Assassin's Creed: Black Flag (3 page)

In the meantime my thoughts returned to Caroline. The first thing I did was find out who she was, and by asking around Hawkins Lane, I learnt that her father, Emmett Scott, was a wealthy merchant dealing in tea, who would no doubt have been seen as
new money
by most of his customers but nevertheless seemed to have inveigled himself high up in society.

Now, a man less headstrong than I, less cocksure, might well have chosen a different path to Caroline’s heart than the one I opted for. After all, her father was a supplier of fine teas to the well-to-do households in the West Country; he had money, enough to employ servants at a good-sized house on Hawkins Lane. He was no small-holder—there was no getting up at 5:00
A.M.
to feed the livestock for him. He was a man of means and influence. What I should have done—even knowing it would be futile—was try to make his acquaintance. Much of what subsequently happened—so much—could have been avoided if I had at least tried.

But I didn’t.

I was young, you see. It was no wonder the likes of Tom Cobleigh hated me, I was so arrogant. Despite my social status I thought currying favour with a tea merchant was below me.

Now, one thing I know is that if you love women—which I do, I’m not ashamed to say—you find something of beauty in every woman, no matter whether they’re what you might call classically beautiful. But with Caroline it was my misfortune to fall in love with a woman whose outer beauty matched the inner, and, of course, her charms were likely to catch the attention of others. So the next thing I discovered about her was that she had caught the eye of Matthew Hague, son of Sir Aubrey Hague, Bristol’s biggest landowner, and an executive in the East India Company.

From what I gathered, young Matthew was our age, and as self-important and jumped-up as they come, thinking himself much more than he was. He liked to wear the air of a shrewd man of business, like his father, though it was clear he possessed none of his father’s aptitude in that area. What’s more, he liked to think himself something of a philosopher and often dictated his thoughts to a draughtsman who accompanied him wherever he went, quill and ink at the ready whatever the circumstances to write down Hague’s thoughts, such as, “A joke is a stone tossed into water, laughter the ripples it makes.”

Perhaps his utterings were deeply profound. All I know is that I wouldn’t have paid him much mind—indeed, I would have joined in with the general derision and laughter that seemed to accompany mention of his name—if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d shown an interest in Caroline. Perhaps even that wouldn’t have worried me so much but for two other factors. Firstly, that Caroline’s father, Emmett Scott, had apparently betrothed Caroline to the Hague boy, and also the fact that the Hague boy, possibly on account of his condescending manner, his tendency to make vital mistakes in even the most simple business dealings and his ability to wind people up, had a minder, a man named Wilson, who was an uncultured brute of a man but very big, with one slightly closed-up eye, who was said to be tough.

“Life is not a battle, for battles are there to be won or lost. Life is to be experienced,” Matthew Hague was heard to dictate to his skinny draughtsman.

Well, of course, for Matthew Hague there was precious little battling going on, firstly because he was the son of
the
Sir Aubrey Hague, and secondly he had a dirty great minder following him everywhere.

 • • • 

So anyway, I made it my business to find out where Caroline would be one sunny afternoon. How? Well, that was a case of calling in a favour, you could say. You remember Rose, the maidservant I helped save from a fate worse than death? I reminded her of that fact one day when I followed her from Hawkins Lane to the market and as she made her way through the stalls, deftly avoiding the shouts of the stall-holders with a basket in the crook of her arm, made my introductions.

She didn’t recognize me, of course.

“I’m sure I have no idea who you are, sir,” she said with little, startled eyes darting in all directions, as though her employers might come a-leaping from the aisles between the stalls.

“Well, I know exactly who you are, Rose,” I said. “It was me who took a beating on your behalf outside the Auld Shilellagh last week. Drunk as you were, you remember the presence of a Good Samaritan, I hope?”

She nodded reluctantly. And yes, perhaps it’s not the most gentlemanly thing to do, to use a young lady’s unfortunate circumstances in such a mercenary fashion, to . . . well, I wouldn’t go as far as to say
blackmail
, but to leverage information from her, but there we have it. I was smitten and, given that my penmanship skills were nonexistent, had decided that a face-to-face encounter with Caroline was the best way to begin the process of winning her heart.

Charm the birds out the trees, see? Well, it worked on traders, and on the occasional young lady I encountered in the taverns. Why not on someone of high-born stock?

From Rose I learnt that Caroline enjoyed taking the air at the Bristol docks on a Tuesday afternoon. But, she said, with a quick look left to right, I should be wary of Mr. Hague. Him and his manservant Wilson. Mr. Hague was most keen on Caroline, so Rose said, and was very protective of her.

So it was that the following morning I made sure I took a trip into town, moved my goods as quickly as possible, then made my way down to the harbour. There the air was thick with the scent of sea-salt, manure and boiling pitch, and rang to the cries of sea-gulls and the endless shouts of those who made the docks their place of work: crews calling to one another as they loaded and unloaded ships whose masts rocked slightly in a gentle breeze.

I could see why Caroline might like it here. All life was on the harbour. From the men with baskets of freshly picked apples or pheasants hanging on twine around their necks, to the tradesmen who merely deposited baskets on the quayside and hollered at visiting deck-hands, to the women with fabric, persuading jack-tars they were getting a bargain. There were children who had flowers or tinder to sell, or who ran through the legs of sailors and dodged the traders, almost as anonymous as the dogs that slunk around the harbour walls and snuffled at the piles of rubbish and rotting food swept there from the day before.

Among them all was Caroline, who, with a bow in her bonnet, a parasol over one shoulder, and Rose a respectful few feet behind her, looked every inch the lady. And yet, I noticed—I kept my own distance for the time being, needing to choose my moment—she didn’t look down her nose at the activity around her, as she so easily could have done. Her attraction to the place was not one of prurient interest. From her demeanour I could tell that she, like me, enjoyed seeing life in all its forms. I wondered, did she also, like me, ever look out to a sea that glittered with treasure, masts of ships tilting gently, gulls flying towards where the world began, and wonder what stories the horizons had to tell?

I am a romantic man, it’s true, but not a romantic fool, and there had been moments since that day outside the tavern when I’d wondered if my growing affections for Caroline were not partly an invention of my mind. She had been my saviour, after all. But then, as I walked along the harbour, I fell for her anew.

Did I expect to speak to Caroline in my sheep-farmer’s clothes? Of course not. I’d taken the precaution of changing and traded my dirty boots for a pair of silver-buckled shoes, neat white stockings and dark breeches, a freshly laundered waistcoat over my shirt, and a matching three-cornered hat instead of my trusty brown hat. I looked quite the gentleman, if I do say so myself: I was young, good-looking and full of confidence, the son of a well-respected tradesman in the area. A Kenway. The name had something, at least (despite my attempts otherwise), and I also had with me a young rogue by the name of Albert, who I had bribed to do a job for me. It doesn’t take much grey matter to guess the nature of the job: he was to help me impress the fair Caroline. One transaction with a flower girl later and I had the means to do it too.

“Right, you remember the plan,” I told Albert, who looked up at me from beneath the brim of his hat with eyes that were so much older than his years and a bored heard-it-all-before look on his face.

“Right, mate, you’re to give this spray of flowers to that fine-looking lady over there. She will stop. She will say to you, ‘Ah, young fellow, for what reason are you presenting me with these flowers?’ And you will point over here.” I indicated where I would be standing, proud as a peacock. Caroline would either recognize me from the other day, or at the very least wish to thank her mysterious benefactor, and instruct Albert to invite me over, at which point the charm offensive would begin.

“What’s in it for me?” asked Albert.

“What’s in it for you? How about counting yourself lucky I don’t give you a thick ear?”

He curled a lip. “How about you taking a running jump off the side of the harbour?”

“All right,” I said, knowing when I was beaten, “there’s half a penny in it for you.”

“Half a penny? Is that the best you can do?”

“As a matter of fact, Sonny Jim, it is the best I can bloody do, and for walking across the harbour and presenting a flower to a beautiful woman, it’s also the easiest halfpenny’s work there ever was.”

“Ain’t she got a suitor with her?” Albert craned his neck to look.

Of course, it would soon become apparent exactly why Albert wanted to know whether Caroline had an escort. But at that particular moment in time I took his interest for nothing more than curiosity. Some idle conversation. So I told him that, no, she had no suitor, and I gave him the spray of flowers and his halfpenny and sent him on his way.

It was as he sauntered over that something he was hold-ing in his other hand caught my eye, and I realized what a mistake I’d made.

It was a tiny blade and his eyes were fixed on her arm, where her purse hung on a ribbon.

Oh God, I realized. A cut-purse. Young Albert was a cut-purse.

“You little bastard,” I said under my breath, and immediately set off across the harbour after him.

By then he was halfway between us, but being small was able to slip between the seething crowds more quickly. I saw Caroline, oblivious to the approaching danger—danger that I had inadvertently sent into her path.

The next thing I saw were three men, who were also making their way towards Caroline. Three men I recognized: Matthew Hague, his skinny writing companion, and his minder, Wilson. Inwardly I cringed. Even more so when I saw Wilson’s eyes flick from Caroline to Albert and back again. He was good, you could tell. In a heartbeat he had seen what was about to happen.

I stopped. For a second I was totally flummoxed and didn’t know what to do next.

“Oi,” shouted Wilson, his gruff tones cutting across the endless squawking, chatting, hawking of the day.

“Oi, you!” He surged forward but Albert had reached Caroline and in one almost impossibly fast and fluid gesture his hand snaked out, the ribbon of Caroline’s purse was cut and the tiny silk bag dropped neatly into Albert’s other hand.

Caroline didn’t notice the theft but she couldn’t fail to see the huge figure of Wilson bearing down upon her and she cried out in surprise, even as he lunged past her and grabbed Albert by the shoulders.

“This young rapscallion has something that belongs to you, miss,” roared Wilson, shaking Albert so hard that the silk purse dropped to the floor.

Her eyes went to the purse, then to Albert.

“Is this true?” she said, though the evidence was in front of her eyes, and in fact, currently sat in a small pile of horse manure by their feet.

“Pick it up, pick it up,” Hague was saying to his skinny companion, having just arrived and already beginning to behave as though it was he who had apprehended the knife-wielding youth and not his six-and-a-half-foot minder.

“Teach the young ruffian a lesson, Wilson.” Hague waved his hand as though attempting to ward off some especially noxious flatulence.

“With pleasure, sir.”

There were still several feet between me and them. He was held fast but Albert’s eyes swivelled from looking terrified at Wilson to where I stood in the crowd and as our eyes met, he stared at me beseechingly.

I clenched my teeth.
That little bastard
, he had been about to ruin all of my plans and there he was, looking to me for help. The cheek of him.

But then Wilson, holding him by the scruff of the neck with one hand, drove his fist into Albert’s stomach and that was it for me. That same sense of injustice I felt at the tavern was reignited and in a second I was shoving through the crowd to Albert’s aid.

“Hey,” I shouted. Wilson swung to see me, and though he was bigger than me, and far uglier than me, I’d just seen him hit a child and my blood was up. It’s not an especially gentlemanly way to conduct a fight, but I knew from experience both as giver and receiver that there was no quicker and cleaner way to put a man down, so I did it. I led with the knee. My knee into his bollocks, to be precise, so quick and so hard that where one second Wilson was a snarling huge bully about to meet my attack, the next he was a snivelling mewling heap of a man, his hands grasping at his groin as he arrived on the floor.

Heedless of Matthew Hague’s outraged screaming, I grabbed Albert. “Say sorry to the lady,” I ordered him, with finger in his face.

“Sorry, miss,” said Albert obediently.

“Now hop it,” I said, and pointed him off down the harbour. He needed no second invitation and in a trice was gone, prompting even more protestations from Matthew Hague, and I thanked God that at least Albert was out of the picture and unable to do me in.

I had saved Albert from getting a worse beating but my victory was short-lived. Wilson was already on his feet and though his bollocks must have been throbbing something rotten, he wasn’t feeling anything at that moment except rage. He was quick too and before I had time to react had grabbed me and was holding me firm. I tried to pull away, dipping one shoulder and driving my fist up towards his solar plexus, but I didn’t have the momentum and he used his body to block me, grunting as much with satisfaction as with effort as he dragged me bodily across the harbour, people scattering before him. In a fair fight I would have had a chance, but he used his superior strength and his sudden rage-fuelled spurt of speed to his advantage, and in the next moment my feet were kicking in thin air as he flung me off the side of the harbour.