Ubisoft of course owns, and holds all the rights to Assassin's Creed and its characters.This is a work of fiction; however, most of the characters in this story have existed and have to some capacity or another taken part of events during, and leading up to, the French revolution. While trying to stay true to historical events and persons of historical significance I claim no knowledge as to their true characters and/or intents and a lot of artistic freedom will surely be taken with both.
I am certainly of various cultures and variously certain of my religious beliefs.
All kinds of constructive feed-back, suggestions and opinions are welcome and appreciated. Neither English nor French is my first language so if something grammatically, or otherwise, bugs the hell out of you, feel free to share it with me.
Chapter 1: MOÏNEAU, PART I
VERSAILLES, FRANCE, May 1789
"C'est des conneries!" I curse furiously as the shimmering fabric of my ridiculous pigeon grey skirts tangle in the step to the blasted carriage, and all but send me sprawling on my nose in the pristine gravel of the courtyard.
A strong arm around my waist saves me at the very last moment, swinging me around and placing me on the ground in one smooth motion, landing me face to face with a smiling Louis Philippe d'Orléans. "You are not a lady at all, are you, Jeanne?" he asks as he bends to kiss the back of my hand playfully, mischievous laughter dancing in his periwinkle eyes.
The duke is a year or so younger than me and certainly good-looking enough, with his dark wavy hair and smiling eyes, to make my heart skip half a beat, if I had any time or interest in having my heart do anything, which I do not. Ever the soldier; in spite of, as far as I am aware – and I pride myself in knowing pretty much everything – never having seen a single second of action; he is garbed in a ceremonial uniform worthy of his station, if not entirely suited for the field of battle; a snug, sharply cut jacket of purest white reaching all the way to his knees, covered with golden embroidery; a crest of gold and black on his chest, marking him prince du sang, of royal blood and in line for the throne – if far down the line – matching trousers and polished knee-high, black boots. Despicably comfortable looking.
I flash him a grin. Here I am, standing next to one of the most eligible bachelors in all of France and I wish nothing more than to knock him out and steal his outfit; what does that say about me? I wonder. "But I certainly claim to be," I retort, tilting my head coquettishly and fluttering dark lashes at him.
"If you don't mind me saying; you make a poor actress," he teases.
"If you don't mind me asking; were you invited?" I return with a disarming smile. The hostility between the King and his cousin, the duke d'Orléans, Philippe´s father, is well-known and I highly doubt any formal invitations were sent out.
Philippe chuckles, "touché, you got me; I am an infamous party crasher," he admits, and, keeping his hand shamelessly on my lower back, he guides me towards the gardens, where a curious mixture of politicians and courtiers have gathered for the opening of the first États-Généraux in more than a hundred and fifty years. Somewhere around two-thousand people flock around the grand fountains of the terrace, most of them men in the black robes of the third estate; wealthy merchants, landowners and entrepreneurs representing the interests of the common people; or nobility, but a disturbingly large part seem to be clergy, and I've had enough of priests to last me a life time. The air is filled with the buzz of a hundred or more conversations being carried out all at once and the scent of perfume and flowers is heavy despite the soft summer breeze.
Striding towards the crowd, Philippe accepts a glass of champagne and grins widely as I take one of my own, "I am fairly certain young ladies are not meant to consume alcohol."
"And I'm fairly certain young men aren't meant to wear quite that much embroidery," I give his jacket a meaningful glance. Of all the dolled up, inbred princelings, why does this one have to see right through me? I sigh; fortunately he has no idea what it is he's actually seeing.
Smiling he takes a deep breath, sucking air into his lungs theatrically; "can you feel it Jeanne?" he asks, sweeping his free arm out and crushing me closer in and enthusiastic, one-armed embrace; "smells like change!"
The worried lump I've been doing my best to keep in check ever since my departure from Italy makes itself known in the pit of my stomach. I sure hope not; is what I want to say, instead I snort, in an all but lady-like manner; "all I smell; is perfume."
"No head for politics, this one," Philippe smirks, nudging one of his friends, who conveniently joins us as we reach the edge of the well-groomed lawn.
If you only knew, I stifle a mock yawn, "it bores me infinitely."
He chuckles, "Eleuthère du Pont, meet the enigmatic, and it would seem; severely bored mademoiselle Jeanne Grey."
"English?" du Pont questions, surprise clear on his dull face. I've never met him before and from the look of him I can't say I care to again, but his last name sounds vaguely familiar.
"Inventive," I respond, quite honestly, giving Philippe a cheeky smile, before quickly adding: "and unfortunately departing." I'm in a definite hurry to get on with the business of the day – it's going to be a long one – and not in the slightest interested in having to go into the tedious details of my made up heritage.
Unceremoniously I break away from their bemused cheer and excited remarks about the days to come, making my way westward, through the park. Keeping my eyes firmly locked on the gravel I smoothly avoid any and all polite conversation as I abandon my champagne on an empty square inch of tablecloth and melt into the crowd. In this vast ocean of robes and powdered wigs, lace and flowers, gold and garnets; no one pays any heed to my passage; here I am just another shape in a skirt, another colour in a rainbow.
And thus I proceed, without incident; weaving between groups of chattering men and women until I spot Danton and Bernadotte up ahead, in the company of a third man I can't quite place, and am forced to stop short. Danton is sinking his teeth into a delicate pastry, politely waiting for Bernadotte to smile at the young woman on his arm as she comments on their conversation. The third man´s eyes are wandering the people around their little party impatiently from deep within his pale hood, clearly waiting for someone else to join them, and for a moment he lingers on me. Something in his hard, granite stare causes me to freeze for the space of a heartbeat; before he continues his sweep of the crowd as if nothing happened; yet I am left with an uncomfortable naked feeling and for a second I could have sworn he knew me, knew what and who I was, simply from looking at me.
Who is he?! I ransack my brain for any trace of the man, but no matter how hard I try, there is nothing; I've never seen him before in my life. I would not have forgotten those eyes, even if he changed out of his peculiar hooded ensemble they would still remain, and even if the – in present company – plain wardrobe choice wasn't a factor; the way he's standing sets him apart from those around him. He's on full alert, tense as a bowstring; waiting for something to happen; what I am not sure, but it's making my skin crawl. The man makes me nervous, and I can't afford to be nervous.
Determined not to call any undue attention to myself, I fall in with a group of women my own age as they cross the emerald grass; backs as straight as iron rods and eyes cast down in coy shyness. Imitated or otherwise, their posturing suits me perfectly as I take extra care to walk close enough to appear part of their blushed tittering, yet far enough away not to have to take part of any discussions on the topic of the Queen´s latest fashion whims.
I allow the shadow of a grin to enter my face as I pass close enough to reach out and pull his hood back – should I have felt the urge to – and no more than an arm's-length from his companions; two men I've conversed with on numerous occasions; without so much as a raised brow. This may almost have passed for pleasurable, if not for the sharp whalebone digging its way into my right side and, along with its fellows, severely limiting my breathing capacity, and this abominable dress, and Philippe´s whole change thing, and the hooded man´s eyes; fine, not so pleasurable.
Being away from this place, from this world, for any substantial amount of time, I always seem to forget its many discomforts – and they are many – in favour of the things I miss. Speaking of which; a small hand sneaks its way into mine, grabbing a firm hold of my thumb and forefinger. Realising I must have been quite distracted indeed to allow him to creep up on me I break away from the other women with a laugh, bending down to scoop the angelic child off the ground; his golden curls float around his face in a halo, mingling with my dark locks as I spin us around, and his soft, round cheeks blush a rosy pink as I plant a kiss on each in turn. People turn to stare in surprise, including the hooded man and his companions, but I hardly notice, and it hardly matters anyway. A shadow could not remain stealthy while holding the hand of Louis-Charles, second son to the King of France, and yet he is the perfect disguise, because not a soul will think twice about the personal business of the prince´s caregiver. Their loss.
"Bienvenua à la maison!" the boy exclaims, his large blue eyes smiling down at me.
"It is good to be home," I agree, and for the first time since my hurried return, I truly mean it.
Pursing his cherry lips in feigned displeasure he says: "you did not come see me."
"I have yet to be back a full minute, and you were at the very top of my list, I assure you," I promise grandly as I let him rest comfortably on my hip, at least you were at the top of my personal list. If one can ever really choose a favourite among loved ones he is mine; with his infinite curiosity and big bright eyes he sees the world through child hoods carefree summer-haze, being second in line to his older brother he holds none of the burden of responsibility, yet all of the freedom privilege entrails.
His little brow furrows and he regards me gravely: "you lie, Moineau."
"Oh?" I can't help but smile at his serious expression.
"Oui, you are here to see…" he bends closer to whisper conspiratorially into my ear; "…Papa."
"Oui," I admit, giving him a wink, "you are a clever boy, Louis-Charles, not a lot gets passed you. However; I told his Majesty to wait, 'I have more important business'; is what I said."
He puts his small hand over my mouth, holding it shut for me, "every word you say is a lie," he remarks between rippling waves of laughter.
"Not the important ones."
He pats me thoughtfully; "I have missed you, Moineau, you will not leave again," he decides, and while his cherubic smile warms me, the way he strokes my hair, like the fur of a favoured pet, sends a chill down my spine.
Suppressing my unease, I take the boy´s hand, entwining our fingers, "not today," I promise, smiling as I return his feet to the ground. I know it is not his intention to cause me discomfort and if I tried to explain it he would likely not understand; because, at the heart of it, in his eyes there is no difference between me and the pet; we are both here at his beck and call – or at the beck and call of his father as it were – and he loves us both. But, just as naturally, he knows he is more than we are, worth more; by will of God and man alike. At least God is keeping with his part of the bargain; man, however, might need a bit of a reminder. Which, I suppose, is where I come in.
I crouch down to speak next to his ear, "do you know where I may find his Majesty?"
"Oui," he consents, nodding sagely, "I will take you."