but it was huge, the letters could be in any one of two dozen rooms and after my scare of last night I wasn’t keen on creeping around after dark. No, my best chance of recovering the letters was getting to know Jennifer.

  But how could I do that if she wasn’t even leaving her room?

  iii

  The same thing happened on the third day. I won’t go into it. Just more sewing, small talk, and, “Oh, I think we’ll take the air, Helene, don’t you?”

  “I don’t like it,” mouthed Mr. Weatherall when we liaised that night.

  It was difficult to communicate via signals and reading lips, but it would have to do. He wasn’t keen on my sneaking out and, after my encounter with Smith the other night, neither was I.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they could be checking out your cover story.”

  And if they did, would my cover story stand up? Only the Carrolls knew that. I was as much at their mercy as I was a prisoner of Jennifer Scott.

  And then, on the fourth day—at last!—Jennifer Scott emerged from her room. I should meet her by the stables, I was told. The two of us were to take the promenade at Rotten Row in Hyde Park.

  When we arrived we joined other midday promenaders. These were men and women who walked together under slightly unnecessary parasols wrapped up against the chill. The walkers waved to carriages and were awarded with imperious waves in return, while those on horseback waved to the walkers and the carriage riders, and every man, woman and child was resplendent in their best finery, waving, walking, smiling, more waving . . .

  All apart from Miss Jennifer Scott, who, though she had dressed up for the occasion and wore a stately dress, peered distastefully out at Hyde Park from behind a veil of her gray-streaked hair.

  “Was this the kind of thing you hoped to see when you came to London, Yvonne?” she asked, with a dismissive hand at the wavers, smilers and small children buttoned into suits. “Idiots whose horizons barely stretch beyond the walls of the park?”

  I suppressed a smile, thinking that she and my mother would have got along. “It was you I hoped to see, Mademoiselle Scott.”

  “And why was that again?”

  “Because of my father. His dying wish, remember?”

  She pursed her lips. “I may seem old to you, Miss Albertine, but I can assure you I’m not so old that I forget things like that.”

  “Forgive me, I meant no offense.”

  That dismissive hand again. “None taken. In fact, unless I indicate otherwise, assume that no offense has been taken. I do not offend easily, Miss Albertine, of that you may be certain.”

  I could well believe it.
/>   “Tell me, what happened to your father and grandmother after they left us that day?” she asked.

  I steeled myself and told the story I had learned. “After your brother was merciful my father and grandmother settled just outside Troyes. It was they who taught me English, Spanish and Italian. Their skills in language and translation became much in demand and they made a good living from the services they offered.”

  I paused, searching her face for signs of disbelief. Thanks to my years of woe at the Maison Royale I could just about pass in the languages if she decided to test me.

  “Enough to afford servants?” she asked.

  “We were fortunate in that regard,” I said and in my mind I tried to reconcile the image of the two “language experts” being able to afford a household full of staff, and found that I couldn’t.

  Even so, if she had her doubts, then she kept them hidden behind those gray, half-lidded eyes.

  “What of your mother?”

  “A local girl. Alas, I never knew her. Shortly after they were married she gave birth to me—but died in childbirth.”

  “And what now? With both your grandmother and your father dead, what will you do when you leave here?”

  “I shall return to Troyes and continue their work.”

  There was a long pause. I waved at promenaders.

  “I wonder,” I said at last, “was Mr. Kenway in contact with you before his death? Did he write to you, perhaps?”

  She gazed from the window but I realized she was looking at her own reflection. I held my breath.

  “He was struck down by his own son, you know,” she said a little distantly.

  “I see.”

  “Haytham was an expert fighter, like his father,” she said. “Do you know how our father died?”

  “Smith mentioned it,” I replied, then added quickly as she shot me a look, “by way of explaining the security-conscious nature of the household.”

  “Indeed. Well, Edward—our father—was struck down by our attackers. Of course the first fight you lose is the one that kills you, and nobody can win every fight, and he was an older man by then. But notwithstanding those facts he had the skills and experience to defeat two other swordsmen. I believe he lost the fight because of an injury he’d sustained years before. It slowed him down. Likewise, Haytham lost a fight against his own son, and I have often wondered why. Was he, like Edward, handicapped by an injury? Was that injury the sword your father pushed into him? Or perhaps Haytham had another sort of handicap? Perhaps Haytham had simply decided that now was his time, and that dying at the hands of his son might be a noble thing to do. Haytham was a Templar, you see. The Grand Master of the Thirteen Colonies, no less. But I know something that very few people know about Haytham. Those who have read his journals, perhaps; those who have read his letters . . .”

  The letters. I felt my heart hammering in my chest. The clip-clopping of the horses and the incessant chatter from the promenaders outside seemed to fade into the background as I asked, “What was that, Jennifer? What did you know of him?”

  “His doubts, my child. His doubts. Haytham had been the subject of indoctrination by his mentor, Reginald Birch, and to all intents and purposes that indoctrination had worked. After all, he ended his life a Templar. Yet he could not help but question what he knew. It was in his nature to do that. And though it’s unlikely that he ever had answers to his questions, the very fact that he had them was enough. Do you have beliefs, Yvonne?”

  “Doubtless I have inherited the values of my parents,” I replied.

  “Indeed, I expect your manners are impeccable and that you are endlessly considerate of your fellow man . . .”

  “I try to be,” I said.

  “How about in more universal issues, Yvonne? Take matters in your home country, for example. Where do your sympathies lie?”

  “I daresay the situation is more complex than a simple allotment of sympathy, Mademoiselle Scott.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “A very sensible answer, my dear. You strike me as one who is not a born follower.”

  “I like to feel I know my own mind.”

  “I’m sure you do. But tell me, in a little more detail this time, what do you make of the situation in your home country?”

  “I have never given the matter much thought, mademoiselle,” I protested, not wanting to give myself away.

  “Please, humor me. Give the matter some thought now.”

  I thought of home. Of my father, who so fervently believed in a monarch appointed by God, and that every man should know his place; the Crows, who wanted to depose the king altogether. And Mother, who believed in a third way.

  “I believe that reform of some kind is needed,” I told Jennifer.

  “You do?”

  I paused. “I think I do.”

  She nodded. “Good, good. It is good to have doubts. My brother had doubts. He put them into his letters.”

  The letters again. Not sure where this was going, I said, “It sounds as though he was a wise man as well as a merciful one.”

  She chortled. “Oh, he had his faults. But at heart, yes, I think he was a wise man, a good man. Come”—she tapped the ceiling of the carriage with a handle of her cane—“let us return. It is almost time for lunch.”

  I was close now, I thought, as we returned to Queen Square. “I have something I want to show you before we dine,” she said as we drove, and I wondered, could it be the letters?

  At the square the coachman helped us down, but then, instead of accompanying us up the steps to the front door, returned to the driver’s seat, shook the reins and was gone, clip-clopping away into a curtain of fine mist that swirled around the wheels of his vehicle.

  Then we walked to the door, where Jennifer pulled the bell once, then with two more quick jerks.

  And maybe I being paranoid, but . . .

  The coachman’s leaving like that. The bellpull. On edge now I kept the smile on my face as bolts were drawn back, the door opened, Jennifer greeting Smith with just the faintest nod before stepping inside.

  The front door shut. The soft hum of the square was banished. The now-familiar sense of imprisonment washed over me, except this time mixed with a genuine fear, a sense that things were not right. Where was Helene? I wondered.

  “Perhaps you would be so kind as to let Helene know I have returned, please, Smith?” I asked the butler.

  In return, he inclined his head the usual way, and with a smile said, “Certainly, mademoiselle.”

  But did not move.

  I looked inquiringly at Jennifer. I wanted for things to be normal. For her to chivvy along the butler, but she didn’t. She looked at me, said, “Come, I wish to show you the games room, for it was in there that my father died.”

  “Certainly, mademoiselle,” I said, with a sideways look at Smith as we moved over to the wood-paneled door, closed as usual.

  “Though I think you’ve seen the games room, haven’t you?” she said.

  “During the last four days I have had ample opportunity to view your beautiful property, mademoiselle,” I told her.

  She paused with her hand on the door handle, then looked at me. “Four days has given us the time we needed, too, Yvonne . . .”

  I didn’t like that emphasis. I really didn’t like that emphasis.

  She opened the door and ushered me inside.

  The drapes were shut. The only light came from candles placed along ledges and mantelpieces, giving the room a flickering orange glow as though in preparation for some sinister religious ceremony. The billiards table had been covered and moved to one side, leaving the floor bare apart from two wooden kitchen chairs facing each other in the middle of the room. Also there was a footman who stood with his gloved hands clasped in front of him. Mills, I think his name was. Usually Mills smiled, bowed and was as unfailingly polite and decorous as a member of staff should be to a visiting noblewoman from France. Now, however, he simply stared, his face expressionless. Cruel, even.

&n
bsp; Jennifer was continuing, “The four days gave us the time we needed to send a man to France in order to verify your story.”

  Smith had stepped in behind us and stood by the door. I was trapped. How ironic that having spent the last few days moaning about being trapped, now I really was.

  “Madame,” I said, sounding more flustered than I wanted to, “I must be honest and say I find this whole situation as confusing as I do uncomfortable. If this is perhaps some practical joke or English custom of which I am unaware, I would ask you please to explain yourself.”

  My eyes went to the hard face of Mills, the footman, to the two chairs and then back to Jennifer. Her face was impassive. I yearned for Mr. Weatherall. For my mother. My father. Arno. I don’t think I have ever felt quite so afraid and alone as I did at that moment.

  “Do you want to know what our man discovered there?” said Jennifer. She had ignored my question.

  “Madame . . .” I said in an insistent voice, but still she took no notice.

  “He discovered that Monica and Lucio Albertine had indeed been making a living from their language skills, but not enough to afford staff. There was no local girl either. No local girl, no wedding and no children. Certainly not an Yvonne Albertine. Mother and son had lived in modest circumstances on the edge of Troyes—right up until the day they were murdered just four weeks ago.”

  iv

  I caught my breath.

  “No.” The word was out of me before I had a chance to stop it.

  “Yes. I’m afraid so. Your friends the Templars cut their throats as they slept.”

  “No,” I repeated, my anguish as much for myself—for my fraud laid bare—as it was for poor Monica and Lucio Albertine.

  “If you’ll excuse me a minute,” said Jennifer and departed, leaving me under the gaze of Smith and Mills.

  She returned.

  “It’s the letters you want, isn’t it? You all but told me on Rotten Row. Why do your Templar masters want my brother’s letters, I wonder?”

  My thoughts were a jumble. Options raced across my brain: confess, brazen it out, make a break for it, be indignant, break down and cry . . .