Assassin's Creed: Unity (22 page)

5 O
CTOBER
1789

i

I have written before that the fall of the Bastille marked the end of the king’s rule and though it did in one sense—in the sense that his power had been questioned, tested and failed that test—in name, at least, if not in reality, he remained in charge.

As news of the Bastille’s fall began to travel around France, so too did the rumor that the king’s army would wreak a terrible revenge on all revolutionaries. Messengers would arrive in villages with the dreadful news that the army was sweeping across the countryside. They pointed to the sunset and said it was a burning village in the distance. Peasants took up arms against an army that never came. They burned tax offices. They fought with local militia sent to quell the disturbance. These disturbances were called the Rural Uprising.

On the back of it, the Assembly passed a law, a “Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen,” to stop nobles demanding taxes, tithes and labor from peasants. The law was drafted by the Marquis de Lafayette, who had helped draft the American Constitution, and it killed noble privilege and made all men equal in the eyes of the law.

It also made the guillotine the official instrument of death of France.

ii

But still, what to do with the king? Officially he still had power of veto. Mirabeau, who had so nearly formed an alliance with my father, argued that the protests should end, and that the king should still rule as he had done before.

In this aim he would have been joined by my father if my father had lived, and when I wondered whether an alliance of Assassin and Templar might have changed things, I found myself sure it would have done, and realized that was why he had been killed.

There were others—chief among them the doctor and scientist, Jean Paul Marat, who, though not a member of the Assembly, had found a voice—who felt that the king’s powers should be stripped away from him altogether, that he should be asked to move from Versailles to Paris and there continue purely in an advisory role.

Marat’s view was the most radical. As far as I was concerned that was important because not once did I ever hear talk of the king’s being deposed, as I had overheard growing up.

To put it another way: the most passionate revolutionaries in Paris had never proposed anything quite so radical as that suggested by my father’s advisers at our estate in Versailles as far back as 1778.

And realizing that sent a chill down my spine as the day of the Templar council approached. The Crows had been invited, of course, although I was going to have to stop using that nickname for them if I was to be their Grand Master. What I should say is that all of my father’s close associates and advisers had been requested to attend, as well as representatives of other high-ranking Templar families.

When they were assembled, I would tell them I was in charge now. I would warn them that treachery would not be tolerated and that if my father’s killer came from their ranks, then he (or she) would be exposed and punished.

That was the plan. And in private moments I had imagined its happening that way. I had imagined the meeting taking place at our château in Versailles, just as I’d said to Mr. Weatherall that day at Maison Royale.

In the end, however, we’d decided more neutral territory would be preferable and chosen to meet at the Hôtel de Lauzun on the Île Saint-Louis. It was owned by the Marquis de Pimôdan, a Knight of the Order known to be sympathetic to the de la Serres. So not totally neutral. But
more
neutral at least.

Mr. Weatherall demurred, insisting on the need to maintain a low profile. I’m grateful for that, the way things turned out.

iii

Something had happened that day. These days it felt as though something happened every day but that day—or to be precise, yesterday and today—something bigger than usual had happened, an event for which the wheels were set in motion when, just a few days ago, King Louis and Marie Antoinette drank too much wine at a party held in honor of the Flanders regiment.

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.