Assassin's Creed: Unity

by Oliver Bowden

  It was just as I expected this time, more repercussions from a fight with Valerie, who as well as being our group leader was also the star drama pupil when it came to productions by Racine and Corneille. Take my advice, dear reader, and never pick an actress as an adversary. They are so terribly dramatic about everything. Or, as Mr. Weatherall would say, “Such bloody drama queens!”

  True, this particular disagreement had ended with Valerie in receipt of a black eye and a bloody nose. It had happened while I was supposedly on probation for an act of minor revolt at dinner the month before, which is nothing worth going into here. The point was that the headmistress claimed to be at the end of her tether. She had had “quite enough of you, Élise de la Serre. Quite enough young lady.”

  And there was, of course, the usual talk of expulsion. Except, this time, I was pretty sure it was more than just talk. I was pretty sure that when Madame Levene told me she planned to send a strongly worded letter home requesting my father’s attention at once in order that my future at the Maison Royale should be discussed, this was no longer a series of idle threats and that her mind was indeed at the end of its tether.

  But still I didn’t care.

  No, I mean, I don’t care. Do your worst, Levene; do your worst, Father. There’s no circle of hell to which you can consign me worse than the one in which I already find myself.

  “I have been sent a letter from Versailles,” she said. “Your father is sending an emissary to deal with you.”

  I had been gazing out of the window, my eyes traveling past the walls of the Maison Royale to the outside, where I longed to be. Now, however, I switched to looking at Madame Levene, her pinched, pruny face, her eyes like stones behind her spectacles. “An emissary?”

  “Yes. And from what I read in the letter, this emissary has been given the task of beating some sense into you.”

  I thought to myself, An emissary? My father was sending an emissary. He wasn’t even coming himself, he was sending an emissary. Perhaps he planned to isolate me, I thought, suddenly realizing how horrific I found the idea. My father, one of only three people in the world I truly loved and trusted, simply shutting me out. I’d been wrong. There was another circle of hell into which I could be cast.

  Madame Levene gloated. “Yes. It appears that your father is too busy to attend to this matter himself. He must send an emissary in his place. Perhaps, Élise, you are not as important to him as you might imagine.”

  I looked hard at the gloating face of the headmistress and for a brief second imagined myself diving across the desk and wiping the smirk off her face myself, but I was already fomenting other plans.

  “The emissary wishes to see you alone,” she said.

  “I expect you shall listen outside the door.”

  Her lips thinned. Those stony eyes glittered. “I will enjoy knowing that your impertinence has come with a price, Mademoiselle de la Serre, you can be sure of that.”

  21 JANUARY 1788

  And so the day came when the emissary was due to arrive. I had stayed out of trouble the week prior to his arrival. According to the other girls I was quieter than usual. Some were asking when the “old Élise” would return; the usual suspects were crowing that I had finally been tamed. We’d see.

  Actually, what I was doing was readying myself, mentally and physically. The emissary would be expecting meek acquiescence. He would be expecting a frightened teenager, terrified of expulsion and happy to take any other punishment. The emissary was expecting tears and contrition. He wasn’t going to get that.

  I was summoned to the office, told to wait, and wait I did. With my hands grasping my purse in which I had secreted a horseshoe “borrowed” from above the dormitory door. It had never brought me any luck. Now was its chance.

  From the vestibule outside I heard two voices, Madame Levene with her obsequious, ingratiating welcome to Father’s emissary, telling him that “the miscreant awaits her just deserts in my office, monsieur,” and then the deeper, growling voice of the emissary as he replied, “Thank you, Madame.”

  With a gasp I recognized the voice, and still had my hand to my mouth in shock as the door opened and in came Mr. Weatherall.

  He closed the door behind him and I threw myself at him, knocking the breath out of him with the force of my emotion, shoulders wracked with sobs that came before I had a chance to stop them. My shoulders heaved as I wept into his chest and I tell you this—I’ve never ever been as pleased see anyone in my life as I was at that moment.

  We stayed like that for some time, with me silently sobbing into my protector until at last I was able to gain control of myself and he held me at arm’s length to gaze into my eyes, then, first putting his finger to his lips and moving in front of the keyhole.

  Over his shoulder he said loudly, “You may well cry, mademoiselle, for your father is too furious with you to attend to the matter himself. So full of emotion that he has asked me, your governor”—he winked—“to administer your punishment in his place. But first, you shall write to him a letter of abject apology. And when that is done I shall administer your punishment, which you may expect to be the most severe you have ever experienced.”

  He ushered me to a school desk in one corner of the office, out of view from the keyhole, where I perched with writing paper, quill and pen just in case the headmistress should find an excuse to walk in on us. Then he pulled up a chair, put his elbows to the surface of the desk and, whispering, we began to talk.

  “I’m pleased to see you,” I told him.

  He chortled softly. “Can’t say I’m surprised. After all, you were expecting to have seven shades of shit knocked out of you.”

  “Actually,” I said, opening my purse to reveal the horseshoe inside, “it was the other way around.”

  He frowned. Not the reaction I wanted. “And what then, Élise?” he whispered crossly, his forefinger jabbing the top of the desk for emphasis. “You would have been expelled from the Maison Royale. Your education—delayed. Your induction—delayed. Your ascendance to Grand Master—delayed. Exactly what would that path have achieved, eh?”

  “I really don’t care,” I said.

  “You don’t care, eh? You don’t care about your father anymore?”

  “You know damn well I care about Father.”

  He sneered at my cursing. “And I know damn well you care about your mother, too. And the family name, come to that. So why are you so intent on dragging it through the mud? Why are you seeing to it that you never get as far as Grand Master?”

  “It is my destiny to be Grand Master,” I replied, realizing with an uncomfortable twinge that I reminded myself of May Carroll.

  “A destiny can change, child.”

  “I’m not a child anymore,” I reminded him. “I am twenty years old.”

  His expression saddened. “You’ll always be a child to me, Élise. Don’t forget I can remember the little girl learning sword fighting in the woods. Most able pupil I ever had, but also the most impulsive. Bit too full of herself.” He looked sideways at me. “You been keeping up your sword fighting?”

  I scoffed. “In here? How would I manage that?”

  Sarcastically, he pretended to think. “Oh, let’s see. Um, how about by keeping a low profile so your every move wasn’t watched. So you could sneak away every now and then instead of always being the center of attention. The sword given to you by your mother was for exactly that purpose.”

  I felt guilty. “Well, no. As you know I haven’t been doing that.”

  “And so your skills have been neglected.”

  “Then why send me away to a school where that was bound to happen?”

  “Point is, it wasn’t bound to happen. You shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re to be a Grand Master.”

  “Well, that could change, according to you,” I retorted, feeling like I’d won the point.

  He didn’t miss a beat. “And it will change if you don’t knuckle down and mend your ways. That lot you call the Crows—Mes
sieurs Lafrenière, Le Peletier, Sivert, and Madame Levesque—are just dying to see you slip up. You think it’s all cozy in the Order, do you? That they’re all strewing flowers ahead of your coronation as their ‘rightful queen,’ like in the history books? Nothing could be further from the truth. Every single one of them would like to end the reign of de la Serre and make it so their family name carries the title Grand Master. Every single one of them is looking for reasons to depose your father and snatch the title for himself. Their policies differ from those of your father, remember? He hangs on to their confidence by a thread. Having an errant daughter is the last thing he bloody needs. Besides . . .”

  “What?”

  He glanced to the door. No doubt Madame Levene had her ear pressed hard against it, and it was for her benefit that Mr. Weatherall said loudly, “And just you make sure you use your very best handwriting, mademoiselle.”

  Quietening, he leaned closer toward me. “You remember the two men who attacked you, no doubt?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Well,” continued Mr. Weatherall, “I promised your mother I’d find the fella who wore the doctor outfit, and I think I have.”

  I gave him a look.

  “Yeah, all right,” he admitted, “so it’s taken me a while. But I’ve found him is the important thing.”

  Faces so close they were almost touching. I could smell wine on his breath.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “His name is Ruddock, and he is indeed an Assassin, or was, at least.”

  He went on, “Seems that he was excommunicated from the Order. Been trying to get back in ever since.”

  “Why was he excommunicated?”

  “Bringing the Order into disrepute. Likes a wager by the sounds of things. Only he’s not the lucky sort. He’s up to his eyes in debt by all accounts.”

  “Could it be he hoped to kill Mother as a means of gaining favor with his Order?”

  Mr. Weatherall shot me an impressed look. “Could well be the case though I can’t help but think it’d be a bit of half-witted strategy for him. Could be that killing your mother would have brought him even greater disgrace. He’d have no way of knowing.” He shook his head. “Wait to see if the assassination is viewed in a favorable light and only then claim credit for it, maybe. But no, I can’t see it. To me this sounds as though he was offering his services to the highest bidder, trying to clear those gambling debts. I reckon our friend Ruddock was working as a sword for hire.”

  “So the Assassins were not the ones behind the attempt?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Have you told the Crows?”

  He shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  He looked evasive. “Your mother had certain . . . suspicions concerning the Crows.”

  “What sort of suspicions?”

  “Do you remember a certain François Thomas Germain?”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Fierce-looking guy. He would have been around when you were a child. François Thomas Germain was your father’s lieutenant. He had some dodgy ideas and your father turfed him out of the Order. He’s dead now. But your mother always wondered if Messieurs Lafrenière, Le Peletier, Sivert, and Madame Levesque might have had sympathies with him.”

  I started, unable to believe what I was hearing. “You can’t believe my father’s advisers would plot to kill Mother?”

  True, I’d always hated the Crows, but then again I’d always hated Madame Levene, and I couldn’t imagine her plotting my murder. The idea was too far-fetched.

  Mr. Weatherall continued. “Your mother’s death would have suited their ends. The Crows might well have been your father’s advisers in name, but after Germain got the boot it was your mother who had his ear above all others, including them. With her out of the way . . .”

  “But she is ‘out of the way.’ She’s dead, and my father has remained true to his policies.”

  “It’s impossible to say what goes on, Élise. Maybe he’s proven less pliable than expected.”

  “No, it still doesn’t make sense to me,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Things don’t always make sense, love. The Assassins trying to kill your mother didn’t make sense, but everyone was keen to believe it. No, for the time being I’m staying suspicious unless I have evidence otherwise, and if it’s all the same to you, I’m playing it safe until we know either way.”

  Inside me was a strangely hollow feeling, a sense that a curtain had been drawn back to expose uncertainties behind. There might be people within our own organization who wished us wrong. I had to find out—I had to find out either way.

  “What about Father?”

  “What of him?”

  “You haven’t told him your suspicions?”

  With his eyes fixed on the top of the desk, he shook his head.

  “Why?”

  “Well, firstly because they are just suspicions, and as you’ve pointed out, pretty wild ones at that. If they’re not true—which they’re most likely not—I look like a bloody idiot; if they are, then all I’ve done is alert them and while they’re busy laughing it off because I don’t have a shred of proof, they’re making plans to do away with me. And also . . .”

  “What?”

  “I have not been acquitting myself well since your mother died, Élise,” he admitted. “Reverting to old ways, you might say, and in the process burning what bridges I had built with my fellow Templars. There are some similarities between me and Mr. Ruddock.”

  “I see. And that’s why I can smell wine on your breath, is it?”

  “We all cope in our own way, child.”

  “She’s been gone almost ten years, Mr. Weatherall.”

  He gave a short mirthless laugh. “Mourn too much for your tastes, do I? Well, I could say the same of you, pissing away the last of your education, making enemies when you should be forging connections and contacts. Don’t you be sneering at the likes of me, Élise. Not until your own house is in order.”

  I frowned. “We need to know who was behind that attempt.”

  “Which is what I’m doing.”

  “How?”

  “This bloke Ruddock is hiding out in London. We have contacts in London. The Carrolls, if you recall. I’ve already sent word ahead of my arrival.”

  Never was I more certain of anything. “I’m coming with you.”

  He looked at me peevishly. “No you’re bloody well not, you’re staying here and finishing your schooling. For crying out loud, girl, what on earth would your father say?”

  “How about we tell him I’m to pay an educational visit to London in order to improve my English?”

  The protector jabbed his finger on the desk. “No. How about we do nothing of the sort? How about you stay here?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m coming with you. This man has haunted my nightmares for years, Mr. Weatherall.” I fixed him with my best imploring look. “I have some ghosts I need to lay to rest.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Pull the other one. You forget how well I know you. More likely you want the excitement, and you want to get away from this place.”

  “Well, okay,” I said, “but come on, Mr. Weatherall. Do you know how difficult it is to have the likes of Valerie sneering at me and not tell them that one day, when she’s pushing out children for the drunken son of a marquis, I will be head of the Templars? This stage of my life cannot end soon enough for me. I’m desperate for the next stage to start.”

  “You’ll just have to wait.”

  “I’ve only got a year to go,” I pushed.

  “They call it finishing for a reason. You can’t finish unless you finish.”

  “I won’t even be away that long.”

  “No. And anyway, even—even—if I agreed, you’d never get her out there to say yes.”

  “We could forge letters,” I insisted. “Anything she writes to Father, you could intercept. I take it you have been intercepting the letters . . .”


  “Of course I have. Why do you think I’m here and not him? But he’s going to find out sooner or later. At some point, Élise, one way or another, your lies will be exposed.”

  “It’ll be too late then.”

  He bulged with fresh anger, his skin reddening against the white of his whiskers. “This—this is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re so full of yourself you’ve forgotten your responsibilities. It’s making you reckless and the more reckless you are the more you endanger your family’s position. I wish I’d never bloody told you now. I thought I could talk some sense into you.”

  I looked at him, an idea forming, and then in a display of acting that would have impressed Valerie, pretended to decide he was right and that I was sorry and all the other stuff he wanted to see in my face.

  He nodded and cast his voice toward the door. “Right, at last, you’re finished. This letter I shall take home to your father, accompanied by the news that I gave you six strokes of the cane.”

  I shook my head and held up desperate fingers.

  He blanched. “What I mean is, twelve strokes of the cane.”

  I shook my head furiously. Held out fingers again.

  “I mean ten strokes of the cane.”

  Pretend-wiping my brow, I called out, “Oh no, monsieur, not ten strokes.”

  “Now, is this the cane used to punish you girls?”

  He had moved over to Madame Levene’s desk, which was in sight of the keyhole, and picked the cane from its pride of place across her desk. At the same time he used the cover of his back and sleight of hand to pluck a cushion from her chair and skim it across the floor to me.

  It was all very smooth. Like we did it every day. What a team we made. I picked up the cushion and laid it across the desk as he walked over with a cane, and once more we were out of sight of the keyhole.

  “Right,” he said loudly, for the benefit of Madame Levene, with a wink at me. I stood to one side while he gave the cushion ten smart whacks, making suitable ouch noises after each one. And after all, when it came to authentic pain noises, who knew better than I? I could imagine Madame Levene cursing as all the action happened out of sight, no doubt planning to rearrange the furniture as soon as possible.