Assassin's Creed: Forsaken

by Oliver Bowden

I saw my mother out of the corner of my eye and thanked God she was all right. Jenny was another matter, though. As she was dragged towards the door of the mansion, her eyes were fixed on me and Mr. Birch as though we were her last hopes. The torch-bearing attacker came to join his colleague, hauled the door open and darted out towards a carriage I could see on the street outside.

  For a moment I thought they might let Jenny go, but no. She began to scream as she was dragged towards the carriage and bundled in, and she was still screaming as a third masked man in the driver’s seat shook the reins, wielded his crop and the carriage rattled off into the night, leaving us to escape from our burning house and drag our dead from the clutches of the flames.

  10 DECEMBER 1735

  i

  Even though we buried Father today, the first thing I thought about when I awoke this morning didn’t involve him or his funeral, it was about the plate room at Queen Anne’s Square.

  They hadn’t tried to enter it. Father had employed the two soldiers because he was worried about a robbery, but our attackers had made their way upstairs without even bothering to try to raid the plate room.

  Because they were after Jenny, that was why. And killing Father? Was that part of the plan?

  This was what I thought as I awoke to a room that was freezing—which isn’t unusual, that it should be freezing. An everyday occurrence, in fact. Just that today’s room was especially cold. The kind of cold that sets your teeth on edge; that reaches into your bones. I glanced over to the hearth, wondering why there wasn’t more heat from the fire, only to see that it was unlit and the grate grey and dusty with ash.

  I clambered out of bed and went to where there was a thick layer of ice on the inside of the window, preventing me from seeing out. Gasping with cold, I dressed, left my room, and was struck by how quiet the house seemed. Creeping all the way downstairs, I found Betty’s room, knocked softly, then a little harder. When she didn’t answer, I stood debating what to do, a little concern for her gnawing at the insides of my stomach. And when there was still no answer, I knelt to look through the keyhole, praying I wouldn’t see anything I shouldn’t.

  She lay asleep in one of the two beds in her room. The other one was empty and neatly made up, although there was a pair of what looked like men’s boots at the foot of it, with a strip of silver at the heel. My gaze went back to Betty, and for a moment I watched as the blanket covering her rose and fell, and then decided to let her sleep on, and straightened.

  I ambled along to the kitchen, where Mrs. Searle started a little as I entered, looked me up and down with a slightly disapproving gaze then returned to her work at the chopping board. It wasn’t that Mrs. Searle and I had fallen out, just that Mrs. Searle regarded everybody with suspicion, and since the attack even more so.

  “She’s not one of life’s most forgiving sorts,” Betty had said to me one afternoon. That was another thing that had changed since the attack: Betty had become a lot more candid, and every now and then would drop hints about how she really felt about things. I had never realized that she and Mrs. Searle didn’t see eye to eye, for example, nor had I any idea that Betty regarded Mr. Birch with suspicion. She did though: “I don’t know why he’s making decisions on behalf of the Kenways,” she had muttered darkly yesterday. “He’s not a member of the family. Doubt he ever will be.”

  Somehow, knowing that Betty didn’t think much of Mrs. Searle made the housekeeper less forbidding in my eyes, and while before I would have thought twice about wandering into the kitchen unannounced and requesting food, I now had no such qualms.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Searle,” I said.

  She gave a small curtsy. The kitchen was cold, just her in it. At Queen Anne’s Square, Mrs. Searle had at least three helpers, not to mention sundry other staff who flitted in and out through the great double doors of the kitchen. But that was before the attack, when we had a full complement, and there’s nothing like an invasion of sword-wielding masked men for driving the servants away. Most hadn’t even returned the following day.

  Now there was just Mrs. Searle, Betty, Mr. Digweed, a chambermaid called Emily, and Miss Davy, who was Mother’s lady’s maid. They were the last of the staff who looked after the Kenways. Or the remaining Kenways, I should say. Just me and Mother left now.

  When I left the kitchen, it was with a piece of cake wrapped in cloth handed to me with a sour look by Mrs. Searle, who no doubt disapproved of me wandering about the house so early in the morning, scavenging for food ahead of the breakfast she was in the process of preparing. I like Mrs. Searle, and since she’s one of the few members of staff to have stayed with us after that terrible night, I like her even more, but even so. There are other things to worry about now. Father’s funeral. And Mother, of course.

  And then I found myself in the entrance hall, looking at the inside of the front door, and before I knew it I was opening the door, and without thinking—without thinking too much, anyway—letting myself out on to the steps and out into a world clouded with frost.

  ii

  “Now, what in the blazes do you plan to do on such a cold morning, Master Haytham?”

  A carriage had just drawn up outside the house, and at the window was Mr. Birch. He wore a hat that was heavier than usual, and a scarf pulled up over his nose so that, at first glance, he looked like a highwayman.

  “Just looking, sir,” I said, from the steps.

  He pulled his scarf down, trying to smile. Before when he’d smiled it had set his eyes twinkling, now it was like the dwindling, cooling ashes of the fire, trying but unable to generate any warmth, as strained and tired as his voice when he spoke. “I think perhaps I know what you’re looking for, Master Haytham.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “The way home?”

  I thought about it and realized he was right. The trouble was, I had lived the first ten years of my life being shepherded around by parents and the nursemaids. Though I knew that Queen Anne’s Square was near, and even within walking distance, I had no idea how to get there.

  “And were you planning on a visit?” he asked.

  I shrugged, but the truth of it was that, yes, I had pictured myself in the shell of my old home. In the games room there. I’d pictured myself retrieving . . .

  “Your sword?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s too dangerous to go in the house, I’m afraid. Would you like to take a trip over there anyway? You can see it, at least. Come inside, it’s as cold as a greyhound’s nostril out there.”

  And I saw no reason not to, especially when he produced a hat and a cape from within the depths of the carriage.

  When we pulled up at the house some moments later it didn’t look at all as I had imagined it. No, it was far, far worse. As though a giant God-like fist had pounded into it from above, smashing through the roof and the floors beneath, gouging a huge, ragged hole into the house. It wasn’t so much a house now as a ravaged representation of one.

  Through broken windows we could see into the entrance hall and up—through smashed floors to the hallway three flights up, all of them blackened with soot. I could see furniture that I recognized, blackened and charred, burnt portraits hanging lopsided on the walls.

  “I’m sorry—it really is too dangerous to go inside, Master Haytham,” said Mr. Birch.

  After a moment he led me back into the carriage, tapped the ceiling twice with his cane, and we pulled away.

  “However,” said Mr. Birch, “I took the liberty of retrieving your sword yesterday,” and reaching beneath his seat he produced the box. It, too, was dusty with soot, but when he pulled it to his lap and opened the lid, the sword lay inside, as gleaming as it had been the day Father gave it to me.

  “Thank you, Mr. Birch” was all I could say, as he closed the box and placed it on the seat between us.

  “It’s a handsome sword, Haytham. I’ve no doubt you’ll treasure it.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “And when, I wonder, will it
first taste blood?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  There was a pause. Mr. Birch clasped his cane between his knees.

  “The night of the attack, you killed a man,” he said, turning his head to look out of the window. We passed houses that were only just visible, floating through a haze of smoke and freezing air. It was still early. The streets were quiet. “How did that feel, Haytham?”

  “I was protecting Mother,” I said.

  “That was the only possible option, Haytham,” he agreed, nodding, “and you did the right thing. Don’t for a moment think otherwise. But its being the only option doesn’t change the fact that it’s no small matter to kill a man. For anybody. Not for your father. Not for me. But especially not for a boy of such tender years.”

  “I felt no sadness at what I did. I just acted.”

  “And have you thought about it since?”

  “No, sir. I’ve thought only of Father, and Mother.”

  “And Jenny . . . ?” said Mr. Birch.

  “Oh. Yes, sir.”

  There was a pause, and when he next spoke his voice was flat and solemn. “We need to find her, Haytham,” he said.

  I kept quiet.

  “I intend to leave for Europe, where we believe she is being held.”

  “How do you know she is in Europe, sir?”

  “Haytham, I am a member of an influential and important organization. A kind of club, or society. One of the many advantages to membership is that we have eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “What is it called, sir?” I asked.

  “The Templars, Master Haytham. I am a Templar Knight.”

  “A knight?” I said, looking at him sharply.

  He gave a short laugh. “Perhaps not exactly the kind of knight you’re thinking of, Haytham, a relic of the Middle Ages, but our ideals remain the same. Just as our forebears set out to spread peace across the Holy Land centuries ago, so we are the unseen power that helps to maintain peace and order in our time.” He waved his hand at the window, where the streets were busier now. “All of this, Haytham, it requires structure and discipline, and structure and discipline require an example to follow. The Knights Templar are that example.”

  My head span. “And where do you meet? What do you do? Do you have armour?”

  “Later, Haytham. Later, I’ll tell you more.”

  “Was Father a member, though? Was he a Knight?” My heart leapt. “Was he training me to become one?”

  “No, Master Haytham, he was not, and I’m afraid that as far as I’m aware he was merely training you in swordsmanship in order that . . . well, the fact that your mother lives proves the worth of your lessons. No, my relationship with your father was not built on my membership of the Order. I’m pleased to say that I was employed by him for my skill at property management rather than any hidden connections. Nevertheless, he knew that I was a Knight. After all, the Templars have powerful and wealthy connections, and these could sometimes be of use in our business. Your father may not have been a member, but he was shrewd enough to see the worth of the connections: a friendly word, the passing on of useful information”—he took a deep breath—“one of which was the warning about the attack at Queen Anne’s Square. I told him, of course. I asked him why it might be that he had been targeted, but he scoffed at the very idea—disingenuously, perhaps. We clashed over it, Haytham. Voices were raised, but I only wish now I’d been even more insistent.”

  “Was that the argument I heard?” I asked.

  He looked sideways at me. “So you did hear, did you? Not eavesdropping, I hope?”

  The tone in his voice made me more than thankful I hadn’t been. “No, Mr. Birch, sir, I heard raised voices, and that was all.”

  He looked hard at me. Satisfied I was telling the truth, he faced forward. “Your father was as stubborn as he was inscrutable.”

  “But he didn’t ignore the warning, sir. He employed the soldiers, after all.”

  Mr. Birch sighed. “Your father didn’t take the threat seriously, and would have done nothing. When he wouldn’t listen to me, I took the step of informing your mother. It was at her insistence that he employed the soldiers. I wish now I had substituted the men for men taken from our ranks. They would not have been so easily overwhelmed. All I can do now is try to find his daughter for him and punish those responsible. To do that I need to know why—what was the purpose of the attack? Tell me, what do you know of him before he settled in London, Master Haytham?”

  “Nothing, sir,” I replied.

  He gave a dry chuckle. “Well, that makes two of us. More than two of us, in fact. Your mother knows next to nothing also.”

  “And Jenny, sir?”

  “Ah, the equally inscrutable Jenny. As frustrating as she was beautiful, as inscrutable as she was adorable.”

  “‘Was,’ sir?”

  “A turn of phrase, Master Haytham—I hope with all my heart at least. I remain hopeful that Jenny is safe in the hands of her captors, of use to them only if she is alive.”

  “You think she has been taken for a ransom?”

  “Your father was very rich. Your family might well have been targeted for your wealth, and your father’s death unplanned. It’s certainly possible. We have men looking into that possibility now. Equally, the mission may have been to assassinate your father, and we have men looking into that possibility also—well, me, because of course I knew him well, and would know if he had any enemies: enemies with the wherewithal to stage such an attack, I mean, rather than disgruntled tenants—and I came up with not a single possibility, which leads me to believe that the object may have been to settle a grudge. If so then it’s a long-standing grudge, something that relates to his time before London. Jenny, being the only one who knew him before London, may have had answers, but whatever she knew she has taken into the hands of her captors. Either way, Haytham, we need to locate her.”

  There was something about the way he said “we.”

  “As I say, it is thought she will have been taken somewhere in Europe, so Europe is where we will conduct our search for her. And by ‘we,’ I mean you and I, Haytham.”

  I started. “Sir?” I said, hardly able to believe my ears.

  “That’s right,” he said. “You shall be coming with me.”

  “Mother needs me, sir. I can’t leave her here.”

  Mr. Birch looked at me again, in his eyes neither kindliness nor malice. “Haytham,” he said, “I’m afraid the decision is not yours to make.”

  “It is for Mother to make,” I insisted.

  “Well, quite.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  He sighed. “I mean, have you spoken to your mother since the night of the attack?”

  “She’s been too distressed to see anyone but Miss Davy or Emily. She’s stayed in her room, and Miss Davy says I’m to be summoned when she can see me.”

  “When you do see her, you will find her changed.”

  “Sir?”

  “On the night of the attack, Tessa saw her husband die and her little boy kill a man. These things will have had a profound effect on her, Haytham; she may not be the person you remember.”

  “All the more reason she needs me.”

  “Maybe what she needs is to get well, Haytham—possibly with as few reminders of that terrible night around her as possible.”

  “I understand, sir,” I said.

  “I’m sorry if that comes as a shock, Haytham.” He frowned. “And I may well be wrong, of course, but I’ve been dealing with your father’s business affairs since his death, and we’ve been making arrangements with your mother, I’ve had the opportunity of seeing her first-hand, and I don’t think I’m wrong. Not this time.”

  iii

  Mother called for me shortly before the funeral.

  When Betty, who had been full of red-faced apologies for what she called “her little lie-in,” told me, my first thought was that she had changed her mind about my going to Europe with Mr. Birch, but I was wrong
. Darting along to her room, I knocked and only just heard her tell me to come in—her voice so weak and reedy now, not at all how it used to be, when it was soft but commanding. Inside, she was sitting by the window, and Miss Davy was fussing at the curtains; even though it was daytime it was hardly bright outside but, nevertheless, Mother was waving her hand in front of her, as if she were being bothered by an angry bird, rather than just some greying rays of winter sunlight. At last Miss Davy finished to Mother’s satisfaction and with a weary smile indicated me to a seat.

  Mother turned her head towards me, very slowly, looked at me and forced a smile. The attack had exacted a terrible toll on her. It was as though all the life had been leeched out of her; as though she had lost the light she always had, whether she was smiling or cross or, as Father always said, wearing her heart on her sleeve. Now the smile slowly slid from her lips, which settled back into a blank frown, as though she’d tried but no longer had the strength to keep up any pretence.

  “You know I’m not going to the funeral, Haytham?” she said blankly.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Haytham, I really am, but I’m not strong enough.”

  She never usually called me Haytham. She called me “darling.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I said, knowing that she was—she was strong enough. “Your Mother has more pluck than any man I’ve ever met, Haytham,” Father used to say.

  They had met shortly after he moved to London, and she had pursued him—“like a lioness in pursuit of her prey,” Father had joked, “a sight as bloodcurdling as it was awe-inspiring,” and earned himself a clout for that particular joke, the kind of joke you thought might have had an element of truth to it.

  She didn’t like to talk about her family. “Prosperous” was all I knew. And Jenny had hinted once that they had disowned her because of her association with Father. Why, of course, I never found out. On the odd occasion I’d pestered Mother about Father’s life before London, she’d smiled mysteriously. He’d tell me when he was ready. Sitting in her room, I realized that at least part of the grief I felt was the pain of knowing that I’d never hear whatever it was Father was planning to tell me on my birthday. Although it’s just a tiny part of the grief, I should make clear—insignificant compared to the grief of losing Father and the pain of seeing Mother like this. So . . . reduced. So lacking in that pluck Father spoke of.