Assassin's Creed: Unity (14 page)

She gazed from the glass as the city streets tumbled past us. “No, mademoiselle, not for a second did I wish otherwise. Whatever is my fate it is better than what those men had planned for me in Calais. The one you saved me from.”

“In any case, Helene, the debt is paid. When we reach France you must go your own way, as a free woman.”

The ghost of a smile stole across her lips. “We shall see about that, mademoiselle,” she said. “We shall see.”

As the carriage trundled into the tree-lined square at Mayfair I saw activity outside the home of the Carrolls some fifty yards away.

I called to the driver to stop by banging on the ceiling hatch and as the horses complained and stamped, I opened the carriage door and stood on the footboard, shielding my eyes to look toward the distance. There I saw two carriages. The footmen of the Carroll household were milling around. I saw Mr. Carroll standing on the steps of the house, pulling on a pair of gloves. I saw Mr. Weatherall come trotting down the steps, buttoning his jacket. At his side hung his sword.

That was interesting. The footmen were armed, too, and so was Mr. Carroll.

“Wait here,” I called to the driver, then peered inside.

“I’ll be back soon,” I said to Helene softly. And then, picking up my skirts, I hurried to a spot near a set of railings from which I could see the carriages more closely. Mr. Weatherall stood with his back to me. I cupped my hands to my mouth, made our customary owl sound and was relieved when only he turned around, everybody else being too embroiled in their tasks to wonder why they could hear an owl at that time of the early evening.

Mr. Weatherall’s eyes searched the square until they found me and he shifted position, drawing his hands across his chest, assuming a casual pose with a hand covering one side of his face. He mouthed to me, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Thank God for our silent conversations.

“Never mind that. Where are you going?”

“They found Ruddock. He’s staying at the Boars Head Inn on Fleet Street.”

“I need my things,” I told him. “My trunk.”

He nodded. “I’ll fetch it and leave it in one of the stables round back. Don’t hang around; we’re leaving any moment now.”

All my life I’ve been told I’m beautiful, but I don’t think I’d ever really used it until that moment, when I returned to our carriage, fluttered my eyelashes at the coachman and persuaded him to fetch my trunk from the mews.

When he returned I asked him to sit up top while, with a feeling like greeting an old friend, I delved into my trunk. My proper trunk. The trunk of Élise de la Serre rather than Yvonne Albertine. I performed my customary carriage change. Off came the accursed dress. I slapped Helene’s hands away as she tried to help. “You’re hurt, get some rest!” Then I slipped into my breeches and shirt, pummeled my tricorn into shape and strapped on my sword. I shoved a sheaf of letters into the front of my shirt. Everything else I left in the carriage.

“You’re to take this carriage to Dover,” I told Helene, opening the door. “You’re to go. Meet the tide. Take the first ship back to France. God willing I will meet you there.”

“Take this girl to Dover,” I called up to the driver.

“Is she sailing to Calais?” he asked, having had the usual reaction to my change of clothes.

“As am I. You’re to wait for me there.”

“Then she might catch the tide. The road to Dover is full of coaches right now.”

“Excellent,” I said, and tossed him a coin. “Be sure to look after her and know that if any harm should come to her, I’ll come looking for you.”

His eyes went to my sword. “I believe you,” he said, “don’t you worry about that.”

“Good.” I grinned. “We understand each other.”

“Seems like we do.”

Right.

I took a deep breath.

I had the letters. I had my sword and a pouch of coins. Everything else went with Helene.

The coachman found me another carriage, and as I climbed in, I watched Helene pull away, silently offering up a prayer for her safe delivery. To my coachman I said, “Fleet Street, please, monsieur, and don’t spare the horses.”

With a smile he nodded and we were in motion. I slid down the window and looked behind us just in time to see the last of the Carrolls’ party board the coaches. Whips split the air. The two carriages moved off. Through the hatch I called, “Monsieur, there are two coaches some distance behind. We must reach Fleet Street ahead of them.”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” said the driver, unperturbed. He shook the reins. The horses whinnied, their hooves clattered more urgently upon the cobbles and I sat back with my hand gripping the hilt of my sword, and knew that the chase was on.

vii

It wasn’t long before we were pulling into the Boars Head Inn on Fleet Street. I tossed coins and gave a grateful wave to the coachman, then, before he had time to open my door, jumped out into the courtyard.

It was full of stagecoaches and horses, ladies and gentlemen directing lackeys who groaned beneath the weight of parcels and trunks. I glanced at the entranceway. There was no sign of the Carrolls. Good. It gave me a chance to find Ruddock. I slipped into the back door, then along a half-dark passage into the tavern itself, darkened, with low, wooden beams. Like the Antlers in Calais, it was alive with the jagged laughter of thirsty travelers, the air thick with smoke. I found a barkeep who stood with his mouth hidden in his jowls, half-asleep and working a towel around a pewter tumbler, eyes far away, as though dreaming of a better place.

“Hello? Monsieur?”

Still he stared. I flicked my fingers, called him even more loudly over the din of the tavern and he came to.

“What?” he growled.

“I’m looking for a man who stays here, a Mr. Ruddock.”

He shook his head, and the folds of skin at his neck shuddered as he did so. “Nobody here by that name.”

“Perhaps he is using a false name,” I said hopefully. “Please, monsieur, it is important that I find him.”

He squinted at me with renewed interest. “What does he look like, this Mr. Ruddock of yours?” he asked me.

“He dresses like a doctor, monsieur, at least he did the last time I saw him but one thing he can’t change is the distinctive shade of his hair.”

“Almost pure white?”

“That’s it.”

“No, not seen him.”

Even in the thick clamor of the inn I could hear it—a disturbance in the courtyard. The sound of carriages arriving. It was the Carrolls.

The innkeeper had seen me notice. His eyes glittered.

“You
have
seen him,” I pressed.

“Might have,” he said, and with unwavering eyes held out a hand. I crossed his palm with silver

“Upstairs. First room on the left. He’s using the name Mowles. Mr. Gerald Mowles. Sounds like you better hurry.”

The commotion from outside had increased, and I could only hope they’d take their time assembling and helping Madame Carroll and her hideous daughter out of the carriage before they swept into the Boars Head Inn like minor royalty, giving me plenty of time to . . .

Get upstairs. First door on the left. I caught my breath. I was in the eaves, the slanting beams almost brushing the top of my hat. Even so it was quieter upstairs, the noise from below reduced to a constant background clatter, no hint of the impending invasion.

I took the few moments of calm before the storm to compose myself, raised my hand about to knock, then had second thoughts and instead crouched to peer through the keyhole.

He sat on the bed with one leg pulled up beneath him wearing breeches and a shirt unlaced to show a bony chest tufted with hair beneath. Though he no longer looked like the doctor of that image, there was no mistaking the shock of white hair and the fact that it was definitely him, the man who had populated my nightmares. Funny how this terror of my childhood now looked very unthreatening indeed.

From downstairs came the sound of a minor uproar as the Carrolls burst in. There were raised voices and threats and I heard my friend the innkeeper protesting as they made their presence felt. In moments Ruddock would be aware of what was happening and any element of surprise I had would be lost.

I knocked.

“Enter,” he called, which surprised me.

As I came into the room he raised himself to meet me with one hand on his hip, a stance I realized with a puzzled start that was supposed to be provocative. For a second or so we were both confused by the sight of one another: him, posing with his hand on his hip; me, bursting in.

Until at last he spoke in a voice that I was surprised to hear was cultured. “I’m sorry, but you don’t look much like a prostitute. I mean, no offense, and you’re most attractive, but just not much like a . . . prostitute.”

I frowned. “No, monsieur, I am not a prostitute, I am Élise de la Serre, daughter of Julie de la Serre.”

He looked at once blank and quizzical.

“You tried to kill us,” I explained.

His mouth formed an O.

viii

“Ah,” he said, “and you’re the grown-up daughter come to take revenge, are you?”

My hand was on the hilt of my sword. From behind I heard the clatter of boots on wooden steps as the Carroll’s men made their way upstairs. I slammed the door and threw the bolt.

“No. I’m here to save your life.”

“Oh? Really? That’s a turnup.”

“Count yourself lucky,” I said. The footsteps were just outside the door. “Leave.”

“But I’m not even dressed properly.”

“Leave,”
I insisted, and pointed at the window. There was a banging on the door that shook in its frame, and Ruddock didn’t need telling a third time. He slung one leg over the casement and disappeared, leaving a strong whiff of stale sweat behind, and I heard him skidding down the sloped roof outside. Just then the door splintered and swung open, and Carroll’s men burst inside.

There were three of them. I drew my sword and they drew theirs. Behind them came Mr. Weatherall and the three Carrolls.

“Stop,” called Mr. Carroll. “For God’s sake, it’s Mademoiselle de la Serre.”

I stood with my back to the window, the room crowded with people now, swords drawn. From behind I heard a clatter as Ruddock made his way to safety.

“Where is he?” asked Mr. Carroll though not with the urgent tones I might have expected.

“I don’t know,” I told them. “I came looking for him myself.”

At a gesture from Mr. Carroll, the three swordsmen stood down. Carroll looked confused. “I see. You’re here looking for Mr. Ruddock. But I thought
we
were the ones supposed to be looking for Mr. Ruddock. Indeed, I was of the understanding that while we were doing that, you would be at the home of Jennifer Scott attending to business there. Very important Templar business, yes?”

“That’s exactly what I have been doing,” I told him.

“I see. Well, first, why don’t you put your sword away, there’s a good girl.”

“It’s because of what I learned from Jennifer Scott that my sword stays unsheathed.”

He raised an eyebrow. Madame Carroll curled a lip and May Carroll sneered. Mr. Weatherall shot me a be-careful look.

“I see. Something you were told by Jennifer Scott, the daughter of the Assassin Edward Kenway?”

“Yes,” I said. My color rose.

“And do you plan to tell us what this woman, an enemy of the Templars, told you about us?”

“That you arranged for Monica and Lucio to be killed.”

Mr. Carroll gave a short, sad shrug. “Ah, well, that is true, I’m afraid. A necessary precaution, in order that the subterfuge should not lack veracity.”

“I would never have agreed to take part had I known.”

Mr. Carroll spread his hands as though my reaction was a vindication of their actions. The point of my short sword stayed steady. I could run him through—run him through in an instant.

But if I did that, I’d be dead before his body even hit the floor.

“How did you know to come here?” he asked with another look at Mr. Weatherall, knowing, surely, what the truth of it was. I saw Mr. Weatherall’s fingers flex, ready to reach for his sword.

“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “The important thing is that you upheld your end of the bargain.”

“Indeed we did,” he agreed, “but did you uphold yours?”

“You asked me to recover some letters from Jennifer Scott. It was at great cost to myself and my lady’s maid, Helene, but I have managed to do it.”

He shared a look with his wife and daughter. “You did?”

“Not only that, but I’ve read the letters.”

His lips turned down as though to say,
“Yes? And?”

“I’ve read the letters and taken note of what Haytham Kenway had to say. And what he had to say involved the worlds of Assassin and Templar ceasing hostilities. Haytham Kenway—a legend among Templars—had a vision for the future of our two Orders and it was that they should work together.”

“I see,” said Mr. Carroll, nodding. “And that meant something to you, did it?”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly sure of it. “Yes. Coming from him it meant something.”

He nodded. “Indeed. Indeed. Haytham Kenway was . . .
brave
to put these ideas on paper. Had he been discovered, he would have been tried for treachery by the Order.”

“But he may well be right. We can learn from his writings.”

Mr. Carroll was nodding. “Quite so, my dear. We can. Indeed, I shall be very interested to see what he had to say. Tell me, do you by any chance have the letters with you?”

“Yes,” I said carefully, “yes, I do.”

“Oh, jolly good. That’s jolly good. Could I by any chance see them, please?”

His hand was held out, palm up. Beyond it a smile that went nowhere near his eyes.

I reached into my shirt, took the sheaf of letters from where they pressed against my breast and handed them to him.

“Thank you,” he said, with a smile, his eyes never leaving mine as he passed the letters across to his daughter who took them, a smile spreading across her face. I knew what was going to happen next. I was ready for it. Sure enough, May Carroll tossed the letters on the fire.

“No,”
I shouted, and sprang forward, but not to the fire as they expected but to the side of Mr. Weatherall, elbowing one of Carroll’s minions as I pushed him away. The man gave a cry of pain, brought his sword to bear and the sound of ringing steel was suddenly deafening in the tiny lodging room as our blades met.