Sleeper Monk

From the diaries of an anonymous Assassin ~ Great Britain, 1878.

Sir Edmund Willoughby Buckley, the eldest son of Sir Haytham Culverton Buckley and Lady Amelia Lucinda Buckley – Hannaford, was a passionate huntsman and ornithologist. From their modest estate, Sir Edmund would often be found stalking game or observing the bird population and keeping stats of this in a small notebook. He also enjoyed telling tales about these endeavours when he was in the company of friends and acquaintances.

Sir Edmund was also very fond of his mother. Lady Amelia was an extremely smart and resourceful woman, locally known to be a worthy conversationalist and source of wisdom. His father however was an obnoxious drunkard, and ever since he killed his son's fiancée in an unfortunate hunting accident, Edmund had harboured a deep hatred towards his father.

The Buckley family were also members of the British lodge of the Templar Order. In fact, Sir Haytham was named after Haytham Kenway, a well-known Templar Grand Master from the previous century. British Templars, I will add, are known to be extremely privileged and arrogant types with a great air of elitism and exclusivity. Prominent members from the Mediterranean area for example, are generally known to be flashy and hedonistic, showing their wealth openly and enjoying their riches. In Britain it's more common for the inner circle to maintain a veil of secrecy and keep away from the public in their private homes and venues, to discuss matters from an ivory tower and feel elevated above the peasantry. Perhaps it's something in our culture that makes us enjoy the feel of seclusion and conspiracy away from the public eye.

Either way, it's a practise that forces us, Assassins, to adopt similar tactics and rely on infiltration, undercover operations and espionage to maintain knowledge of the Templars' moves. That's how we also obtain such secondary and personal knowledge of types like the Buckley family. Like how I learned that once, when Sir Edmund was still a young boy he happened to snoop through the stables of the Buckley estate and walk in on a servant boy and a girl from the village making love in the hay. Rumour told that Buckley senior, had punished his son severely for this accidental confrontation with female nudity and the fleshly lusts. It led me to believe that maybe Edmund's dislike of his father even preceded that fatal hunting accident. And curiously, when Sir Haytham died from a stroke, his son all of a sudden became a rising star within the order. It was rumoured that Edmund was held back all that time by his abusive and dominant father. The order had patiently waited for this moment, to get the incompetent booze hound out of the way and allow Edmund, who fortunately was a lot more like his mother, to take over. Within years the prodigal son was second in command, reporting directly to the Grand Master.

You can imagine our surprise when the news came through that, only another couple of years later, he had stepped down and joined a monastery, somewhere in the Irish countryside. Had Edmund Buckley really resigned from his position as aide-de-camp of the British Templars? Or was this part of a secret operation of some sorts? The latter seemed unlikely. If they wanted to infiltrate or insert a spy somewhere for some reason, it would be a queer choice to pick such a high ranking member. Additionally, it wouldn't be the first time something like this happened. On both sides people would retire at some point. On rare occasions even defect. It wasn't very common, but it happened. Our Assassin Mentor, however, did not trust the situation one bit and sent a message to a local bureau in Ireland. It came with the request to dispatch someone to investigate the situation. That someone was me.

The assignment seemed relatively easy, but could turn out as something even more mind numbing than some of routine tasks that had to be carried out every day. Some Assassins are constantly at the front lines; others are occupied with legal or administrative work or responsible for research and intelligence. Some are even just associates, maintaining a day job or doing only practical labour for us, unaware even of the order's actual agenda. But my task looked even more mundane than that, the day I started it. In order to observe and see if Edmund Buckley was genuinely now a former Templar, or taking part in a larger scheme, it was my job to join the monastery as well and keep an eye on him in the years to follow.

"We believe that Sir Edmund has left the Templar order for good", said the local bureau agent to me. "But the mentor doesn't want to take risks and trusts that for everyone's safety we should keep a close eye on him in the coming years. The only way to do this securely and with no risk of arousing suspicion is to have someone join the monk's order as well, and remain undercover until we can rule out any double agenda on his side."

That was decided and it didn't cross my mind to turn the task down. I was young, ambitious and willing to prove myself. The assignment sounded horrible, boring and useless because it was so unlikely Edmund Buckley was actually undertaking something. I would just wither away between the walls of the monastery and life would forget about me.

The first year was a living hell. I couldn't get used to the monotony and simplicity of life as a monk. Maybe the worst of it all was the quietness. Our order was allowed to speak, but it was generally understood to keep this to a minimum. All I heard for months were the birds outside in the yard, the hollow footsteps echoing through the stone corridors and the singing during every service. Actually, the chanting felt as if it was always there. From the chapel the fluent, soothing voices carrying the hymns would travel through the hallways, and like one soft tone fill the air. Like an omnipresent being it attached itself to the walls and even if you heard a breeze of wind coming from outside, you'd swear it carried another flock of sound from the choir.

Often it felt as if the walls were closing in at me. I wanted to run out of the building and throw off my robes. The moments in my private room were even worse. A bed, a desk and a window were all I had. The blue sky reminded me of my lost freedom and with nothing to do but read I often couldn't sleep and lay awake staring at the ceiling for hours.

I later realised that the first year was a period of time my being needed to get rid of all earthly and common needs and drifts. Slowly but surely I had adjusted to the orderly life and now felt calmness and balance. The simple life and the routine tasks became a perfect way of channelling my concentration. I started to enjoy work around the monastery, like maintaining the garden, aiding in the kitchen or doing other practical work. My moments of solitude, I used to overthink the Assassin's Creed, and my role in it. I kept my body trained by offering my help in physical tasks and silently practising my fighting moves before going to bed. My mental rest helped me to concentrate and perfect the equilibrium between body and mind.

Hidden under a flagstone next to my bed was my Assassin blade, securely stowed away in a small wooden box. Every so often I would carefully retrieve it and make sure it was still working well. I oiled and polished the spring mechanism, sharpened the blade and practised its use. Years would pass and maybe I would never need it, but it was ready, in case I did.

My only connection to the outside world was the pigeons that delivered messages from the bureau. They wouldn't come very often - only if there were political events or other important matters that they wanted me to be informed of. Sometimes there were updates about the life and actions of other assassins, but always minimal and cryptic. I knew that one day, a pigeon could come and carry an order to assassinate Edmund Buckley. It was also possible that they would tell me my mission was terminated and I could come home. Either would mean my time in the monastery would be over. It was a strange thought that such a message could come tomorrow, or in another few years. Every time a pigeon landed in the window of my private room I briefly thought about it.

I wasn't actually honest about my connection to the outside world. Once in a while, two monks would go into a local town for a supply run. The monastery was largely self reliant, but some goods were hard to come by and were purchased from local businesses. At such times a large wagon was taken down the forest lane, and brought back produce and materials for the next few weeks. It was also a moment to catch up on some of the recent happenings in the area as most tradesmen were in for a little chat. These talks would also confront me sometimes with the secluded life I lived. Not only from residing in a remote abbey, but also being stuck somewhere between the green hills of rural Ireland. Sometimes travellers or mercenaries that stayed at the local inn would bring back stories of steam powered railways, ongoing war between the Prussians and France or the lucrative opportunities of the recent Ottoman skirmishes with Russia. I was realising how little I knew about this fast changing world. If I should ever return to regular life, things would not be same anymore. Nations united, overseas colonies expanded. The monastery felt like a time capsule, standing still in the whirlwind of change and development.

I believe that more than five years had gone by when, on a chilly morning in November, a pigeon landed on the window sill of my room. My heart skipped a beat. I felt a calm sort of sensation inside me as I walked over and stroked the gentle bird's head and fed him some bread crumbs from my hand. This was it. I didn't know why, I didn't know how I could tell, but I knew this was the moment. I was ready. I had found the focus, the mental readiness and determination to execute now.

"Sir Edmund Buckley." the note said. Just that. That was the common practise for the Assassins to confirm that someone had to die. I held the note in the flame of a nearby candle and watched the ashes twirl down for a second, before I retrieved my bracer from underneath the flagstone and strapped it tightly to my right wrist. The pigeon meanwhile shook his head and brushed through his feathers, like birds so often do, and then fluttered off to a tree that stood near the wall of the abbey. On its way it lost a single feather that landed on the window sill. I smiled at the sight and picked it up. In medieval times it was common that an Assassin took a small white feather whenever he or she went out to assassinate a target. With the feather tucked away and my monk's hood pulled over my head I stepped outside the room and went to find Edmund Buckley.

The wooden beams of the chapel creaked violently under my weight. There was no service going on, and my target and myself were the only present people in the room. Sir Edmund, or Brother Rudolph, as he was known these days, stood near the altar. I estimated the distance between us and considered my options. Leap to the next beam and plummet down on him? Or seek lower ground here, and silently approach him from behind? The kill would only take a second, but a moment of panic or a faint noise could ruin all my careful planning. I sprang my hidden blade, just to make sure it functioned. Then suddenly the feather, tucked away in the sleeve of my robe, fell out and slowly floated downwards. A cold shiver run down my arm. This could be that fatal mistake.

As fate would have it, the feather landed right next to Edmund, who was lighting some candles but who stopped once the pigeon plumage met the stone floor.

"Well done, Assassin."

His voice was soft and calm, but the acoustics of the chapel made it sound like a rolling thunder. None of us moved for the next few seconds. A sour taste ran up my throat - what the devil went wrong here? Since my target didn't seem to be making an attempt at escape, I dropped down from the beam and pulled down my hood. Buckley turned around and waited for me with a patient smile on his face. He looked remarkable peaceful and at ease.

"Sometimes birds get in here, I captured a sparrow once and let the poor thing out. A pigeon is not likely to get through though. Crows make nests in the clocktower sometimes but pigeons usually pick lower places. I knew it had to be you. Besides, I've seen a lonely pigeon flying back and forth between the monastery sometimes over the last few years. I guessed it had to be an Assassin informant that resided here."

"You are an ornithologist", I said. "That's why you noticed."

"That's true", said Edmund Buckley.

"Sharp senses are not a common Templar trait though", I continued. "Your visions are blurred by greed and hunger for control."

"Maybe it's because I'm not a Templar anymore. I retired", said Buckley. "Well, I thought I did. I wanted peace and quietness, I wanted to get away from my previous life. My father left me with a horrific view of the Templar Order, but when he died I thought I could make it better."

"You never could," I said sharply.

"Indeed", said Buckley and nodded. "I discovered how corrupted it was, how cynical and rotten to the core. That's why I joined this order, a genuine decision to leave it all behind. Until I discovered that our abbot is actually a Templar. And then I started to suspect you were here. I felt bitter and betrayed, decided that apparently there was no way to leave it behind after all."

The monk produced a piece of neatly folded parchment from his sleeve, opened it up and showed me the contents. A list of names, from the looks of it.

"Last week when it was my turn to go for supplies, I briefly spoke with a Templar agent in town. A moment of weakness, fuelled by my cynicism. He gave me this list and told me to hand it over to the abbot. The names on the list are of people sympathetic to the Templar cause, and they are to receive funding from church sources. The abbot would take care of that. The Templars still have a pretty strong grip on church affairs here, unlike in England."

"An Assassin spy must have spotted you", I said, "that's why I received the order to kill you."

Edmund nodded and then handed me the paper, he was still looking just as calm and collected.

"Take this, do some good with it. I'm not the one you're after, you want to take out the abbot."

"Are you...defecting?" I asked, giving him a sideways look as I carefully took the paper and folded it.

"No", said Edmund, "I just want to stay out of everything. But I do think you're on the right side."

Later that day I found myself shuffling through the corridors of the building that had been my home for so many years. Until today. These were my last actions as sleeper agent in Ireland, as undercover Assassin in this peaceful abbey. It was time for my last deed and then I was to disappear and not come back.

The clocktower was chiming, groups of monks were moving through the hallways, heading to the chapel to attend service. Blending in between a few of them I slowly meandered forwards. At the entrance of the chapel stood the abbot, seeing to his flock moving into the place of worship. He smiled and nodded as they entered one by one. Not aware of his true identity, the members of this quiet order assumed it just another day of solitude, isolation from the outside world, and dedication to their faith. Today an end would be made to a phantom force that held this abbey in an iron grasp.

I gently pushed someone in front of me aside, just a friendly nudge to the shoulder. It took me two large steps to reach the abbot, seize him by the throat and push him against the wooden door of the chapel. The hidden blade sprang swiftly, oiled and polished for so many years. My footsteps had been silent, my moves swift and my pacing perfect. It took only a few seconds for the iron blade to be thrust through the Templar's heart. But for what seemed like ages, I looked him in the eye and saw his shock and bewilderment.

"Assassin!" he spat, voice troubled because of the blood that filled his throat. Everything around me was silent. No chiming bells, no monks, no echoing sounds through the stone walls.

"You trusted the wrong man to stay loyal to you", I hissed. "But this place makes a man think, reflect upon himself and realise where his heart really belongs."

"Sheep to the slaughter", the false abbot retorted. "Nobody ever doubted my ways, until your meddlesome lot defiled the serenity of this holy place."

"If serenity was a hypnosis, an evil spell keeping innocents under your command under false pretence, then you're right."

I looked at my victim one more time. "Rest in peace."

With a blast of sound I was back in the real world, bells were chiming, people around me shouted out in horror or stood frozen on the spot. The abbot lay dead at my feet. Without delaying another second I dashed into the chapel. From one of the wooden benches I leapt to the wall, took two steps upwards, pulled myself up by a loose brick and landed on a wooden beam. From there I took three jumps up towards the ceiling, swung myself towards one of the larger windows and from its framework climbed up into the clock tower. Below me a growing group of monks gathered round the lifeless body of the Templar. Meanwhile I snuck through one of the alcoves and emerged on the outside, where a crow hastily flew off. I looked over the green hills and fields of grain, spotting the village in the distance and a small forest in front of it. Down below stood a wagon full of hay. The bells had stopped chiming and I heard only the soft rustling of the wind when I dropped down and landed in the wagon.

"You did very important work."

It was the next day, somewhere in Ireland in an Assassin hideout. I had reported on my actions and handed over the list that Sir Edmund, Brother Rudolph, had given me.

"The mentor will be extremely pleased. A courier is on his way to inform her."

"I'm glad", I said. "Any other news?"

"Yes. Lady Amelia, Sir Edmund's mother, defected to our side."

"Doesn't surprise me", I said.