Read Online Assassin's Creed: Forsaken by Oliver Bowden - Free Book Online
Authors: Oliver Bowden
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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.
Perhaps it had turned out that the source of her strength was him. Perhaps the carnage of that terrible evening had simply been too much for her to take. They say it happens to soldiers. They get “soldier’s heart” and become shadows of their former selves. The bloodshed changes them somehow. Was that the case with Mother? I wondered.
“I’m sorry, Haytham,” she added.
“It’s all right, Mother.”
“No—I mean, you are to go to Europe with Mr. Birch.”
“But I’m needed here, with you. To look after you.”
She gave an airy laugh: “Mama’s little soldier, uh?” and fixed me with a strange, searching look. I knew exactly where her mind was going. Back to what had happened on the stairs. She was seeing me thrust a blade into the eye socket of the masked attacker.
And then she tore her eyes away, leaving me feeling almost breathless with the raw emotion of her gaze.
“I have Miss Davy and Emily to look after me, Haytham. When the repairs are made to Queen Anne’s Square we’ll be able to move back and I can employ more staff. No, it is me who should be looking after you, and I have appointed Mr. Birch the family comptroller and your guardian, so that you can be looked after properly. It’s what your father would have wanted.”
She looked at the curtain quizzically, as if she was trying to recall why it was drawn. “I understand that Mr. Birch was going to speak to you about leaving for Europe straight away.”
“He did, yes, but—”
“Good.” She regarded me. Again, there was something discomfiting about the look; she was no longer the mother I knew, I realized. Or was I no longer the son she knew?
“It’s for the best, Haytham.”
“But, Mother . . .”
She looked at me, then away again quickly.
“You’re going, and that’s the end of it,” she said firmly, her stare returning to the curtains. My eyes went to Miss Davy as though looking for assistance, but I found none; in return she gave me a sympathetic smile, a raise of the eyebrows, an expression that said, “I’m sorry, Haytham, there’s nothing I can do, her mind is made up.” There was silence in the room, no sound apart from the clip-clopping of hooves from outside, from a world that carried on oblivious to the fact that mine was being taken apart.
“You are dismissed, Haytham,” Mother said, with a wave of her hand.
Before—before the attack, I mean—she had never used to “summon” me. Or “dismiss” me. Before, she had never let me
“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.
Perhaps it had turned out that the source of her strength was him. Perhaps the carnage of that terrible evening had simply been too much for her to take. They say it happens to soldiers. They get “soldier’s heart” and become shadows of their former selves. The bloodshed changes them somehow. Was that the case with Mother? I wondered.
“I’m sorry, Haytham,” she added.
“It’s all right, Mother.”
“No—I mean, you are to go to Europe with Mr. Birch.”
“But I’m needed here, with you. To look after you.”
She gave an airy laugh: “Mama’s little soldier, uh?” and fixed me with a strange, searching look. I knew exactly where her mind was going. Back to what had happened on the stairs. She was seeing me thrust a blade into the eye socket of the masked attacker.
And then she tore her eyes away, leaving me feeling almost breathless with the raw emotion of her gaze.
“I have Miss Davy and Emily to look after me, Haytham. When the repairs are made to Queen Anne’s Square we’ll be able to move back and I can employ more staff. No, it is me who should be looking after you, and I have appointed Mr. Birch the family comptroller and your guardian, so that you can be looked after properly. It’s what your father would have wanted.”
She looked at the curtain quizzically, as if she was trying to recall why it was drawn. “I understand that Mr. Birch was going to speak to you about leaving for Europe straight away.”
“He did, yes, but—”
“Good.” She regarded me. Again, there was something discomfiting about the look; she was no longer the mother I knew, I realized. Or was I no longer the son she knew?
“It’s for the best, Haytham.”
“But, Mother . . .”
She looked at me, then away again quickly.
“You’re going, and that’s the end of it,” she said firmly, her stare returning to the curtains. My eyes went to Miss Davy as though looking for assistance, but I found none; in return she gave me a sympathetic smile, a raise of the eyebrows, an expression that said, “I’m sorry, Haytham, there’s nothing I can do, her mind is made up.” There was silence in the room, no sound apart from the clip-clopping of hooves from outside, from a world that carried on oblivious to the fact that mine was being taken apart.
“You are dismissed, Haytham,” Mother said, with a wave of her hand.
Before—before the attack, I mean—she had never used to “summon” me. Or “dismiss” me. Before, she had never let me
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