Assassin's Creed: Black Flag (2 page)

She was in the Auld Shillelagh, a tavern halfway between Hatherton and Bristol, which was a regular haunt of mine and sometimes, in the summer when Mother and Father toiled over the shearing at home, when I’d make more frequent trips into town, it was regular to the tune of several times a day.

I admit I hadn’t taken much notice of her at first, which was unusual for me because I liked to pride myself on knowing the exact location of any pretty woman nearabouts, and besides, the Shillelagh wasn’t the sort of place you expected to find a pretty woman. A
woman
, yes. A certain type of woman. But this girl I could see wasn’t like that: she was young, about my age, and she wore a white linen coif and a smock. Looked to me like a domestic.

But it wasn’t her clothes that drew my attention. It was the loudness of her voice, which you’d have to say was in complete contrast to the way she looked. She was sitting with three men, all of them older than her, who I recognized at once: Tom Cobleigh, his son Seth, and Julian somebody, whose surname escaped me, but who worked with them: three men with whom I had traded words if not blows before—the kind who looked down their noses at me because they thought I looked down my nose at them, who liked me no more than I liked them, which was not a lot. They were sat forward on their stools and watching this young girl with leering, wolfish eyes that betrayed a darker purpose even though they were all smiles, thumping on the table, encouraging her as she drank dry a flagon of ale.

No, she did not look like one of the women who usually frequented the tavern, but it seemed she was determined to act like one of them. The flagon was about as big as she was, and as she wiped her hand across her mouth and hammered it to the table, the men responded with cheers, shouting for another one and no doubt pleased to see her wobble slightly on her stool. Probably couldn’t believe their luck. Pretty little thing like that.

I watched as they let the girl drink yet more ale with the same tumult accompanying her success, then as she did the same as before, and wiped her hand across her mouth, but with an even more pronounced wobble this time, a look passed between them. A look that seemed to say,
The Job Is Done
.

Tom and Julian stood, and they began, in their words, to “escort” her to the door, because, “You’ve had too much to drink, my lovely, let’s get you home, shall we?”

“To bed,” smirked Seth, thinking he was saying it under his breath even though the whole tavern heard him. “Let’s be getting you to bed.”

I passed a look to the barman, who dropped his eyes and used his apron to blow his nose. A customer sat down the bar from me turned away. Bastards. Might as well have looked to the cat for help, I thought; then with a sigh I banged down my tankard, stepped off my stool and followed the Cobleighs into the road outside.

I blinked as I stepped from the darkness of the tavern into bright sunlight. My cart was there, roasting in the sun; beside it another one that I took to belong to the Cobleighs. On the other side of the road was a yard with a house set far back, but no sign of a farmer. We were alone on the highway: just me, the two Cobleighs, Julian and the girl, of course.

“Well, Tom Cobleigh,” I said, “the things you see on a fine afternoon. Things like you and your cronies getting drunk and getting a poor defenceless young woman even drunker.”

The girl sagged as Tom Cobleigh let go her arm and turned to address me, his finger already raised.

“Now just you stay out of this, Edward Kenway, you young good-for-nothing. You’re as drunk as I am and yer morals just as loose. I don’t need to be given a talking to by the likes of you.”

Seth and Julian had turned as well. The girl was glazed over, like her mind had gone to sleep even if her body was still awake.

“Well”—I smiled—“loose morals I might have, Tom Cobleigh, but I don’t need to pour ale down a girl’s throat before taking her to bed, and I certainly don’t need two others to help me at the task.”

Tom Cobleigh reddened. “Why, you cheeky little bastard, you. I’m going to put her on my cart is what I’m going to do, and take her home.”

“I have no doubt that you intend to put her on your cart and take her home. It’s what you plan to do between putting her on the cart and reaching home that concerns me.”

“That
concerns
you, does it? A broken nose and a couple of broken ribs will be concerning you unless you mind your own bloody business.”

Squinting, I glanced at the highway, where trees bordering the dirt track shone gold and green in the sun, and in the distance was a lone figure on a horse, shimmering and indistinct.

I took a step forward, and if there had been any warmth or humour in my manner, then it disappeared, almost of its own accord. There was a steeliness in my voice when I next spoke.

“Now you just leave that girl alone, Tom Cobleigh, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

The three men looked at one another. In a way they’d done as I asked. They’d let go of the girl, and she seemed almost relieved to slide to her haunches, placing one hand on the ground and looking at us all with bleary eyes, evidently oblivious to all this being discussed on her behalf.

Meanwhile I looked at the Cobleighs and weighed up the odds. Had I ever fought three at once? Well, no. Because if you were fighting three at once, then you weren’t so much fighting as getting beaten up. But come on, Edward Kenway, I told myself. Yes, on the one hand it was three men, but one of them was Tom Cobleigh, who was no spring chicken, about my father’s age. Another one was Seth Cobleigh, who was Tom Cobleigh’s son. If you can imagine the kind of person who would help his father get a young girl drunk, well, then you can imagine that sort of person Seth Cobleigh was, which was to say a maggoty, underhand type, more likely to run away from a fight with wet breeches than stand his ground. And what’s more, they were drunk.

On the other hand I was drunk too. Plus they had Julian who, going on looks alone, could handle himself.

But I had another idea. That lone rider I could see in the distance. If I could just hold off the Cobleighs until he arrived, the odds were likely to shift back in my favour. After all, if he was of good character, the lone rider was bound to stop and help me out.

“Well, Tom,” I said, “you got the advantage over me, that’s obvious for anyone to see, but, you know, I just wouldn’t be able to look my mother in the eye knowing I’d let you and your cronies abduct this pretty young thing.”

I glanced up the road to where that lone rider was getting closer.
Come on then
, I thought.
Don’t hang about.

“So,” I continued, “even if you end up leaving me in a bloody heap by the side of this here road, and carry that young lassie off anyway, I’m going to have to do all that I can to make it as difficult for you as possible. And perhaps see to it that you go on your way with a black eye and maybe a pair of throbbing bollocks for your troubles.”

Tom Cobleigh spat, then peered at me through wizened, slitty eyes. “That’s it then, is it? Well are you just going to stand there talking about it all day, or are you going to attend to your task? Because time waits for no man . . .” He grinned an evil grin. “I’ve got people to see, things to do.”

“Aye, that’s right, and the longer you leave it, the more chance that poor lassie has of sobering up, eh?”

“I don’t mind telling you, I’m getting tired of all this talk, Kenway.” He turned to Julian. “How about we teach this little bastard a lesson? Oh, and one more thing before we start, Master Kenway. You ain’t fit to shine your mother’s shoes, you understand?”

That hit me hard, I don’t mind admitting. Having someone like Tom Cobleigh, who had all the morals of a frothing dog and about half the intelligence, able to reach into my soul as if my guilt were an open wound, then stick his thumb in that open wound and cause me even more pain, well, it certainly firmed up my resolve, if nothing else.

Julian pushed his chest forward and with a snarl advanced. Two steps away from me he raised his fists, dipped his right shoulder and swung. I don’t know who Julian was used to fighting outside taverns, but somebody with less experience than me, that’s for sure, because I’d already taken note of the fact that he was right-handed, and he couldn’t have made his intentions more obvious if he’d tried.

The dirt rose in clouds around my feet as I dodged easily and brought my own right up sharply. He shouted in pain as I caught him under the jaw. If it had just been him, the battle would have been won, but Tom Cobleigh was already upon me. From the corner of my eye I saw him but was too late to react and next thing you know I was dazed by knuckles that slammed into my temple.

I staggered slightly as I swung to meet the attack, and my fists were swinging much more wildly than I’d have liked. I was hoping to land a lucky blow, needing to put at least one of the men down to even up the numbers. But none of my punches made contact as Tom retreated, plus Julian had recovered from my first strike with alarming speed and came at me again.

His right came up and connected with my chin, spinning me about so that I almost lost my balance. My hat span off, my hair was in my eyes and I was in disarray. And guess who came in with his boots kicking? That worm Seth Cobleigh, shouting encouragement to his father and Julian at the same time. The little bastard was lucky. His boot caught me in the midriff and, already off balance, I lost my footing. And fell.

The worst thing you can do in a fight is fall. Once you fall it’s over. Through their legs I saw the lone rider up the highway, who had become my only chance at salvation, possibly my only hope of getting out of this alive. But what I saw made my heart sink. Not a man on a horse, a tradesman who would dismount and come rushing to my aid. No, the lone rider was a woman. She was riding astride the horse, not side-saddle, but despite that you could see she was a lady. She wore a bonnet and a light-coloured summer dress, and the last thing I thought, before the Cobleigh boots obscured my view and the kicks came raining in, was that she was beautiful.

So what, though? Good looks weren’t going to save me at that moment.

“Hey,” I heard. “You three men. Stop what you’re doing right now.”

They turned to look up at her and removed their hats, shuffling in line to hide the sight of me, who lay coughing on the ground.

“What is going on here?” she demanded to know. From the sound of her voice I could tell she was young and while not high-born, definitely well-bred—too well-bred, surely, to be riding unaccompanied?

“We were just teaching this young man here some manners,” rasped Tom Cobleigh, out of breath. Exhausting business, it was, kicking me half to death.

“Well it doesn’t take three of you to do that, does it?” she replied. I could see her then, twice as beautiful as I’d first thought, as she glowered at the Cobleighs and Julian, who for their part looked thoroughly mollified.

She dismounted. “More to the point, what are you doing with this young lady here?” She indicated the girl, who still sat dazed and drunk on the ground.

“Oh, ma’am, begging your pardon, ma’am, but this is a young friend of ours who has had too much to drink,” Seth said.

The lady darkened. “She is most certainly
not
your young friend, she is a maidservant, and if I don’t get her back home before my mother discovers she’s absconded, then she will be an unemployed maidservant.”

She looked pointedly from one man to the next. “I know you men, and I think I understand exactly what has been going on here. Now, you will leave this young man alone and be on your way before I am of a mind to take this further.”

With much bowing and scraping, Julian and the Cobleighs clambered aboard their cart and were soon gone. Meanwhile the woman knelt to speak to me. Her voice had changed. She was softly spoken now and I heard concern. “My name is Caroline Scott, my family lives on Hawkins Lane in Bristol, let me take you back there and tend to your wounds.”

“I cannot, my lady,” I said, sitting up and trying to manage a grin. “I have work to do.”

She stood, frowning. “I see. Did I assess the situation correctly?”

I picked up my hat and began to brush the dirt from it. It was even more battered. “You did, my lady.”

“Then I owe you my thanks and so will Rose when she sobers up. She’s a wilful girl, not always the easiest of staff, but nevertheless, I don’t want to see her suffer for her impetuousness.”

She was an angel, I decided then, and as I helped them mount the horse, Caroline holding on to Rose, who lolled drunkenly over the neck of the horse, I had a sudden thought.

“Can I see you again, my lady? To thank you properly when I look a little more presentable, perhaps?”

She gave me a regretful look. “I fear my father would not approve,” she said, and with that shook the reins and left.

That night I sat beneath the thatch of our cottage, gazing out over the pastures that rolled away from the farm as the sun went down. Usually my thoughts would be of escaping my future.

That night I thought of Caroline. Caroline Scott of Hawkins Lane.

Two days later I woke up to the sound of screaming. In a rush I dragged my breeches on and hopped out of the room with my shirt unbuttoned, still pulling my boots on over bare feet. I knew that scream. It was my mother. Moments later her screams had died down to a sob, replaced by my father’s cursing. The soft cursing of a man who had been proved correct.

After my fight at the Auld Shillelagh I had returned inside the tavern in order to do something about my cuts and bruises. To numb the pain, so to speak. What better way of doing that than with a drink or two? Thus, when I’d eventually arrived home I’d been in a bit of a state. When I say “state,” I mean “state,” as in a man who looked as though he’d been in the wars—which I had, with bruises to my face and my neck, and my clothes ragged and torn. But also “state,” as in a man who had had far too much to drink.

Either one of these two things were likely to make Father angry, so we argued and I’m ashamed to say I used some choice language in front of my mother. Of course, Father was furious about that, and I felt the back of his hand for it. What had really enraged him was that the brawl, as he called it (because he wouldn’t accept that I’d been protecting a lady’s honour, and that he would have done the same in my position), had all taken place during the working day. What he saw was them, exhausted from their labours; me, getting drunk and into fights, sullying the good name of the Kenways, and in this particular case storing up even more trouble for the future.

“The Cobleighs.” He’d thrown up his hands in exasperation. “That lot of bad bloody eggs,” he said. “It would have to be them, wouldn’t it? They won’t let it go, you know that, don’t you?”

Sure enough, I rushed out to the front yard that morning, and there was Father, in his work clothes, comforting mother, who stood with her head buried into his chest, sobbing quietly, her back to what was on the ground.

My hand went to my mouth, seeing what had greeted them: two slaughtered sheep, their throats cut, laid side by side in the blood-darkened dust. They’d been placed there so we’d know they weren’t the victims of a fox or wild dog. So that we’d know the sheep had been killed for a reason.

A warning. Vengeance.

“The Cobleighs,” I spat, feeling rage bubble like fast-boiling water within me. With it came a sharp, stinging guilt. We all knew it was my actions that had caused this.

Father didn’t look at me. On his face was all the sadness and worry you’d expect. Like I say, he was a well-respected man, and he enjoyed the benefits of that respect; his relations even with his competitors were conducted with courtesy and respect. He didn’t like the Cobleighs, of course he didn’t—who did?—but he’d never had trouble before, either with them or anyone else. This was the first time. This was new to us.

“I know what you’re thinking, Edward,” he said. He couldn’t bear to look at me, I noticed, just stood holding Mother with his eyes fixed on some point in the distance. “But you can think again.”

“What am I thinking, Father?”

“You’re thinking it’s you who has brought this upon us. You’re thinking about having it out with the Cobleighs.”

“Well? What are
you
thinking? Just let them get away with it?” I indicated the two bleeding corpses on the dirt. Livestock destroyed. Livelihood lost. “They have to pay.”

“It can’t be done,” he said simply.

“What do you mean it can’t be done?”

“Two days ago, I was approached to join an organization—a Trade Organization, it was called.”

When I looked at my father, I wondered if I was seeing an older version of myself, and may God strike me down for thinking it, but I fervently hoped not. He’d been a handsome man once, but his face was lined and drawn. The wide brim of his felt hat covered eyes that were always turned down and tired.

“They wanted me to join,” he continued, “but I said no. Like most of the tradesmen in the area the Cobleighs have said yes. They enjoy the protection of the Trade Organization, Edward. Why else do you think they would do something so ruthless? They’re protected.”

I closed my eyes. “Is there anything we can do?”

“We continue as before, Edward, and hope that this is an end to it, that the Cobleighs will feel their honour has been restored.” He turned his tired, old eyes on me for the first time. There was nothing in them, no anger or reproach. Only defeat. “Now, can I trust you to get this cleared up, while I see to your mother?”

“Yes, Father,” I said.

He and Mother made their way back into the cottage.

“Father,” I called, as they reached the door, “why didn’t you join the Trade Organization?”

“You’ll learn one day, if you ever grow up,” he said, without turning.