Assassin's Creed: Unity

by Oliver Bowden

  “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, mademoiselle,” I pleaded.

  “Oh I’m quite sure you do, Élise de la Serre.”

  Oh God. How did she know that?

  But then I had my answer as in response to a signal from Jennifer, Smith opened the door and another footman entered. He was manhandling Helene into the room.

  She was dumped into one of the wooden chairs, where she sat and regarded me with exhausted, beseeching eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “They told me you were in danger.”

  “Indeed,” said Jennifer, “and neither did we lie, because in fact you are both in danger.”

  v

  “Now tell me, what does your Order want with the letters?”

  I looked from her to the footmen and knew the situation was hopeless.

  “I’m sorry, Jennifer,” I told her. “I truly am. You’re right, I am an imposter in your home, and you’re right that I hoped to lay my hands on the letters from your brother . . .”

  “To take them from me,” she corrected tautly.

  I hung my head. “Yes. Yes, to take them from you.”

  She brought two hands to the handle of her cane and leaned toward me. Her hair had fallen over her glasses but the one eye I could see blazed with fury.

  “My father, Edward Kenway, was an Assassin, Élise de la Serre,” she said. “Templar agents attacked my house and killed him in the very room in which you now sit. They kidnapped me, delivering me into a life that even in my most fetid nightmares I could never have imagined for myself. A living nightmare that continued for years. I’ll be honest with you, Élise de la Serre, I’m not best disposed toward Templars, and certainly not Templar spies. What do you suppose is the Assassin punishment for spies, Élise de la Serre?”

  “I don’t know, mademoiselle,” I implored, “but please don’t hurt Helene. Me if it pleases you but please not her. She has done nothing. She is an innocent in all of this.”

  But now Jennifer gave a short, barked laugh. “An innocent? Then I can sympathize with her plight because I, too, was an innocent once.

  “Do you think I deserved everything that happened to me? Kidnapped and kept a prisoner? Used as a whore. Do you think that I, an innocent, deserved to be treated in such a way? Do you think that I, an innocent, deserve to live out the rest of my years in loneliness and darkness, terrified of demons that come in the night?

  “No, I don’t suppose you do. But you see, innocence is not the shield you wish it to be, not when it comes to the eternal battle between Templar and Assassin. Innocents die in this battle you seem so eager to join, Élise de la Serre. Women and children who know nothing of Assassins and Templars. Innocence dies and innocents die—that is what happens in a war, Élise, and the conflict between Templars and Assassins is no different.”

  “This isn’t you,” I said at last.

  “What on earth can you mean, child?”

  “I mean you won’t kill us.”

  She pulled a face. “Why not? An eye for an eye. Men of your stripe slaughtered Monica and Lucio, and they were innocents, too, were they not?”

  I nodded.

  She straightened. Her knuckles whitened as her fingers flexed on the ivory handle of her cane and watching her gaze off into space reminded me of when we’d first met, when she’d sat staring into the fire. The painful thing was that in our short time together I’d come to like and admire Jennifer Scott. I didn’t want her to be capable of hurting us. I thought she was better than that.

  And she was.

  “The truth is, I hate the bloody lot of you,” she said at last, exhaling the words at the end of a long sigh as though she’d waited years to say them. “I’m sick of you all. Tell that to your Templar friends when I send you and your lady’s maid . . .” She stopped and pointed the cane toward Helene. “She’s not really a lady’s maid, is she?”

  “No, mademoiselle,” I agreed and looked over at Helene. “She thinks she owes me a debt.”

  Jennifer rolled her eyes. “And now you owe her a debt.”

  I nodded gravely. “Yes—yes, I do.”

  She looked at me. “You know, I see good in you, Élise. I see doubts and questions and I think those are positive qualities, and because of that I’ve come to a decision. I’m going to let you have the letters you seek.”

  “I no longer want them, mademoiselle,” I told her tearfully. “Not at any price.”

  “What makes you think you have a choice?” she said. “These letters are what your colleagues in the Templars want and they shall have them, on the condition, firstly, that they leave me out of their battles in future—that they leave me alone—and, secondly, that they read them. They read what my brother has to say about how Templar and Assassin can work together, then maybe, just maybe, act upon them.”

  She waved a hand at Smith, who nodded and moved over to panels inset into the wall.

  She smiled at me. “You’d wondered about those panels, hadn’t you, I know you had.”

  I avoided her eye. Meantime, Mills had moved to the wall panels, triggered a switch so that one of them slid back and taken two cigar boxes from a compartment. Returning to stand beside his mistress, he opened the top one to show me what was inside: a sheaf of letters tied with a black ribbon.

  Without even looking, she indicated them. “Here it is, the sum total of Haytham’s correspondence from America. I want you to read the letters. Don’t worry, you won’t be eavesdropping on any private family matters. We were never close, my brother and I. But what you will find is my brother expanding upon his personal philosophies. And you may—if I have read you correctly, Élise de la Serre—find in them a reason to alter your own thinking. Perhaps take that mode of thinking into your role as a Templar Grand Master.”

  She passed the first box back to Mills, then opened the second. Inside was a silver necklace. On it hung a pendant inset with sparkling red jewels in the shape of a Templar cross.

  “He sent me this, too,” she explained. “A gift. But I have no desire for it. It should go to a Templar. Perhaps one like you.”

  “I can’t accept this.”

  “You have no choice,” she repeated. “Take them—take them both. Do what you can to bring an end to this fruitless war.”

  I looked at her and, though I didn’t want to break the spell or change her mind, couldn’t help but ask, “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because there has been enough blood spilled,” she said, turning smartly away as though she could no longer bear to look at me—as though she was ashamed of the mercy she felt in her soul and wished she were strong enough to have me killed.

  And then, with a gesture, she ordered her men to carry Helene away, telling me, when I looked like I might protest, “She will be looked after.

  “Helene didn’t want to talk because she was protecting you,” Jennifer continued. “You should be proud to inspire such loyalty in your followers, Élise. Perhaps you can use those gifts to inspire your Templar associates in other ways. We shall see. These letters are not given lightly. I can only hope that you read them and take note of the contents.”

  She gave me two hours with them. It was enough time to read them and form questions of my own. To know that there was another way. A third way.

  vi

  Jennifer did not bid us good-bye. Instead, we were shown out of a rear entrance and into the stable yard, where a carriage had been asked to wait. Mills loaded us inside and we left without another word.

  The coach rattled and shook. The horses snorted and their bridles jangled as we made our way across London and toward Mayfair. In my lap I carried the box, inside it Haytham’s letters and the necklace I had been given by Jennifer. I held them tight, knowing that they provided the key to future dreams of peace. I owed it to Jennifer to see that they fell into the right hands.

  By my side Helene sat silent and badly shaken. I reached for her, fingertips stroking the back of her hand as I tried to reassure her that everythin
g was going to be all right.

  “Sorry I got you into this,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Helene.”

  “You didn’t get me into anything, mademoiselle, remember? You tried to talk me out of coming.”

  I gave a mirthless chuckle. “I expect you wish you’d done as I’d asked now.”

  She gazed from the glass as the city streets tumbled past us. “No, mademoiselle, not for a second did I wish otherwise. Whatever is my fate it is better than what those men had planned for me in Calais. The one you saved me from.”

  “In any case, Helene, the debt is paid. When we reach France you must go your own way, as a free woman.”

  The ghost of a smile stole across her lips. “We shall see about that, mademoiselle,” she said. “We shall see.”

  As the carriage trundled into the tree-lined square at Mayfair I saw activity outside the home of the Carrolls some fifty yards away.

  I called to the driver to stop by banging on the ceiling hatch and as the horses complained and stamped, I opened the carriage door and stood on the footboard, shielding my eyes to look toward the distance. There I saw two carriages. The footmen of the Carroll household were milling around. I saw Mr. Carroll standing on the steps of the house, pulling on a pair of gloves. I saw Mr. Weatherall come trotting down the steps, buttoning his jacket. At his side hung his sword.

  That was interesting. The footmen were armed, too, and so was Mr. Carroll.

  “Wait here,” I called to the driver, then peered inside.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said to Helene softly. And then, picking up my skirts, I hurried to a spot near a set of railings from which I could see the carriages more closely. Mr. Weatherall stood with his back to me. I cupped my hands to my mouth, made our customary owl sound and was relieved when only he turned around, everybody else being too embroiled in their tasks to wonder why they could hear an owl at that time of the early evening.

  Mr. Weatherall’s eyes searched the square until they found me and he shifted position, drawing his hands across his chest, assuming a casual pose with a hand covering one side of his face. He mouthed to me, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Thank God for our silent conversations.

  “Never mind that. Where are you going?”

  “They found Ruddock. He’s staying at the Boars Head Inn on Fleet Street.”

  “I need my things,” I told him. “My trunk.”

  He nodded. “I’ll fetch it and leave it in one of the stables round back. Don’t hang around; we’re leaving any moment now.”

  All my life I’ve been told I’m beautiful, but I don’t think I’d ever really used it until that moment, when I returned to our carriage, fluttered my eyelashes at the coachman and persuaded him to fetch my trunk from the mews.

  When he returned I asked him to sit up top while, with a feeling like greeting an old friend, I delved into my trunk. My proper trunk. The trunk of Élise de la Serre rather than Yvonne Albertine. I performed my customary carriage change. Off came the accursed dress. I slapped Helene’s hands away as she tried to help. “You’re hurt, get some rest!” Then I slipped into my breeches and shirt, pummeled my tricorn into shape and strapped on my sword. I shoved a sheaf of letters into the front of my shirt. Everything else I left in the carriage.

  “You’re to take this carriage to Dover,” I told Helene, opening the door. “You’re to go. Meet the tide. Take the first ship back to France. God willing I will meet you there.”

  “Take this girl to Dover,” I called up to the driver.

  “Is she sailing to Calais?” he asked, having had the usual reaction to my change of clothes.

  “As am I. You’re to wait for me there.”

  “Then she might catch the tide. The road to Dover is full of coaches right now.”

  “Excellent,” I said, and tossed him a coin. “Be sure to look after her and know that if any harm should come to her, I’ll come looking for you.”

  His eyes went to my sword. “I believe you,” he said, “don’t you worry about that.”

  “Good.” I grinned. “We understand each other.”

  “Seems like we do.”

  Right.

  I took a deep breath.

  I had the letters. I had my sword and a pouch of coins. Everything else went with Helene.

  The coachman found me another carriage, and as I climbed in, I watched Helene pull away, silently offering up a prayer for her safe delivery. To my coachman I said, “Fleet Street, please, monsieur, and don’t spare the horses.”

  With a smile he nodded and we were in motion. I slid down the window and looked behind us just in time to see the last of the Carrolls’ party board the coaches. Whips split the air. The two carriages moved off. Through the hatch I called, “Monsieur, there are two coaches some distance behind. We must reach Fleet Street ahead of them.”

  “Yes, mademoiselle,” said the driver, unperturbed. He shook the reins. The horses whinnied, their hooves clattered more urgently upon the cobbles and I sat back with my hand gripping the hilt of my sword, and knew that the chase was on.

  vii

  It wasn’t long before we were pulling into the Boars Head Inn on Fleet Street. I tossed coins and gave a grateful wave to the coachman, then, before he had time to open my door, jumped out into the courtyard.

  It was full of stagecoaches and horses, ladies and gentlemen directing lackeys who groaned beneath the weight of parcels and trunks. I glanced at the entranceway. There was no sign of the Carrolls. Good. It gave me a chance to find Ruddock. I slipped into the back door, then along a half-dark passage into the tavern itself, darkened, with low, wooden beams. Like the Antlers in Calais, it was alive with the jagged laughter of thirsty travelers, the air thick with smoke. I found a barkeep who stood with his mouth hidden in his jowls, half-asleep and working a towel around a pewter tumbler, eyes far away, as though dreaming of a better place.

  “Hello? Monsieur?”

  Still he stared. I flicked my fingers, called him even more loudly over the din of the tavern and he came to.

  “What?” he growled.

  “I’m looking for a man who stays here, a Mr. Ruddock.”

  He shook his head, and the folds of skin at his neck shuddered as he did so. “Nobody here by that name.”

  “Perhaps he is using a false name,” I said hopefully. “Please, monsieur, it is important that I find him.”

  He squinted at me with renewed interest. “What does he look like, this Mr. Ruddock of yours?” he asked me.

  “He dresses like a doctor, monsieur, at least he did the last time I saw him but one thing he can’t change is the distinctive shade of his hair.”

  “Almost pure white?”

  “That’s it.”

  “No, not seen him.”

  Even in the thick clamor of the inn I could hear it—a disturbance in the courtyard. The sound of carriages arriving. It was the Carrolls.

  The innkeeper had seen me notice. His eyes glittered.

  “You have seen him,” I pressed.

  “Might have,” he said, and with unwavering eyes held out a hand. I crossed his palm with silver

  “Upstairs. First room on the left. He’s using the name Mowles. Mr. Gerald Mowles. Sounds like you better hurry.”

  The commotion from outside had increased, and I could only hope they’d take their time assembling and helping Madame Carroll and her hideous daughter out of the carriage before they swept into the Boars Head Inn like minor royalty, giving me plenty of time to . . .

  Get upstairs. First door on the left. I caught my breath. I was in the eaves, the slanting beams almost brushing the top of my hat. Even so it was quieter upstairs, the noise from below reduced to a constant background clatter, no hint of the impending invasion.

  I took the few moments of calm before the storm to compose myself, raised my hand about to knock, then had second thoughts and instead crouched to peer through the keyhole.

  He sat on the bed with one leg pulled up beneath him wearing br
eeches and a shirt unlaced to show a bony chest tufted with hair beneath. Though he no longer looked like the doctor of that image, there was no mistaking the shock of white hair and the fact that it was definitely him, the man who had populated my nightmares. Funny how this terror of my childhood now looked very unthreatening indeed.

  From downstairs came the sound of a minor uproar as the Carrolls burst in. There were raised voices and threats and I heard my friend the innkeeper protesting as they made their presence felt. In moments Ruddock would be aware of what was happening and any element of surprise I had would be lost.

  I knocked.

  “Enter,” he called, which surprised me.

  As I came into the room he raised himself to meet me with one hand on his hip, a stance I realized with a puzzled start that was supposed to be provocative. For a second or so we were both confused by the sight of one another: him, posing with his hand on his hip; me, bursting in.

  Until at last he spoke in a voice that I was surprised to hear was cultured. “I’m sorry, but you don’t look much like a prostitute. I mean, no offense, and you’re most attractive, but just not much like a . . . prostitute.”

  I frowned. “No, monsieur, I am not a prostitute, I am Élise de la Serre, daughter of Julie de la Serre.”

  He looked at once blank and quizzical.

  “You tried to kill us,” I explained.

  His mouth formed an O.

  viii

  “Ah,” he said, “and you’re the grown-up daughter come to take revenge, are you?”

  My hand was on the hilt of my sword. From behind I heard the clatter of boots on wooden steps as the Carroll’s men made their way upstairs. I slammed the door and threw the bolt.

  “No. I’m here to save your life.”

  “Oh? Really? That’s a turnup.”

  “Count yourself lucky,” I said. The footsteps were just outside the door. “Leave.”

  “But I’m not even dressed properly.”

  “Leave,” I insisted, and pointed at the window. There was a banging on the door that shook in its frame, and Ruddock didn’t need telling a third time. He slung one leg over the casement and disappeared, leaving a strong whiff of stale sweat behind, and I heard him skidding down the sloped roof outside. Just then the door splintered and swung open, and Carroll’s men burst inside.