We bandaged him as best we could, and by the time we reached the shores of Calais he had recovered some of his color. But he was still in pain, and as far as we knew, the ball remained inside his leg, and when we changed his dressings, the wound gleamed at us, showing no signs of healing.
The school had a nurse but Madame Levene had fetched the doctor from Châteaufort, a man experienced in dealing with war wounds.
“It’s going to have to come off, ain’t it?” Mr. Weatherall had said to him from the bed, five of us crammed into his bedchamber.
The doctor nodded and I felt my tears prick my eyes.
“Don’t you worry about it,” Mr. Weatherall was saying. “I knew the bloody thing was going to have to come off, right from the second she got me. Sliding on the bloody roof in me own blood, musket ball stuck in me leg, I thought, ‘That’s it—it’s a goner.’ Sure enough.”
He looked at the doctor and swallowed, a little fear showing on his face at last. “Are you fast?”
The doctor nodded, adding with a slightly proud air, “I can do a leg in forty-four seconds.”
Mr. Weatherall looked impressed. “You use a serrated blade?”
“And razor-sharp . . .”
He took a deep, regretful breath. “Then what are we waiting for?” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”
Jacques and I held Mr. Weatherall, and the doctor was as good as his word, being fast and thorough, even when Mr. Weatherall passed out from the pain. When it was over he wrapped Mr. Weatherall’s leg in brown paper and took it away, and the following day returned with a pair of crutches for him.
2 MAY 1788
To keep up appearances, I returned to school, where I was very much a mystery to my classmates, who were told that I had been segregated for disciplinary reasons. For these last few months I would be the most-talked-about pupil at school, subject of more rumors and gossip than I cared to mention: on the grapevine I heard that I had taken up with a gentleman of ill repute (not true), that I had fallen with child (not true) or that I had taken to spending my nights gambling in dockside bars (and, well, yes, I had done that, once or twice).
None of them guessed that I had been trying to track down a man who was once hired to kill me and my mother, that I had returned with an injured Mr. Weatherall and a devoted Helene and that the three of us now lived in the groundskeeper’s lodge with Jacques, the illegitimate son of the headmistress.
No, nobody ever guessed that.
I read Haytham Kenway’s letters and then, one day, approached Helene, who was sitting on a low stool by the back door of the lodge, a bowl of steaming water between her feet and a basket full of laundry at one side.
“Do you like it here?” I asked her.
She smiled without taking her eyes off her washing. “I think it is a kind of paradise, mademoiselle.”
“I’m glad. I’m so glad, because . . . I’m so sorry about what happened to you in London.”
She nodded. “Seems I have to keep reminding you of this, but a lot worse would have happened if you hadn’t saved me in Calais.”
“Yes, I know, but . . . even so.”
“It’s forgotten, mademoiselle.”
Her hands worked a sopping white nightdress, kneading it over and over.
“I was wondering,” I said, and cleared my throat. “I’d like to write to Jennifer Scott. There are some things I’d like to discuss with her. But . . . well, I would quite understand if, given what she did to you, you would rather I did not.”
When Helene at last took her attention away from her laundry and looked at me, her eyes were shining. “Mademoiselle, I don’t think you quite realize what it means to me, the life I have now. You may do what you like. All I care about is what you have given me. And I could never show enough loyalty to repay you for what you’ve already given me.”
“Thank you,” I said, and we embraced.
So I did. I wrote to Jennifer Scott. I told her how sorry I was. I “introduced” myself, telling her about my home life, about Arno, my beloved, and how I was supposed to steer him away from the Creed and toward the ways of Templars.
And of course I discussed Haytham’s letters and how his words had moved me. I told her that I would do everything I could to help broker peace between our two kinds because she was right, and Haytham was right: there had been too much killing, and it had to stop.
DECEMBER 1788
This evening Mr. Weatherall and I took the cart into Châteaufort, and a house there he called his “drop.”
“You’re a more agreeable coachman than young Jacques, I must say,” he’d said, settling in at my side. “Although I’ll say this, he’s a cracking horseman. Never needs to use the whip and rarely even touches the reins. Just sits there on the shaft with his feet up, whistling through his teeth, like this . . .”
He whistled in an approximation of his usual coachman. Well, I was no Jacques, and my hands froze on the reins but I enjoyed the scenery as we rode. Winter had begun to bite hard and the fields on either side of the track into town were laced with ice that glimmered beneath a low skirt of early-evening fog. It would be another bad winter, that was for certain, and I wondered how the peasants who worked the fields felt, looking from their windows. My privilege allowed me to see the beauty ushered into the landscape. They would see only hardship.
“What’s ‘a drop’?” I asked him.
“Aha,” he laughed, slapping his gloved hands together, his cold breath clouding around his upturned collar. “Ever seen a dispatch arrive at the lodge? No. That’s because they come from here.” He pointed up the highway. “A drop is how I can conduct my business without giving away my exact location. The official story is that you’re completing your education and I’m whereabouts unknown. That’s how I want things to remain for the time being. And to do that I have to route my correspondence through a series of contacts.”
“And who are the people you’re hoping to hoodwink? The Crows?”
“Could be. Don’t know yet, do we? We’re still no closer to finding out who hired Ruddock.”
There was an awkward moment between us. Almost everything about the trip to London had remained unspoken, but most of all the fact that it had achieved little of real worth. Yes, I now had the letters and had returned a different, more enlightened woman, but the fact was that we’d gone there to find Ruddock and had done nothing of the sort.
Well, we had found him. Only, I had let him go. And the only two pieces of information we had from the experience were that Ruddock no longer dressed like a doctor and that he sometimes went under the alias Gerald Mowles.
“Well, he won’t be using that alias again, will he? He’d have to be a bloody idiot to try that again,” Mr. Weatherall had grunted, which reduced the pieces of information I had to a single piece of information.
Plus, of course, I had killed May Carroll.
Over the kitchen table at the lodge we had discussed how the Carrolls might respond. For a month or so, Mr. Weatherall had monitored the dispatches and found no mention of the incident.
“I didn’t think they’d want to make it official business,” Mr. Weatherall had said. “Fact is, they were about to bump off the Grand Master’s daughter, herself a Grand Master in waiting. Try explaining that one. No. The Carrolls will want their revenge, but they’ll take it the clandestine way. They’ll want you, me and maybe even Helene dead. And sooner or later, probably just when we least expect it, someone will pay us a visit.”
“We’ll be ready for them,” I told him. But I remembered the battle in the Boars Head Inn, when Mr. Weatherall had been a shadow of his former self. The drink, the advancing years, a loss of confidence—whatever the reason, he was no longer the great warrior he’d been, even then. And now, of course, he’d lost a leg. I’d been training with him, and while he’d continued coaching me in swordplay, for his own part he had begun to concentrate more on his knife-throwing skills.
We were greeted by the sight of the three castles of Châteaufort
, and in the square I climbed down, collected Mr. Weatherall’s crutches and helped him down too.
He led us to a shop in one corner of the square.
“A cheese shop?” I said, eyebrows arching.
“Poor Jacques can’t stand the smell of it; I have to leave him outside. You coming in?”
I grinned and followed as he bowed his head and removed his hat, stepping inside. He greeted a young girl behind the counter, then moved through to the rear of the shop. Resisting the urge to hold a hand over my mouth, I followed to find him surrounded by wooden shelves on which were wheels of cheese. His nose was raised as he enjoyed the scent of the pungent cheese fumes.
“You smell that?” he asked.
I could hardly miss it. “This is the drop, is it?”
“Indeed it is. If you look beneath that cheese there, you may find some correspondence for us.”
It was a single letter that I handed to him. I waited as he read it.
“Right,” he said, when he’d finished, folding the letter and tucking it into his greatcoat. “You know how I said that our friend Mr. Ruddock would have to be bloody stupid to use his Gerald Mowles identity again?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously, feeling a little tingle of excitement at the same time.
“Well, he is—he’s bloody stupid.”
JANUARY 1789
It was dark and smoky in the Butchered Cow, as I imagined it always was, and the gloom was oppressive, despite the noise of the place. You know what it reminded me of? The Antlers in Calais. Only the Antlers in Calais removed to the harsh fields and even harsher living conditions of Rouen.
I was right. Winter had bitten hard. Harder than ever.
The smell of ale seemed to hang about the damp boards like mist; it was ingrained in the walls and in the woodwork and the tables at which the drinkers sat stank of it—not that they minded. Some were hunched over their tankards, so low that the brims of their hats were almost touching the tabletops, talking in low voices and whiling the evening away with grumbles and gossip; others were in groups, rattling dice in cups or laughing and joking. They banged their empty tankards on the table and called for more ale, brought to them by the only woman in the room, a smiling barmaid who was as practiced at dispensing ale as she was at dancing out of the way of the men’s grabbing hands.
It was into this tavern that I came, escaping a biting wind that whistled and swirled about me as I heaved the door shut and stood for a second on the threshold, stamping the snow off my boots.
I wore robes that almost reached the floor, a hood pulled up to hide my face. The loud chatter in the tavern was suddenly hushed, replaced instead by a low murmur. The brims of hats dipped lower; the men watched as I turned, closed the door, then stood in the shadows for a moment.
I moved across the room, boots clacking on the boards, and to a counter where stood the barkeep, the barmaid and two regulars clutching tankards, one of them regarding the floor, the other watching with flinty eyes and a set mouth.
At the counter I reached to the hood and drew it back to reveal red hair that I shook loose. The barmaid pursed her lips, and almost reflexively her hands went to her hips and her chest wiggled a little.
I looked carefully around the room, letting them know I was not intimidated by my surroundings. The men regarded me back with watchful eyes, no longer studying the tabletops, fascinated and entranced by the new arrival. Some licked their lips and there was much nudging, some sniggers. Ribald remarks were exchanged.
I took it all in, then I turned to give the room my back, moving up to the counter, where one of the regulars shifted away to let me in. The other one, however, remained where he was, so that he was standing close to me, deliberately looking me up and down.
“Good evening,” I said to the barman. “I’m hoping you might be able to help me—I’m looking for a man.” I said it loudly enough for the entire tavern to hear.
“Looks like you’ve come to the right place then,” rasped the potato-nosed drinker from by my side, although he said it to the room, which roared with laughter.
I smiled, ignored him. “He goes by the name of Bernard,” I added, invoking the name we had learned of from the letter. “He has some information I require. I was told I might find him here.”
All eyes turned to a corner of the tavern where the man who must be Bernard sat, his eyes wide.
“Thank you,” I said. “Bernard, perhaps we could step outside for a moment in order that we can talk.”
Bernard stared but didn’t move.
“Come on, Bernard. I won’t bite.”
Then Potato-Nose stepped away from the counter so that he was in front of me, facing me. His stare grew harder, if such a thing were possible, but his grin was sloppy and he swayed slightly as he stood.
“Now you just wait a minute, girlie,” he said with a sneering tone. “Bernard ain’t going nowhere, especially not till you tell us what’s on your mind.”
I frowned a little. Looked him over. “And how are you related to Bernard?” I asked politely.
“Well, it looks like I’ve just become his guardian,” replied Potato-Nose. “Protecting him against a red-haired bint who seems to be getting a bit above herself, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
There was a chortle from around the tavern.
“My name is Élise de la Serre of Versailles.” I smiled. “To be honest, if you don’t mind me saying, it’s you who’s getting above himself.”
He snorted. “I doubt that to be the truth. Way I see it, it’s soon coming to the end of the road for the likes of you and your kind.” He threw the last words over his shoulder, slurring them slightly.
“You would be surprised,” I said evenly. “We red-haired bints have a habit of getting the job done. The job in this case being to speak to Bernard. I intend to get it done. So I suggest that you go back to your ale and leave me to my business.”
“And what business might that be? Far as I can see, the only business a lady has in a tavern is serving the ale, and I’m afraid that position is already taken.” More titters, this time led by the barmaid.
“Or perhaps you have come to entertain us. Is that right, Bernard, have you paid for a singer for the evening?” Potato-Nose licked lips that were already wet. “Or perhaps another kind of entertainment?”
“Look, you’re drunk, you’re forgetting your manners, so I’ll forget you said that on condition you stand aside.”
But my voice was steely. The men in the tavern noticed.
Not Potato-Nose, though. He was oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere, enjoying himself too much. “Perhaps you are here to entertain us with a dance,” he said loudly. “What is it you’re hiding under there?” And with that he reached forward to pluck at my robes.
He froze. My hand went to his. My eyes narrowed. Then Potato-Nose was pulling back and snatching a dagger from his belt.
“Well, well,” he said loudly, “it looks as though the red-haired bint is carrying a sword.” He waved the knife. “Now what you be needing with a sword, mademoiselle?”
I sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. In case I need to cut some cheese? Why would it matter to you anyway?”
“I’ll take it if you don’t mind,” he said, “then you can be on your way.”
Behind him the other customers watched wide-eyed. Some of them began to edge away, sensing that their visitor was unlikely to give up her weapon willingly.
Instead, after a moment of seeming to consider, I reached a hand to my robes. Potato-Nose jabbed threateningly with the dagger but I held my palms out and moved slowly, drawing back the robes.
Below I wore a leather tunic. At my waist was the hilt of my sword. I reached across myself toward it, eyes never leaving those of Potato-Nose.
“Other hand,” said Potato-Nose, grinning at his own cleverness, insisting with the knife.
I obliged. With finger and thumb I used my other hand to gently remove the sword by its handle. It slid slowly from the scabbard. All held
their breath.
Now, with a sudden movement of my wrist I flicked the sword up and out of the sheath so that one moment it was in my fingers, the next gone.
It happened in the blink of an eye. For a fraction of a second Potato-Nose gaped at the spot where the sword should have been, then his eyes flicked up in time to see it slice down toward his knife hand.
Which he snatched out of the way, the sword thunking to the wood, where it stuck, vibrating slightly.
A smile of victory had already begun to gather at Potato-Nose’s mouth before he realized he had left himself exposed, his knife pointing in the wrong direction, giving me enough room to step forward, twist and smash him across the nose with my forearm.
Blood fountained from his nose, his eyes rolled upward. His knees met the boards as he sank downward, then seemed to wobble as I stepped forward, put my boot to his chest and was about to push him gently backward when I thought better of it, took a step back and kicked him in the face instead.
He dropped face-first and lay still, breathing but out for the count.
There was silence in the tavern as I beckoned Bernard, then retrieved my sword. Bernard was already scrambling obediently over as I sheathed it.
“Don’t worry,” I told him as he stood some feet away, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re in no danger—unless you’re planning on calling me a red-haired bint.” I looked at him. “Are you planning on calling me a red-haired bint?”
Bernard, younger, taller and more spindly than Potato-Nose, shook his head vigorously.
“Good, then let’s take this outside.”
I glanced around to check whether or not there were any more challengers—the customers, owner and barmaid all found something of interest to study at their feet and, satisfied, I ushered Bernard outside.
“Right,” I said, once there, “I’m told you may know something about the whereabouts of a friend of mine—he goes by the name of Mowles.”
JANUARY 1789
Assassin's Creed: Unity Page 15