Assassin's Creed: Unity

by Oliver Bowden

  i

  On a hillside overlooking a tiny village outside Rouen, three landworkers wearing leather jerkins laughed and joked, and then, on the count of three, heaved a gallows onto a low wooden platform.

  One of the men placed a three-legged stool beneath the gallows, then bent to help his two companions as they went to work hammering in the struts that would keep the gallows in place, the rhythmic knock-knock carried on the wind to where I sat on my horse, a beautiful and calm gelding that I’d called Scratch, in honor of our beloved and long-since-departed wolfhound.

  At the bottom of the hill was a village. It was a tiny village, more like a cluster of disconsolate shacks and a tavern that had been scattered around along the perimeter of a brown and muddy square, but it was a village all the same.

  A freezing rain had eased to a steady and just-as-freezing drizzle and a fierce, bone-chilling wind had blown up. The villagers waiting in the square wrapped shawls tightly around themselves, clasping shirts at their necks as they awaited the day’s entertainment—a hanging. What could be better? Nothing like a good hanging to raise the spirits when the frost had killed the crops and the local landowner was raising his rents and the king in Versailles had new taxes he hoped to enforce.

  From a building I guessed was the jailhouse there came a noise, and the frozen spectators turned to see a priest wearing black hat and robes emerge, his voice rich with solemnity as he read from the Bible. Behind him came a jailer, who held a length of rope, the other end of which tied the hands of a man who wore a hood over his head, who staggered and slipped in the mud of the square, blindly shouting protestations in the direction of no one in particular.

  “I think there’s been some mistake,” he was shouting—except he shouted it in English, before remembering to do it in French. Villagers stood watching him as he was led toward the hill, some crossing themselves, some jeering. There was not a gendarme to be seen. No judge or officer of the law. This was what passed for justice out here in the country, it seemed. And they said Paris was uncivilized.

  The man, of course, was Ruddock, and looking down the hill upon him, as he was pulled by rope so that he could swing at the end of another one, it was difficult to believe he had ever been an Assassin. No wonder the Creed had washed their hands of him.

  I pushed back the hood of my robes, shook my hair free and looked down upon Bernard, who stood gazing up at me with wide, adoring eyes.

  “Here they come, mademoiselle,” he said, “just as I promised they would.”

  I dangled a purse into his palm then tweaked it away when he went to grasp it.

  “And that’s definitely him, is it?” I asked.

  “That’s him all right, mademoiselle. Man who goes by the name of monsieur Gerald Mowles. They say he tried to swindle an elderly lady out of her money but was caught before he could leave.”

  “And then sentenced to death.”

  “That’s right, mademoiselle, the villagers sentenced him to death.”

  I gave a short laugh and looked back to where the grim procession had reached the foot of the hill and was climbing toward the gallows, shaking my head at how low Ruddock had sunk and wondering if it might be better to do the world a favor and let him swing. After all, this was a man who had tried to kill me and my mother. Something Mr. Weatherall had said to me before I left played over in my mind. “If you find him, do me a favor and don’t bring him here.”

  I’d looked sharply at him. “And why would that be, Mr. Weatherall?”

  “Well, two reasons. Firstly, because this is our hidey-hole and I don’t want it compromised by some bastard who sells his services to the highest bidder.”

  “And the second reason?”

  He shifted uncomfortably and reached to scratch at the stump of his leg, something he had a habit of doing. “The other reason is that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our Mr. Ruddock. Maybe too much thinking, you might say—than is healthy, I mean. And I suppose I blame him for this.” He indicated his leg. “And also because, well, he tried to kill you and Julie, and I’ve never quite got over that.”

  I cleared my throat. “Was there ever anything between you and my mother, Mr. Weatherall?”

  He smiled and tapped the side of his nose. “A gentleman never tells, young Élise, you should know that.”

  But he was right. This man had attacked us. Of course I was going to save him from the gallows, but that was because there were things I wanted to know. But what about after that? Did I exact my revenge?

  Scrambling toward the gallows was a group of women who formed a disorderly line as Ruddock, still protesting his innocence, was dragged to where the gallows stood silhouetted against the winter-gray skyline.

  “What are they doing?” I asked Bernard.

  “They’re barren women, mademoiselle. They hope that touching the hand of the condemned man will help them conceive.”

  “You’re a superstitious, man, Bernard.”

  “It’s not superstition if I know it to be true, mademoiselle.”

  I looked at him, wondering what went on his head. How did Bernard and people like him get to be so medieval?

  “Did you want to save Monsieur Mowles, mademoiselle?” he asked me.

  “Indeed I do.”

  “Well, you better hurry then. They’ve started.”

  What? I swiveled in the saddle in time to see one of the leather jerkins haul the stool away, and Ruddock’s body fall and be snapped tight by the noose.

  “Mon dieu,” I cursed, and set off across the hillside, low in the saddle, hair out straight behind me.

  Ruddock jerked and writhed on the rope.

  “Gah!” I urged my horse—“Come on, Scratch!”—thundering toward the gallows as Ruddock’s dangling legs pumped. I drew my sword.

  I dropped the reins and sat upright in the saddle, a matter of yards from the gallows now. I tossed my sword from my right to my left hand, brought the weapon across my body then flung out my right arm. I leaned to the right, dangerously low in the saddle.

  His legs gave one last convulsion.

  I swept the sword, sliced the rope and at the same time grabbed Ruddock’s spasming body with my right arm, heaving it onto the neck of Scratch and hoping to God he could bear the sudden extra weight and that with God’s grace and maybe just a little bit of luck, we’d somehow stay on all four legs.

  Come on, Scratch.

  But the sudden weight was too much for Scratch, whose legs buckled, and we all came crashing to the ground.

  In a trice I was on my feet, sword drawn. An enraged villager, deprived of his day’s hanging, lumbered out of the small crowd toward me, but I stood, pivoted and kicked, choosing to stun rather than hurt him, and sent him reeling back into the knot of villagers. Collectively they thought twice about trying to stop me, deciding instead to stand and mutter darkly, the women pointing at me—“Oi, you can’t do this”—and prodding their men into doing something—and all of them looking pointedly at the priest, who merely looked worried.

  Beside me, Scratch had scrambled to his feet. As had Ruddock, who’d immediately set off in a run. Still hooded, panicking, he dashed in the wrong direction, back toward the gallows, his hands tied, the severed noose dancing on his back.

  “Watch out,” I tried to shout. But with a solid thump he ran into the platform, spinning off with a yell of pain, then falling to the ground, where he lay, coughing and obviously hurt.

  I flipped back my robes and sheathed my sword, turned to gather Scratch. Next I caught the eye of a young peasant at the front of the crowd.

  “You,” I said, “you look like a big strong lad. You can help me with a bit of lifting. That barely conscious man on this horse, please.”

  “Oi, you can’t . . .” began an older woman nearby, but in a second my sword was at her throat. She looked disdainfully down the blade at me. “You lot think you can do what you want, don’t you?” she sneered.

  “Really? Then tell me, on whose authority is this man condemne
d to death? You can all count yourselves lucky I don’t report your actions to the gendarmes.”

  They looked bashful, there was some clearing of throats and the woman at the end of my blade shifted her gaze.

  “Now,” I said, “I just want some help with some lifting.”

  My helper did as he was told.

  Next, making sure Ruddock was secure, I mounted Scratch. As I pulled him round to leave I caught the eye of the lad who had helped me, gave him a wink—and then was off.

  I rode for miles. There were plenty of people abroad, most hurrying home before darkness fell, but they paid me no mind. Perhaps they came to the conclusion that I was a long-suffering wife carrying her drunken husband home from the pub. And if they did come to that conclusion, well, I was certainly long-suffering where Ruddock was concerned.

  From the draped body in front of me came the sound of a gurgle so I dismounted, laid my prisoner on the ground, reached for a water bottle and squatted by his side. The stench of him assaulted my nostrils.

  “Hello again,” I said, when his eyes opened and he gazed glassily at me. “It’s Élise de la Serre.”

  He groaned.

  ii

  Ruddock tried to pull himself up on his elbows, but he was as weak as a kitten and from my squatting position I easily held him down with the fingertips of one hand, placing the other to the hilt of my sword.

  For a moment or so he writhed pathetically; more as though he was having a grown-up-baby tantrum than any concerted effort to escape.

  Once he settled, he stared up at me balefully.

  “Look, what do you want?” he said with a hurt tone. “I mean, you obviously don’t want to kill me; otherwise, you would have done it by now . . .”

  Something occurred to him. “Oh no. You haven’t been saving my life in order to have the pleasure of killing me yourself, have you? I mean, that would be cruel and unusual. You’re not doing that, are you?”

  “No,” I said, “I’m not doing that. Not yet.”

  “So what is it you want?”

  “I want to know who hired you to kill me and my mother in Paris in ’75.”

  He snorted disbelievingly. “And if I tell you, then you’ll kill me.”

  “Try this: if you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you.”

  He turned his head to one side. “And what if I don’t know?”

  “Well, then I’ll torture you until you tell me.”

  “Well, then I’ll just say any name until you let me go.”

  “And then when I find out you lied I’ll come after you again, and I’ve found you twice, Monsieur Ruddock. I’ll find you again, then again, if necessary, and again. And you’ll never be rid of me, not until I have satisfaction.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” he said, “what have I done to deserve this?”

  “You tried to kill my mother and me.”

  “Well, yes,” he admitted, “but I didn’t succeed, did I?”

  “Who hired you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I went up to one knee, drew my sword, held it to his face, the tip of it just under his eyeball.

  “Unless you were hired by a ghost, you know who hired you. Now who hired you?”

  His eyeballs darted furiously as though trying to get a fix on the point of the blade. “I promise you,” he wheedled, “I promise you I don’t know.”

  I jogged the blade slightly. “A man!” he squealed. “A man in a coffeehouse in Paris.”

  “Which coffeehouse?”

  “The Café de Procope.”

  “And what was his name?”

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  I flashed the blade across his right cheek, giving him a cut. He screamed and though inside I flinched, I kept my face blank—cruel, even—the face of someone determined to get what she wants even though I was fighting a sinking feeling inside, a sense that I’d come to the end of a decade-long wild-goose chase.

  “I promise. I promise. He was a stranger to me. He didn’t tell me, I didn’t ask. I took half the money then and was to return for it when the job was done. But, of course, I never went back.”

  “I think you’re telling me the truth,” I said. And he was. With a sinking heart I realized he was telling the truth: that thirteen years ago an anonymous man had hired another anonymous man to do a job. And there the story ended.

  I had one last bluff up my sleeve, and I stood, keeping the blade where it was.

  “Then all that remains is to exact revenge for what you did in ’75.”

  His eyes widened. “Oh for God’s sake, you are going to kill me.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I can find out,” he said quickly. “I can find out who the man was. Let me find out for you.”

  I regarded him carefully as though mulling it over, even though the truth was I had no intention of killing him. Not like this. Not in cold blood.

  At last I said, “I’ll spare your life so that you can do as you say. Know this, though, Ruddock, I want to hear from you within six months—six months. You can find me at the de la Serres’ Île Saint-Louis estate in Paris. Whether you have learned anything or not, you come to find me or you can spend the rest of your days expecting me to appear from the shadows and slit your throat. Do I make myself clear?”

  I sheathed my sword and mounted Scratch. “There’s a town two miles in that direction.” I pointed. “See you in six months, Ruddock.”

  I rode away. And I waited until I was out of sight of Ruddock to let my shoulders slump.

  Wild-goose chase indeed. All I’d learned was that there was nothing to learn.

  Would I ever see Ruddock again? I doubted it. I wasn’t sure if my promise to hunt him down was an empty threat or not, but I knew this: like most else in life it was a lot easier said than done.

  4 MAY 1789

  This morning I woke early, dressed and went to where my trunk was waiting for me by the front door of the lodge. I’d hoped to slip out quietly, but when I crept through to the entrance hall they were all there: Madame Levene and Jacques; Helene and Mr. Weatherall.

  Mr. Weatherall held out his hand. I looked at him.

  “Your short sword,” he prompted. “You can leave it here. I’ll take good care of it.”

  “But then I won’t have a . . .”

  He’d reached for another sword. He tucked his crutches into his armpits and held it out to me.

  “A cutlass,” I said, turning it over in my hands.

  “Indeed, it is,” said Mr. Weatherall. “Lovely fighting weapon. Light and easy to handle, great for close combat.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Too blinkin’ right it’s beautiful. It’ll stay beautiful if you take good care of it. And no naming it now, you hear?”

  “I promise,” I said, and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. “Thank you, Mr. Weatherall.”

  He blushed. “You know, you’re a grown woman now, Élise. A grown woman who’s saved my life. You can stop calling me Mr. Weatherall. You can call me Freddie.”

  “You’ll always be Mr. Weatherall to me.”

  “Oh, suit your bloody self,” he said, pretending to be exasperated, and used the opportunity to turn and wipe a tear from his eye.

  I kissed Madame Levene and thanked her for everything. With gleaming eyes she held me at arm’s length, as though wanting to study me. “I asked you to come back from London a changed person, and you did me proud. You went an angry girl, came back a young woman. You are a credit to the Maison Royale.”

  I brushed aside the proffered hand of Jacques, and instead took him in a hug and gave him a kiss that made him blush and cast a sideways glance at Helene, and in an instant I realized that they had formed a bond.

  “He’s a lovely lad,” I whispered into Helene’s ear as I gave her a good-bye kiss, and I’d eat my hat if they weren’t together by the time of my next visit.

  Talking of which, I put on my hat and took hold of my trunk. Jacques bounded forward to take it from me but
I stopped him.

  “That’s very kind of you, Jacques, but I wish to meet the carriage alone.”

  And so I did. I took my trunk to the service highway close to the gates of the Maison Royale. The school building stood on the hillside watching me, and where once upon a time I would have seen malevolence in that stare, now I saw comfort and protection—that I was leaving behind.

  It felt as though I’d barely settled into the carriage when we came to the tree-bordered drive of our château, which ahead of me looked like a castle with its turrets and towers, presiding over the gardens that swept away in all directions.

  There I was met by Olivier, and once inside greeted by staff, some of whom I knew well—Justine, the sight of her bringing the memories of Mother flooding back—some who were unfamiliar faces to me. When my trunk was installed in my room, I took a tour of the house. I’d returned in the school holidays, of course. It wasn’t like this was some great homecoming. But even so, it felt like one. And for the first time in years I climbed the stairs to Mother’s rooms and went to her bedchamber.

  The fact that it was serviced but otherwise left as it was created a strong, almost overwhelming sense of her presence, as though she might walk in at any moment, find me sitting on the end of her bed and sit down next to me, put an arm around my shoulders. “I’m very proud of you, Élise. We both are.”

  I stayed like that for a while, with her phantom arm around my shoulders. It wasn’t until I felt the tickle of tears on my cheeks that I realized I was crying.

  5 MAY 1789

  i

  In a courtyard of the Hôtel des Menus-Plaisirs in Versailles, the king addressed the 1,614-strong meeting of the Estates General. It was the first time that the representatives of the three Estates—the clergy, the nobility and the common man—had officially met since 1614, and the huge vaulted chamber was full, row upon row of expectant Frenchmen hoping that the king would say something—anything—that would help pull his country from the swamp in which it was apparently mired. Something to point the way forward.

  I sat beside my father during the speech and the two of us were positively vibrating with hope before it began, a feeling that soon dissipated as our beloved leader began to drone on—and on, and on—saying nothing of any significance, offering no comfort to the downtrodden third estate, the common man.