Assassin's Creed: Forsaken

by Oliver Bowden

  “Where?”

  “Where you will soon be going to recover him: Corsica.”

  So I’d been wrong. Not an assassination. I would be minding a child.

  “What?” he said, at the look on my face. “You think it below you? Quite the opposite, Haytham. This is the most important task I have ever given you.”

  “No, Reginald”—I sighed—“it’s not; it simply appears that way in your thinking.”

  “Oh? What are you saying?”

  “That perhaps your interest in this has meant you have neglected affairs elsewhere. Perhaps you have let certain other matters become out of control . . .”

  Perplexed, he said, “What ‘matters’?”

  “Edward Braddock.”

  He looked surprised. “I see. Well, is there something you want to tell me about him? Something you’ve been keeping from me?”

  I indicated for more ales and our waitress brought them over, set them down with a smile then walked away with her hips swaying.

  “What has Braddock told you of his movements in recent years?” I asked Reginald.

  “I have heard very little from him, seen him even less,” he replied. “In the last six years we’ve met just once, as far as I can recall and his communications have become increasingly sporadic. He disapproves of my interest in Those Who Came Before and, unlike you, has not kept his objections to himself. It appears we differ greatly on how best to spread the Templar message. As a result, no, I know very little of him; in fact, if I wanted to know about Edward, I dare say I’d ask someone who has been with him during his campaigns—” He gave a sardonic look. “Where might I find such a person, do you think?”

  “You’d be a fool to ask me,” I chortled. “You know full well that, where Braddock is concerned, I’m not an especially impartial observer. I began by disliking the man and now like him even less, but in the absence of any more objective observations, here’s mine: he has become a tyrant.”

  “How so?”

  “Cruelty, mainly. To the men suffering under him, but also to innocents. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, for the first time, in the Dutch Republic.”

  “How Edward treats his men is his business,” said Reginald with a shrug. “Men respond to discipline, Haytham, you know that.”

  I shook my head. “There was one particular incident, Reginald, on the last day of the siege.”

  Reginald settled back to listen: “Go on . . .” as I continued.

  “We were retreating. Dutch soldiers were shaking their fists at us, cursing King George for not sending more of his men to help relieve the fortress. Why more men had not arrived I don’t know. Would they have even made any difference? Again, I don’t know. I’m not sure any of us who were stationed within those pentagonal walls knew how to contend with a French onslaught that was as committed as it was brutal, and as ruthless as it was sustained.

  “Braddock had been right: the French had dug their parallel trench lines and begun their bombardment of the city, pressing close to the fortress walls, and they were on them by September, when they dug mines beneath the fortifications and destroyed them.

  “We made attacks outside the walls to try to break the siege, all to no avail until, on 18 September, the French broke through—at four in the morning, if memory serves. They caught the Allied forces quite literally napping, and we were overrun before we knew it. The French were slaughtering the entire garrison. We know, of course, that eventually they broke free of their command and inflicted even worse damage on the poor inhabitants of that town, but the carnage had already begun. Edward had secured a skiff at the port, and had long since decided that, were a day to come when the French broke through, he would use it to evacuate his men. That day had arrived.

  “A band of us made our way to the port, where we began to oversee the loading of men and supplies on to the skiff. We kept a small force at the port walls to keep any marauding French troops back, while Edward, I and others stood by the gang-board, overseeing the loading of men and supplies on to the skiff. We took some fourteen hundred men to the fortress at Bergen op Zoom, but the months of fighting had depleted numbers by about half. There was room on the skiff. Not lots of it—it wasn’t as though we could have taken a great many passengers; certainly not the numbers who needed to evacuate from the fortress—but there was space.” I looked hard at Reginald. “We could have taken them, is what I’m saying.”

  “Could have taken whom, Haytham?”

  I took a long pull on my ale. “There was a family who approached us on the port. Included in their number was an old man who could barely walk, as well as children. From among them came a young man, who approached us and asked me if we had room on the boat. I nodded yes—I saw no reason why not—and indicated to Braddock, but instead of waving them aboard as I expected, he held up a hand and ordered them off the port, beckoning his men to board the boat more quickly. The young man was as surprised as I was, and I opened my mouth to protest, but he got there before me; his face darkened and he said something to Braddock that I didn’t catch, but was obviously an insult of some kind.

  “Braddock told me later that the insult was ‘craven.’ Hardly the most insulting affront, certainly not worth what happened next, which was that Braddock drew his sword and plunged it into the young man where he stood.

  “Braddock kept a small party of the men nearby at most times. His two regular companions were the executioner, Slater, and his assistant—his new assistant, I should say. I killed the old one. These men, you might almost have called them bodyguards. Certainly they were much closer to him than I was. Whether or not they had his ear I couldn’t say, but they were fiercely loyal and protective and were rushing forward even as the young man’s body fell. They set about the family, Reginald, Braddock and these two of his men, and cut them down, every single one of them: the two men, an older woman, a younger woman, and of course the children, one of them an infant, one of them a babe in arms . . .” I felt my jaw clench. “It was a massacre, Reginald, the worst atrocity of war I have seen—and I’m afraid I’ve seen a great many.”

  He nodded gravely. “I see. Naturally, this hardened your heart against Edward.”

  I scoffed. “Of course—of course it has. We are all men of war, Reginald, but we are not barbarians.”

  “I see, I see.”

  “Do you? Do you see at last? That Braddock is out of control?”

  “Steady on, Haytham. ‘Out of control’? The red mist descending is one thing. ‘Out of control’ is quite another.”

  “He treats his men like slaves, Reginald.”

  He shrugged. “So? They’re British soldiers—they expect to be treated like slaves.”

  “I think he is moving away from us. These men he has serving him, they’re not Templars, they’re free agents.”

  Reginald nodded. “The two men in the Black Forest. Were these men part of Braddock’s inner circle?”

  I looked at him. I watched him very carefully as I lied: “I don’t know.”

  There was a long pause and, to avoid meeting his eye, I took a long drink on my ale and pretended to admire the waitress, pleased to have the subject changed when Reginald at last leaned forward to give me more details of my forthcoming journey to Corsica.

  ii

  Reginald and I parted outside White’s and went to our carriages. When my carriage was some distance away I tapped on the ceiling to stop, and my driver climbed down, looked left and right to check that nobody was watching, then opened the door and joined me inside. He sat opposite me and removed his hat, placing it on the seat beside him and regarding me with bright, curious eyes.

  “Well, Master Haytham?” he said.

  I looked at him, took a deep breath and stared out of the window. “I’m due to leave by sea tonight. We will return to Queen Anne’s Square, where I will pack, then straight to the docks, if you would.”

  He doffed an imaginary cap. “At your service, Mr. Kenway, sir, I’m getting quite used to this driving lark. Lots of
waiting around, mind, could do without all that, but otherwise, well, at least you ain’t got Frenchmen shooting at you, or your own officers shooting at you. In fact, I’d say the lack of blokes shooting at you is a real perk of the job.”

  He could be quite tiresome sometimes. “Quite so, Holden,” I said, with a frown that was intended to shut him up, although chance would be a fine thing.

  “Well, anyway, sir, did you learn anything?”

  “I’m afraid nothing concrete.”

  I looked out of the window, wrestling with feelings of doubt, guilt and disloyalty, wondering if there was anyone I truly trusted—anyone to whom I remained truly loyal now.

  Ironically, the person I trusted most was Holden.

  I had met him while in the Dutch Republic. Braddock had been as good as his word and allowed me to move among his men, asking them if they knew anything of the “Tom Smith” who had met his end on the scaffold, but I wasn’t surprised when my investigations proved fruitless. No man I asked would even admit to knowing this Smith, if indeed Smith was his name—until, one night, I heard a movement at the door of my tent and sat up in my cot in time to see a figure appear.

  He was young, in his late twenties, with close-cropped, gingery hair and an easy, impish smile. This, it would turn out, was Private Jim Holden, a London man, a good man who wanted to see justice done. His brother had been one of those who had been hanged the same day I almost met my own end. He had been executed for the crime of stealing stew—that was all he had done, steal a bowlful of stew because he was starving; a flogging offence, at worst, but they hanged him. His biggest mistake, it seemed, had been to steal the stew from one of Braddock’s own men, one of his private mercenary force.

  This was what Holden told me: that the fifteen-hundred-strong force of Coldstream Guards was made up mainly of British Army soldiers like himself, but that there was within that a smaller cadre of men personally selected by Braddock: mercenaries. These mercenaries included Slater and his assistant—and, more worryingly, the two men who had ridden to the Black Forest.

  None of these men wore the ring of the Order. They were thugs, brutes. I wondered why—why Braddock chose men of this stripe for his inner circle, and not Templar Knights? The more time I’d spent with him, the more I thought I had my answer: he was moving away from the Order.

  I looked back at Holden now. I had protested that night, but he was a man who had glimpsed the corruption at the heart of Braddock’s organization. He was a man who wanted to see justice for his brother and, as a result, no amount of my protesting made the slightest bit of difference. He was going to help me whether I liked it or not.

  I had agreed, but on the understanding that his assistance was kept secret at all times. In the hope of hoodwinking those who always seemed one step ahead of me, I needed it to appear as though I’d dropped the matter of finding my father’s killers—so that they might no longer be one step ahead of me.

  Thus, when we left the Dutch Republic Holden took on the title of my gentleman’s gentleman, my driver, and, to all intents and purposes, as far as the outside world was concerned, that’s exactly what he was. Nobody knew that in fact he was carrying out investigations on my behalf. Not even Reginald knew that.

  Perhaps especially not Reginald.

  Holden saw the guilt written across my face.

  “Sir, it ain’t lies you’re telling Mr. Birch. All you’re doing is what he’s been doing, which is withholding certain bits of information, just until you’ve satisfied yourself that his name is clear—and I’m sure it will be, sir. I’m sure it will be, him being your oldest friend, sir.”

  “I wish I could share your optimism on the matter, Holden, I really do. Come, we should move on. My errand awaits.”

  “Certainly, sir, and where is that errand taking you, may I ask?”

  “Corsica,” I said. “I’m going to Corsica.”

  “Ah, in the midst of a revolution, so I hear . . .”

  “Quite right, Holden. A place of conflict is a perfect place to hide.”

  “And what will you be doing there, sir?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Suffice it to say, it has nothing to do with finding my father’s killers and is therefore of only peripheral interest to me. It’s a job, a duty, nothing more. I hope that, while I’m away, you will continue your own investigations?”

  “Oh, certainly sir.”

  “Excellent. And see to it that they remain covert.”

  “Don’t you be worrying about that, sir. As far as anybody is concerned, Master Kenway has long since abandoned his quest for justice. Whoever it is, sir, their guard will drop eventually.”

  25 JUNE 1753

  i

  It was hot on Corsica during the day, but at night the temperature dropped. Not too much—not freezing—but enough to make lying on a rock-strewn hillside with no blanket an uncomfortable experience.

  Cold as it was, though, there were even more pressing matters to attend to, such as the squad of Genoese soldiers moving up the hill, who I’d like to have said were moving stealthily.

  I’d like to have said that, but couldn’t.

  At the top of the hill, on a plateau, was the farmhouse. I’d been keeping watch on it for the past two days, my spyglass trained on the doors and windows of what was a large building and a series of smaller barns and outbuildings, taking note of comings and goings: rebels arriving with supplies and leaving with them, too; while on the first day a small squad of them—I counted eight—had left the complex on what, when they returned, I realized had been some kind of attack: the Corsican rebels, striking out against their Genoese masters. There were only six of them when they came back, and those six looked exhausted and bloodied, but, nevertheless, without words or gestures, wore an aura of triumph.

  Women arrived with supplies not long afterwards, and there was celebration far into the night. This morning, more rebels had arrived, with muskets wrapped in blankets. They were well equipped and had support, it seemed; it was no wonder the Genoese wanted to wipe this stronghold off the map.

  I had spent the two days moving around the hill so as to avoid being seen. The terrain was rocky and I kept a safe distance from the buildings. On the morning of the second day, however, I realized I had company. There was another man on the hill, another watcher. Unlike me, he had remained in the same position, dug into an outcrop of rocks, hidden by the brush and the skeletal trees that somehow survived on the otherwise parched hillside.

  ii

  Lucio was the name of my target, and the rebels were hiding him. Whether they, too, were affiliates of the Assassins, I had no idea, and it didn’t matter anyway; he was the one I was after: a twenty-one-year-old boy who was the key to solving a puzzle that has tormented poor Reginald for six years. An unprepossessing-looking boy, with shoulder-length hair, who, as far as I could tell from watching the farmhouse, helped out by carrying pails of water, feeding the livestock and, yesterday, wringing the neck of a chicken.

  So he was there: that much I’d established. That was good. But there were problems. Firstly, he had a bodyguard. Never far away from him was a man who wore the gowns and cowl of an Assassin; his gaze would often sweep the hillside while Lucio fetched water or scattered chicken feed. At his waist was a sword, and the fingers of his right hand would flex. Did he wear the famous hidden blade of the Assassins? I wondered. No doubt he would. I’d have to beware of him, that much was for certain, not to mention the rebels who were based at the farmhouse. The compound seemed to be crawling with them.

  One other thing to take into account: they were clearly planning to leave soon. Perhaps they’d been using the farmhouse as a temporary base for the attack; perhaps they knew that the Genoese would soon be seeking revenge and come looking for them. Either way, they had been moving supplies into the barns, no doubt piling carts high with them. My guess was that they would leave the next day.

  A night-time incursion then, would seem to be the answer. And it had to be tonight. This mor
ning I managed to locate Lucio’s sleeping quarters: he shared a medium-sized outhouse with the Assassin and at least six other rebels. They had a code phrase they used when entering the quarters, and I read their lips through my spyglass: “We work in the dark to serve the light.”

  So—an operation that required some forethought, but, no sooner was I preparing to retire from the hillside in order to concoct my plans, than I saw the second man.

  And my plans changed. Edging closer to him, I had managed to identify him as a Genoese soldier. If I was right, that meant he was the forward party of the men who would be attempting to take the stronghold; the rest would be along—when?

  Sooner, I thought, rather than later. They would want to exact swift revenge for the previous day’s raid. Not only that, but they would want to be seen to be reacting quickly to the rebels. Tonight, then.

  So I left him. I let him continue his surveillance and, instead of withdrawing, stayed on the hillside concocting a different plan. My new plan involved Genoese troops.

  The observation man had been good. He’d stayed out of sight and then, when dark fell, retreated stealthily, noiselessly, back down the hill. Where, I wondered, was the rest of the force?

  Not far away; and an hour or so later I began to notice movement at the bottom of the hill and, even, at one point, heard a muffled curse in Italian. By this stage I was about halfway up and, realizing that they would soon begin to advance, I moved even closer to the plateau and the fence of an animal enclosure. Maybe fifty yards away I could see one of the sentries. Last night, they’d had five altogether, around the entire perimeter of the farmyard. Tonight, they would no doubt increase the guard.

  I took out my spyglass and trained it on the nearest guard, who stood, silhouetted by the moon at his back, diligently scanning the hillside below him. Of me, he would see nothing, just another irregular shape in a landscape of irregular shapes. No wonder they were deciding to move so quickly after their ambush. It wasn’t the most secure hideout I’d ever seen. In fact, they’d have been sitting ducks were it not for the fact that the approaching Genoese soldiers were so damned clumsy. The conduct of their observation man flattered the operation as a whole. These were men to whom stealth was clearly a foreign and unfamiliar idea, and I was beginning to hear more and more noise from the bottom of the hill. The rebels were almost certain to hear them next. And if the rebels heard them, they would have more than enough opportunity to make their escape. And if the rebels made their escape, they would take Lucio with them.