The story goes that the royal couple, while making merry, ceremonially trampled on a revolutionary cockade, while others at the party had turned the cockade around to display its white side, considered an antirevolution stance.
So arrogant. So stupid. In their actions the king and his bride reminded me of the noblewoman and her groom on the day the Bastille fell, still clinging to the old ways. And of course the moderates, the likes of Mirabeau and Lafayette, must have been throwing up their hands in disbelief and frustration at the monarch’s thoughtlessness, because the king’s actions played right into the hands of the radicals. The people were hungry and the king had thrown a banquet. Worse, he had trampled on a symbol of the Revolution.
Marat called for a march on Versailles and thousands of people, mainly women, made the journey from Paris to Versailles. Guards who fired on the protestors were beheaded, and as ever, their heads raised on pikes.
It was the Marquis de Lafayette who convinced the king to speak to the crowd, and his appearance was followed by an appearance by Marie Antoinette, whose bravery in facing the crowd seemed to assuage much of their fury.
After that the king and queen were taken from Versailles to Paris. Their journey took them nine hours, and once in Paris they were installed at the Tuileries Palace. The event had put the city in as much tumult as it had experienced since the fall of the Bastille three months before and the streets were thronged with troops and sansculottes, men, women and children. They filled the Pont Marie as Jean Burnel and I made our way across the bridge, having abandoned our carriage and decided to reach the Hôtel de Lauzun on foot.
“Are you nervous, Élise?” he asked me, face shining with excitement and pride.
“I would ask that you address me as Grand Master, please,” I told him.
“I’m sorry.”
“And no, I’m not nervous. Leading the Order is my birthright. Those members of the Order in attendance will find in me a renewed passion for leadership. I may be young, I may be a woman, but I intend to be the Grand Master the Order deserves.”
I felt him swell with pride on my behalf and I chewed my lip, which was something I did when I was nervous, which I was.
Despite what I’d said to Jean, who was way too much like an obedient and lovelorn puppy dog for his own good, I was, as Mr. Weatherall would say, “Shaking like a shitting dog.”
“I wish I could be there,” Mr. Weatherall had said although we’d agreed it best he remained behind. His speech had begun as I presented myself for inspection.
“Whatever you do, don’t expect miracles,” he’d said. “If you get the advisers and, say, five or six other members of the Order, that will be enough to swing the Order in your direction. And don’t forget you’ve left it a long time to go in there and start demanding your birthright. By all means use the shock of your father’s death as a reason for your tardiness but don’t expect it to be the medicine that cures all ills. You owe the Order an apology, so you best start off contrite, and don’t forget you’ll need to fight your corner. You’ll be treated with respect but you’re young, you’re a woman and you’ve been neglectful. Calls to take you to trial won’t be taken seriously but then they won’t have been ridiculed either.”
I looked at him with wide eyes. “Taken to trial?”
“No. Didn’t I just say they wouldn’t be taken seriously?”
“Yes, but then after that you said . . .”
“I know what I said after that,” he said testily, “and what you have to remember is that for a period of several months you’ve left the Order without firm leadership—during a time of revolution to boot. And de la Serre or not. Birthright or not. That fact won’t be playing well. All you can do is hope.”
I was ready to leave.
“Right, are you clear on everything?” he said, leaning on his crutches to remove fluff from the shoulder of my jacket. I checked my sword and pistol, then shrugged an overcoat on top, hiding my weapons and Templar garb, then pulled my hair back and added a tricorn.
“I think so.” I smiled through a deep, nervous breath. “I need to be contrite, not overconfident, grateful for whoever shows their support.” I stopped. “How many have pledged their attendance?”
“Young Burnel has had twelve ‘ayes’ including our friends the Crows. It’s the first time I’ve known a Grand Master to call a meeting in such a fashion so you can depend on there being a few there out of curiosity alone, but then that could work to your advantage.”
I stood on tiptoes to give him a kiss, then stepped out into the night, darting across to where the carriage waited, with Jean in the driving seat. Mr. Weatherall had been right about Jean. Yes, he was definitely smitten but he was loyal and he’d worked tirelessly to rally support for the summit. His aim, of course, was to win a place in my favor, become one of my advisers, but that hardly made him alone. I thought of the Crows and remembered their smiles and whispers when I had returned for my induction, the suspicion that now swirled around them, the presence of this King of Beggars.
“Élise . . .” Mr. Weatherall had called from the door.
I turned. Impatiently he motioned me back and I called to Jean to wait, ran back. “Yes?”
He was serious. “Look at me, child, look into these eyes, and remember that you’re worthy of this. You’re the best warrior I’ve ever trained. You’ve got the brains and charm of your mother and father combined. You can do this. You can lead the Order.”
For that he got another kiss before I darted off again.
Glancing back at the house to give a final wave I saw Helene and Jacques framed in a window, and at the door of the carriage, I turned, swept my hat off my head and gave them a theatrical bow.
I felt good. Nervous but good. It was time to set things right.
iv
And now Jean Burnel and I made our way through crowds on the Pont Marie and came onto the Île Saint-Louis. I thought of my family’s villa, deserted and neglected here on the isle, but put it out of my mind. As we walked, Jean stayed by my side, his hand beneath his coat ready to draw his sword if we were accosted. Meanwhile I kept a hopeful eye out, hoping to see other Knights of the Order in the crowds, also making their way toward the Lauzun.
It seems funny to relate now—and by that I mean funny in an ironic sense—but as we approached the venue there was a part of me that dared to hope for a grand turnout—a huge, historical show of support for the de la Serre name. And though it now seems fanciful to have thought it, especially with the benefit of hindsight, at the time, well . . . why not? My father was a beloved leader. The de la Serres a respected family dynasty. Perhaps an Order in need of leadership would turn out for me, to honor the legacy of my father’s name.
Like everywhere else on the isle the street outside the Lauzun was busy. A large wooden door with a smaller wicket entrance was inset into a high wall overgrown with ivy that surrounded a courtyard. I looked up and down the thoroughfare, seeing dozens and dozens of people, but none who were dressed as we were, on their way here.
Jean looked at me. He’d been quiet since I chastised him and I felt bad about that now, especially when I saw his own nerves and knew they were nerves for me.
“Are you ready, Grand Master?” he said.
“I am, thank you, Jean,” I replied.
“Then, please, allow me to knock.”
The door was opened by a manservant, elegantly attired in a waistcoat and white gloves. The sight of him, with his embroidered ceremonial sash at his waist, gave me a lift. I was at the right place, at least, and they were ready for me.
Bowing his head, he stepped aside to allow us into the courtyard. There I looked around, seeing boarded-up windows and balconies around a neglected central space littered with dried leaves, overturned plant pots and a number of splintered crates.
In different times a fountain might have been delicately tinkling and the singing of birds providing a lovely end to another civilized day at the Hôtel de Lauzun, but not anymore.
; Now there was just Jean and me, the manservant and the Marquis de Pimôdan, who had been standing to one side, attired in his robes and with his hands clasped in front of him, and who now came forward to greet us.
“Pimôdan,” I said, warmly. We embraced. I kissed his cheeks and, still encouraged by the sight of our host and his manservant in their Templar garb, allowed myself to believe that my premeeting flutters were for nothing. That everything was going to be all right, even that the apparent quiet was nothing more than a custom of the Order.
But then, as Pimôdan said, “It is an honor, Grand Master,” his words sounded hollow and he turned quickly away to lead us across the courtyard and my premeeting flutters returned tenfold.
I glanced at Jean, who pulled a face, unnerved by the situation.
“Are the others assembled, Pimôdan?” I asked, as we made our way to a set of double doors leading into the main building. The manservant opened them and ushered us in.
“The room is ready for you, Grand Master,” Pimôdan replied evasively as we stepped over the threshold into a darkened dining room with boarded-up windows and sheets over the furniture.
The manservant closed the double doors, then waited there, allowing Pimôdan to lead us across the floor to a thick, almost ornamental door in the far wall.
“Yes, but which members are in attendance?” I asked. The words were croaky. My throat was dry. He said nothing in response, gripped a large iron ring on the door and turned it. The chunk sound it made was like a pistol shot in the room.
“Monsieur Pimôdan . . .” I prompted.
The door opened out onto stone steps leading down, the way lit by flickering torches bolted to the walls. Orange flame danced on rough stone walls.
“Come,” said Pimôdan, still ignoring me. He was clutching something, I realized. A crucifix.
And that was it. I’d had enough.
“Stop,” I commanded.
Pimôdan was taking another step as though he hadn’t heard me, but I whipped back my overcoat, drew my sword and put the point of it to the back his neck. And that stopped him. Behind me Jean Burnel drew his sword.
“Who’s down there, Pimôdan?” I demanded to know. “Friend or foe?”
Silence.
“Don’t test me, Pimôdan,” I growled, prodding his neck. “If I’m mistaken, then I’ll offer you my most humble apologies, but until that time I have a feeling that there’s something very wrong here, and I want to know why.”
Pimôdan’s shoulders heaved as he sighed, as though about to throw off the yoke of a huge secret. “It’s because there’s nobody here, mademoiselle.”
I went cold, heard a strange whining noise in my ears as I struggled to understand. “What? Nobody?”
“Nobody.”
I half turned to Jean Burnel, who stared, unable to believe his own ears. “What about the Marquis de Kilmister?” I said. “Jean-Jacques Calvert and his father? The Marquis de Simonon?”
Pimôdan inclined his neck away from my blade to shake his head slowly.
“Pimôdan?” I insisted, nudging it back. “Where are my supporters?”
He spread his hands. “All I know is that there was an attack by sansculottes at the Calvert château this morning,” he said. “Both Jean-Jacques and his father perished in a fire. Of the others, I know nothing.”
My blood ran cold. To Burnel I said, “A purge. This is a purge.” Then to Pimôdan, “And below? Are my killers waiting for me below?”
Now he turned a little in the stairwell. “No, mademoiselle,” he said, “there is nothing down there save for some documents in need of your attention.”
But as he said it, staring back up at me with wide, craven eyes, he nodded. And it was a crumb of comfort, I suppose, that a last vestige of loyalty remained in this cowardly man, that at least he wasn’t going to allow me to descend the steps into a pit of my killers.
I whirled around, bundled Jean Burnel back up the steps, then slammed the door behind us and threw the bolt. The manservant remained by the double doors in the dining room, a look on his face as though he were bemused by the sudden turn of events. As Jean and I rushed across the floor, I drew my pistol and aimed it at the manservant, wishing I could shoot the supercilious look off his face but settling instead for gesturing for him to open the doors.
He did, and we stepped out of the hotel and into the dark courtyard beyond.
The doors closed behind us. Call it a sixth sense but I knew something was wrong immediately, and in the next instant I felt something around my neck.
They were catgut ligatures, dropped with precision from a balcony above. In my case, not perfect precision: caught by the collar of my coat, the noose didn’t tighten straightaway, giving me precious seconds to react, while by my side Jean Burnel’s assassin had achieved a flawless drop and in a heartbeat the ligature was cutting into the flesh of his neck.
In his panic, Burnel dropped his sword. His hands scrabbled for the tightening noose around his neck. A snorting noise escaped his nostrils as his face began to color and his eyes boggled. As he was lifted by the neck, his body stretched and the tips of his boots scrabbled at the ground.
I swung for Burnel’s ligature with my sword, but at the same time my own attacker pulled sharply to the side and I was yanked away from him, helpless to see his tongue protrude from his mouth, his eyeballs seeming to bulge impossibly as he was hoisted even higher, out of reach. Pulling back on my own ligature, I looked up, saw dark shadows on the balcony above, operating us like two puppeteers.
But I was lucky—lucky, lucky Élise—because although the breath was choked out of me my collar was still wedged and it gave me presence of mind enough to swing again with my sword, only this time not at Jean Burnel’s ligature—for he was out of reach now, his feet kicking in their death throes—but at my own.
I severed it and crumpled to the ground on my hands and knees, gasping for breath but rolling onto my back at the same time, reaching for my pistol and thumbing back the hammer, aiming it two-handed at the balcony above and firing.
The shot echoed around the courtyard and had an instant effect, Jean Burnel’s body dropping like a sack to the ground as his ligature was released, his face a hideous death mask, and the two figures on the balcony disappearing from view, the attack over—for the time being.
From inside the building I heard shouts and the sound of running feet. Through the glass of the double doors I swear I could see the manservant, standing well back in the shadows, watching me, as I scrambled to my feet, wondering how many there were, counting the two balcony killers, maybe another two or three killers from the cellar. To my left another door burst open and two thugs in the clothes of sansculottes burst out.
Oh. So two more elsewhere in the house as well.
There was the sound of a shot and a pistol ball split the air by the side of my head. There was no time to reload my own gun. No time to do anything but run.
I ran for where a bench was inset into a sidewall, shaded by a courtyard tree. I bounded, hit the bench, and with my leading foot propelled myself upward, finding a low branch and thumping messily against the trunk.
From behind me came a shout and a second pistol shot, and I hugged the tree trunk as the ball embedded itself into the wood between two splayed fingers. Lucky, Élise, very lucky. I started to climb. Hands scrabbled at my boot but I kicked out, blindly heading upward in the hope of reaching the top of the wall.
I reached it and stepped across from the tree to the top of the wall. But when I looked down I found myself staring into the grinning faces of two men who’d used the gate and were waiting for me. Grinning up at me with huge “got you” smiles.
They were thinking that they were below me, and that there were other men coming up behind me, and that I was trapped. They were thinking it was all over.
So I did what they least expected. I jumped on them.
I’m not big but I was wearing devilish boots and wielding a sword, and I had the element of surprise on my
side. I speared one of them on the way down, impaling him through the face and then, without retrieving my blade, pivoted and delivered a high kick to the throat of the second man. He dropped to his knees with his hands at his neck, already turning purple. I retrieved my sword from the face of the first man—and plunged it into his chest.
There was more shouting from behind. Over my head, faces had appeared at the top of the wall. I took to my heels, pushing my way into the crowd. Behind me were two pursuers doing the same, and I pushed farther on, ignoring the curses of people I shoved, just surging forward. At the bridge I stayed by the low wall.
And then I heard the shout. “A traitor. A traitor to the Revolution. Don’t let the redheaded woman escape.”
And again, the shout taken up by another of my pursuers. “Get her! Get the redheaded bint.”
Another: “A traitor to the Revolution!”
“She spits on the tricolor.”
It took a minute or so for the message to spread through the crowd but gradually I saw heads turn to me, people noticing my finer clothes for the first time, their gaze moving pointedly to my hair. My red hair.
“You,” said a man, “it’s you.” And he shouted, “We have her! We have the traitor!”
Below me on the river was a barge crawling just below the bridge, goods covered with sacking on the foredeck. What goods they were, I didn’t know, and could only pray that they were the “soft” kind that might break your fall if you were jumping from a bridge.
In the end, it didn’t matter whether they were soft or not. Just as I jumped the enraged citizen made a grab for me, and my jump turned into an evasive move that sent me off course. Flailing, I hit the barge, but the wrong side, the outside, smashing into the hull with a force that drove the breath out of me.
Dimly I realized that the cracking sound I’d heard was my ribs breaking as I slapped into the inky black River Seine.
Assassin's Creed: Unity Page 21