Assassin's Creed: Unity

by Oliver Bowden

  Across the way, seated together, were the Crows. Messieurs Lafrenière, Le Peletier, Sivert, and Madame Levesque, wearing scowls that went with the black of their clothes. As I took my seat I caught their eye and gave a short, deferential bow, hiding my true feelings behind a false smile. In return they nodded back with false smiles of their own and I felt their eyes on me, assessing me as I took my seat.

  When I pretended to inspect something at my feet I looked at them surreptitiously from beneath my curls. Madame Levesque was whispering something to Sivert and receiving a nod in return.

  When the boring speech was over the Estates began shouting at one another. Father and I departed the Salle des États, dismissed our carriage and walked along the Avenue de Paris before taking a footpath that led across to the rear lawns of our château in the village.

  We chatted idly as we walked. He asked me about my final year at the Maison Royale but I steered the conversation to less dangerous and lie-filled waters, and so for a while we reminisced about when Mother was alive, and when Arno had joined the household. And then, when we had left the crowds behind and had open fields to one side, the palace watching over us always on the other, he broached the subject—the subject being my failure to bring Arno into the fold.

  “Indoctrinate him, you mean,” I said, at the mention of the idea.

  Father sighed. He was wearing his favorite hat, a black beaver that he now removed, first scratching at the wig below, which irritated him, then passing a hand across his forehead and regarding his palm as though expecting to find it slicked with sweat.

  “Do I need to remind you, Élise, that there is the very real possibility the Assassins might reach Arno first? You forget, I have spent a great deal of time with him. I am aware of his abilities. He is . . . gifted. It can only be a matter of time before the Assassins sniff that out too.”

  “Father, what if I were to bring Arno over to the Order . . .”

  He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Well, then it would be about time.”

  I plowed on. “You say he’s gifted. What if Arno could somehow combine the two creeds? What if he is the one capable of doing that?”

  “Your letters,” said Father, nodding thoughtfully, “you spoke about this in your letters.”

  “I’ve given the matter much thought.”

  “I can tell. Your ideas, they had a certain youthful idealism, but also they showed a certain . . . maturity.”

  For that I offered a silent thanks (not to mention an apology) to Haytham Kenway.

  “Perhaps it may interest you to know that I have arranged to meet the Assassin Grand Master, Count Mirabeau,” continued Father.

  “Really?”

  He held a finger to his lips. “Yes, really.”

  “Because you want our two Orders to begin talks?” I asked, whispering now.

  “Because I think we may have some common ground on the issue of our country’s future.”

  Perhaps, dear journal, you’re wondering if my conversion to the idea of Assassin-Templar unity had anything to do with the fact that I was a Templar and Arno an Assassin?

  No, is the answer. Any vision I had for the future was for the good of us all. But if that meant that Arno and I could be together, with no pretense or lies between us, then of course I embraced that, too, but only as a pleasant added benefit. Promise.

  ii

  Later, in the palace, a ceremony took place—my induction to the Order. My father wore the ceremonial robes of the Grand Master: long flowing, ermine-lined ceremonial cloak and a silk stole draped around his neck, his waistcoat buttoned and the buckles of his shoes polished to a shine.

  As he gave me the Templar pin of initiation I gazed into his smiling eyes, and he looked so handsome, so proud.

  I had no idea it would be the last time I saw him alive.

  But during the initiation there was no sign of the fact that we had argued. Instead of fatigue there was pride in his eyes. There were others there, of course. The dreaded Crows as well as other Knights of the Order, and they smiled weakly and offered insincere congratulations, but the ceremony belonged to the de la Serre family. I felt the spirit of my mother watching over me as they made me a Templar Knight at last, and I vowed to uphold the name of the de la Serres.

  iii

  And later, at the “private soiree” held to honor my induction, I walked through the party and felt like a changed woman. Yes, perhaps they thought I didn’t hear them gossiping behind their fans, telling each other how I spent my days drinking and gambling. They whispered how they pity my father. They made disparaging comments about my clothes.

  Their words were water off a duck’s back. My mother hated these courtly women and raised me to put no store by what they said. Her lessons served me well. They couldn’t hurt me now.

  And then I saw him. I saw Arno.

  iv

  I led him a merry dance, of course, partly for old times’ sake and partly so that I could compose myself ahead of meeting him again.

  Aha. It seemed that Arno’s presence at the party was not officially ratified. Either that or, true to form, he had made an enemy. Knowing him, probably a bit of both. In fact, as I made my way quickly along the corridors, picking up my skirts, weaving between revelers, keeping him just on my tail, it appears that we formed something of a procession.

  Of course, it would not do for the newly initiated daughter of the Grand Master to be seen to be participating in, even encouraging, such behavior. (See, Mr. Weatherall? See, Father? I was maturing. I was growing up.) And so I decided to end the chase, ducked into a side room, waited for Arno to appear, dragged him inside and stood facing him at last.

  “You seem to have caused quite a commotion,” I told him, drinking him in.

  “What can I say?” he said. “You were always a bad influence . . .”

  “You were a worse one,” I told him.

  And then we kissed. How it happened I couldn’t for certain say. One moment we were reunited friends the next we were reunited lovers.

  Our kiss was long, and passionate, and when we eventually broke apart we stared at each other for some moments.

  “Are you wearing one of my father’s suits?” I teased him.

  “Are you wearing a dress?” He retorted. For which he earned a playful smack.

  “Don’t even start. I feel like a mummy wrapped up in this thing.”

  “Must be quite an occasion to get you so fancy.” He smiled.

  “It’s not like that. Truth be told it’s a lot of ceremony and pontification. Dull as dirt.”

  Arno grinned. Oh, the old Arno. The old fun come back into my life. It was as though it had been raining and on seeing him the sun had come out—like returning home from far away and at last seeing your front door in the distance. We kissed again and held each other close.

  “Well, when you don’t invite me to your parties, everyone suffers,” he joked.

  “I did try, but Father was adamant.”

  “Your father?”

  From the other side of the door came the muted sound of the band, the laughter of revelers making their way back and forth in the corridor outside, heavy footfalls, running feet, guards still in search of Arno. Then suddenly the door shook, thumped from the other side, and a gruff voice called, “Who’s in there?”

  Arno and I looked at one another, kids again—kids caught pilfering apples or stealing pies from the kitchen. If I could bottle that moment, I would.

  Something tells me I’m never going to feel happiness like that again.

  v

  I bundled Arno out the window, snatched up a goblet, then burst out of the door, affecting an unsteady look. “Oh my. That wasn’t the billiard room at all, was it?” I said, gaily.

  The soldiers shifted uncomfortably on seeing me. And so they should. After all, this “private soiree” was being held in my honor . . .

  “We are pursuing an interloper, Mademoiselle de la Serre. Have you seen him?”

  I gave the man a delibe
rately fuzzy look. “Antelope? No I shouldn’t think they can climb stairs, not with those little hooves, and how did they get out of the Royal Menagerie?”

  The men shared an uncertain look. “Not an antelope, an interloper. A suspicious person. Have you seen anyone like that?”

  By now the guards were anxious and on edge. Sensing their quarry was near, they were irritated by my stalling.

  “Oh, there was Madame de Polignac.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Her hair has a bird in it. I think she stole it from the Royal Menagerie.”

  Able to control his irritation no longer, another of the guards strode forward. “Please move aside so we may check this room, mademoiselle.”

  I swayed drunkenly, and perhaps, I hoped, a little provocatively. “You’ll only find me, I’m afraid,” I beamed at him, giving the full benefit of my smile, not to mention the low-cut neck of my bodice. “I’ve been searching for the billiard room for almost an hour.”

  The guard’s eye wandered. “We can show you there, mademoiselle,” he said with a short bow. “And we’ll lock the door to prevent any further misunderstandings.”

  As the guards accompanied me away, I hoped firstly that Arno would be able to jump down to the courtyard, and secondly that something might happen to distract the guards from actually taking me all the way down to the billiards room.

  There is a saying: be careful what you wish for, for you might just get it.

  I got the distraction I wanted when I heard a shout: “My God, he’s killed Lord de la Serre.”

  And my whole world changed.

  1 JULY 1789

  It feels as though France is falling down around my ears. The much-vaunted assembly of Estates General had been given a terrible birth by the king’s cure for insomnia masquerading as a speech, and sure enough the whole charade swiftly descended into a parade of bickering and internecine strife, and nothing was achieved.

  How? Because prior to the meeting the Third Estate were angry. They were incensed at being the poorest and being charged the most taxes, and they were angry that despite making up the majority of the Estates General, they had fewer votes than the nobility and the clergy.

  After the meeting they were even more angry. They were angry that the king hadn’t addressed any of their concerns. They were going to do something. The whole country—unless they were stupid or being willfully thick and stubborn—knew that something was going to happen.

  But I didn’t care.

  On 17 June, the Third Estate voted to call themselves the National Assembly, an assembly of “the people.” There was some support from the other Estates but really this was the common man finding his voice.

  I didn’t care.

  The king tried to stop them by closing the Salle des États meeting room, but that was like trying to shut the stable door when the horse had already bolted. Not to be deterred, they took their assembly to an indoor tennis court instead, and on 20 June, the National Assembly swore an oath. The Tennis Court Oath they called it, which sounds comical, but it wasn’t really.

  Not when you considered that they were planning to build a new constitution for France.

  Not when you considered it spelled the end of the monarchy.

  But I didn’t care.

  By 27 June, the king’s nerves were more apparent than ever. As messages of support for the Assembly poured in from Paris and other French cities, the military began to arrive in Paris and Versailles. There was a palpable tension in the air.

  And I didn’t care about that either.

  I should have done, of course. I should have had the strength of character to put my personal troubles behind me. But the fact was, I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t because my father was dead, and grief has returned to my life like a dark mass living inside me; that awakes with me in the morning, accompanies me through the day, then is restless at night, keeping me from sleep, feeding on my remorse and my regrets.

  I had spent so many years being a disappointment to him. The chance to be the daughter he deserved has been snatched away from me.

  And yes, I’m aware that our châteaux in Versailles and in Paris slip into neglect, their state mirroring my own state of mind. I’m staying in Paris but letters from Olivier in Versailles arrive twice weekly, increasingly concerned and shrill as he relates details of maids and valets who leave and aren’t replaced. But I don’t care.

  Here on the Paris estate I’ve banished staff from my rooms and skulk the lower floors at night, not wanting to see another soul. Trays bearing food and correspondence are left outside my door and sometimes I can hear the housemaid whispering with the lady’s maid, and I can imagine the kind of things they’re saying about me. But I don’t care.

  I’ve had letters from Mr. Weatherall. Among other things he wants to know if I’ve been to see Arno in the Bastille, where he is being held on suspicion of murdering my father, or even if I’m taking steps to protest his innocence.

  I should write and tell Mr. Weatherall that the answer is no, because shortly after Father’s murder I returned to the Versailles estate, went to his office, and found a letter that had been pushed beneath the door. A letter addressed to Father that read:

  Grand Master de la Serre,

  I have learned through my agents that an individual within our Order plots against you. I beg you be on your guard at the initiation tonight. Trust no one. Not even those you call friends. May the father of understanding guide you,

  L

  I wrote to Arno. A letter in which I accused him of being responsible for my father’s death. A letter in which I told him I never wanted to see again. But I didn’t send it.

  Instead, my feelings for him festered. In the place of a childhood friend and latter-day lover came an interloper, a pathetic orphan who had arrived and stolen my father’s love, then helped to kill him.

  Arno is in the Bastille. Good. I hope he rots in there.

  4 JULY 1789

  It hurt Mr. Weatherall to walk too far. Not only that, but the area of the Maison Royale where they lived, far beyond the school and out of bounds to the pupils, was not exactly the best-kept area of the school; negotiating it with crutches was difficult.

  Nevertheless, he loved to walk when we visited. Just me and him. And I wondered if it was because we’d see the odd deer together, watching us from in the trees, or maybe because we would reach a sun-dappled clearing with a tree trunk on which to sit, and it would remind us of the years we had spent training.

  We found our way there this morning, and Mr. Weatherall sat with a grateful sigh as he took the weight off his good foot, and sure enough I felt a huge pang of nostalgia for my old life, when my days had been full of swordplay with him and play with Arno. When Mother had been alive.

  I missed them. I missed them both so much.

  “Arno should have delivered it, the letter?” he asked, after a while.

  “No. He should have given it to Father. Olivier saw him with a letter.”

  “So he should and he didn’t. And how do you feel about that?”

  My voice was quiet. “Betrayed.”

  “Do you think the letter might have saved your father?”

  “I think it might have.”

  “And is that why you’ve been so quiet on the small matter of your boyfriend’s currently residing in the Bastille?”

  I said nothing. Not that there was anything to say. Mr. Weatherall spent a moment with his face upturned to a beam of sunlight that broke the canopy of the trees, the light dancing over his whiskers and the folds of flesh on his closed eyes, drinking in the day with an almost beatific smile. And then, with a short nod to thank me for indulging him in silence, he held out a hand.

  “Let me see that letter again.”

  I dug into my tunic and passed it to him.

  “Who is L, do you think?

  Mr. Weatherall cocked an eyebrow at me as he handed back the letter. “Who do you think L is?”

  “The only ‘L’ I can think of is our friend,
Monsieur Chretien Lafrenière.”

  “But he’s a Crow.”

  “Would that put paid to the theory that the Crows were conspiring against your mother and father?”

  I followed his line of reasoning. “No, it could just mean that some of them were conspiring against my mother and father.”

  He chuckled, scratched his beard. “That’s right. ‘An individual,’ according to the letter. Only, as far as we know, none have yet made a bid for Grand Master.”

  “No,” I said quietly.

  “Well, here’s the thing—you’re the Grand Master now, Élise.”

  “They know that.”

  “Do they? You could have fooled me. Tell me, how many meetings have you had with your advisers?”

  I gave him a narrow-eyed look. “I must be allowed to grieve.”

  “Nobody says different. Just that it’s been two months now, Élise. Two months and you’ve not conducted one bit of Templar business. Not one bit. The Order knows that you’re Grand Master in name but you’ve done nothing to reassure them that the stewardship is in safe hands. If there was a coup—if another knight were to step forward and declare himself Grand Master, well, he wouldn’t have much of a challenge on his hands, now, would he?

  “Grieving for your father is one thing, but you need to honor him. You’re the latest in a line of de la Serres. The first female Grand Master of France. You need to get out there and prove you’re worthy of them, not be hanging around your estate moping.”

  “But my father was murdered. What example would I set if I were to let his murder go unavenged?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong but you ain’t exactly doing one thing or another at the moment, are you? Best course of action: you take control of the Order and help steer it through the hard times ahead. Second best course of action: you show a bit of de la Serre spirit and let it be known that you’re hunting your father’s killer—and maybe help flush out this ‘individual.’ Worst course of action: you sit on your arse moping about your dead mum and dad.”