20 JANUARY 1793.

i In the street in Versailles was a cart I recognized. Harnessed to it a horse I knew. I dismounted, tethered Scratch to the cart, loosened his saddle, gave him water, nuzzled my head to his.

I took my time making Scratch comfortable, partly because I love Scratch and he deserves all the attention I give him and more, and partly because I was stalling, wanting to put off the moment I faced the inevitable.

The outside wall showed signs of neglect. I wondered which of our staff had been responsible for it when we all lived here. The gardeners, probably. Without them the walls ran thick with moss and ivy, the tendrils reaching up to the top of the walls like veins on the stone.

Set into the wall was an arched gate I knew well, yet which seemed unfamiliar. At the mercy of the elements the wood had begun to mottle and pale. Where once the door had looked grand, now it looked merely sad.

I opened the gate and entered the courtyard of my childhood home.

Having witnessed the devastation at the villa in Paris, I suppose I was at least mentally prepared. Yet still I found myself stifling a sob to see flower beds choked with spindly weeds, the benches overgrown. On a step by a set of drooping shutters sat Jacques, who brightened on seeing me. Jacques rarely spoke; the most animated I ever saw him was deep in hushed conversation with Helene, and he didn't need to speak now. Just indicated behind himself, into the house.

Inside were boards across the windows, the furniture mostly overturned, the same sad story I was seeing so much now, only this time it was even sadder because the house was my childhood home and each smashed pot and splintered chair held a memory for me. As I stepped through my wrecked childhood home I heard the sound of our old upright clock, a noise so familiar and redolent of my childhood that it hit me with all the strength of a slap, and for a second I stood in the empty hallway, where my boots crunched on floors that had once been polished to a high shine, and stifled a sob.

A sob of regret and nostalgia. Maybe even a little guilt.

ii I came out onto the terrace and gazed out upon the sweeping lawns, once landscaped, now overgrown and unkempt. About two hundred yards away, Mr. Weatherall sat on the slope, his crutches splayed on either side.

"What are you doing?" I said, coming to join him.

He'd started a little as I sat but regained his composure and gave me a long, appraising look.

"I was heading for down the bottom of the south lawn, where we used to train. Trouble is, when I pictured myself being able to make it there and back, I pictured the lawns looking like they used to, but then I arrived and found them like this, and suddenly it's not so easy."

"Well, this is a nice spot."

"Depends on the company," he said with a sardonic smile.

There was a pause.

"Sneaking out like that . . ." he said.

"I'm sorry."

"I knew you were going to do it, you know. I haven't known you since you were but a child without learning something about a certain look that comes into your eyes. Well, you're alive at least. What you been up to?"

"I went for a ride in a hot-air balloon with Arno."

"Oh yes? And how did that go?"

He saw me blush. "It was very nice, thank you."

"So you and him . . ."

"I would say so."

"Well, that's something, then. Can't have you being lovelorn. What about"-he spread his hands-"everything else. You learn anything?"

"Plenty. Many of those who plotted against my father have already answered for their crimes. Plus I now know the ident.i.ty of the man who ordered his murder, the new Grand Master."

"Pray tell."

"The new Grand Master, the architect of the takeover, is Francois Thomas Germain."

Mr. Weatherall made a hissing noise. "Of course."

"You said he was cast out of the Order . . ."

"He was. Our friend Germain was an adherent of Jacques de Molay, first-ever Grand Master. Molay died screaming at the stake in 1314, raining curses down on anyone in the near vicinity. Master de Molay is the sort of bloke n.o.body can decide on, but that was an argument you had to have in private back then because showing support for his ideas was heresy.

"And Germain-Germain was a heretic. He was a heretic who had the ear of the Grand Master. To end the dissension he was expelled. Your father had begged Germain to come back into line and his heart was heavy to expel Germain. The Order was told that any man standing by him would be exiled as well. Long afterward his death was announced, but by then he was just a bad memory anyway. Not so, eh? Germain had been rallying support, controlling things behind the scenes, gradually rewriting the manifesto. And now he's in charge, and the Order scratches its heads and wonders how we moved from unswerving support of the king to wanting him dead, and the answer is that it happened because there was n.o.body to oppose it. Checkmate." Mr. Weatherall smiled. "You've got to give it to the lad."

"I shall give him my sword in his gut."

"And how will you do that?"

"Arno has discovered that Germain intends to be present at the execution of the king tomorrow."

Mr. Weatherall looked sharply at me. "The execution of the king? Then the a.s.sembly has reached its verdict already?"

"Indeed it has. And the verdict is death."

Mr. Weatherall shook his head. The execution of the king. How had we arrived here? As journeys go, I suppose the final leg had begun in the summer of last year when twenty thousand Parisians signed a pet.i.tion calling for a return of rule by the royal family. Where once there had been talk of revolution, now the talk was of counterrevolution.

Of course the Revolution wasn't having that, so on 10 August the a.s.sembly had decided to march on the Palace at Tuileries, where the king and Marie Antoinette had been staying ever since their undignified exile from Versailles almost three years before.

Six hundred of the king's Swiss Guard lost their lives in the battle, the final stand of the king. Six weeks later the monarchy was abolished.

Meanwhile, there were uprisings against the revolution in Brittany and Vendee, and on 2 September, the Prussians took Verdun, causing panic in Paris when stories began to circulate that the Royalist prisoners would be released from prison and take b.l.o.o.d.y revenge on members of the Revolution. I suppose you'd have to say that the ma.s.sacres that followed were an attempt at preemption, but ma.s.sacres they were, and thousands of prisoners were slaughtered.

And then, the king went on trial, and today it had been announced that he should die by the guillotine tomorrow.

"If Germain is there, then I shall be there, too," I told Mr. Weatherall now.

"Why is that, then?"

"To kill him."

Mr. Weatherall squinted. "I don't think this is the way, Elise," he said.

"I know," I said tenderly, "but you realize I have no other choice."

"What's more important to you?" he asked, testily. "Revenge or the Order?"

I shrugged. "When I achieve the first, the second will fall into place."

"Will it? You think so, do you?"

"I do."

"Why? All you'll be doing is killing the current Grand Master. You're as likely to be tried for treachery as welcomed back into the fold. I've sent appeals all over. To Spain, Italy, even America. I've had murmurs of sympathy but not a single pledge of support in return, and do you know why that is? It's because to them the fact that the French Order is running smoothly makes your dismissal of marginal interest.

"Besides, we can be sure that Germain has used his own networks. He'll have a.s.sured our brothers overseas that the overthrow was necessary and that the French Order is in good hands.

"We can a.s.sume also that the Carrolls will be poisoning the well wherever their name bears standing. You cannot do this without support, Elise, and the fact is you have no support, yet even knowing that, you plan to carry on regardless. Which tells me that this isn't about the Order, it's about revenge. Which tells me I'm sitting next to a suicidal fool."

"I will have support," I insisted.

"And where will that come from, Elise, do you think?"

"I had hoped to form an alliance with the a.s.sa.s.sins," I said.

He gave a start, then shook his head sadly. "Making peace with the a.s.sa.s.sins is fanciful stuff, child. It'll never happen, no matter what your friend Haytham Kenway says in his letters. Mr. Carroll was right about that. You might as well ask a mongoose and a snake to take afternoon tea."

"You can't believe that."

"I don't just believe it, I know it, child. I love you for thinking otherwise, but you're wrong."

"My father thought otherwise."

He sighed. "Any truce your father brokered was a temporary one. He knew it, like we all do. There never will be peace."

21 JANUARY 1793.

i It was cold. Biting cold. And our dragon breath hung in the air in front of us as we stood on the Place de la Concorde, which was to be the site of the king's execution.

The square was full. It felt as though the whole of Paris, if not the whole of France, had gathered to watch the king die. As far as the eye could see were people who just a year ago would have sworn fealty to the monarch but were now readying their handkerchiefs to dip in his blood. They clambered onto carts to get a better view, children teetering on their fathers' shoulders, young women doing the same as they sat astride husbands or lovers.

Around the edges of the square merchants had set up stalls and were not shy about calling out to advertise them, every one an "execution special." In the air was an atmosphere I could only describe as one of celebratory l.u.s.t for blood. You wondered whether they wouldn't have had enough of blood by now, these people, the people of France. Looking around, obviously not.

Meanwhile, the executioner was calling up prisoners to be beheaded. They cried and protested as they were dragged to the scaffold of the guillotine. The crowd called for their blood. They hushed in the moment before it was spilled and they cheered when it came spurting forth into a crisp January day.

ii "Are you sure Germain will be here?" I'd said to Arno when we arrived.

"I'm sure," he'd said, and we went our separate ways, and though the plan had been for us to locate Germain, in the end the treacherous ex-lieutenant had made his presence felt, clambering onto a viewing platform, surrounded by his men.

This was him, I thought, looking at him, the crowd seeming to fall away for a moment or so.

This was Francois Thomas Germain.

I knew it was him. He wore the robes of the Grand Master. And I wondered what bystanders thought, seeing this robed man take such an exalted viewing position? Did they see an enemy of the Revolution? Or a friend?

Or, as their faces were turned quickly away, as though not wanting to catch Germain's eye, did they just see a man to fear? Certainly he looked fearsome. He had a cruel, turned-down mouth and eyes that even from this distance I could see were dark and penetrating. There was something about his stare that was disquieting. His graying hair was tied back in a black bow and he was clad in the dark robes of a Templar Grand Master.

I seethed. These were robes I was used to seeing on my father. They had no place adorning the back of this imposter.

Arno had seen him, too, of course, and managed to come much closer to the platform. I watched as he approached the guards stationed at the foot of the stairs, whose job involved keeping the surge of people away from the platform. He spoke to one of them. There were shouts. My eyes went to Germain, who leaned over to see Arno, then indicated to the guards to let him up.

Meanwhile, I came as close to the platform as I dared. Whether Germain would recognize me I had no idea, but there were other familiar faces around. I couldn't afford to be seen.

Arno had reached the platform, joining Germain and standing by his side, the two of them looking out over the crowd toward the guillotine, which rose and fell, rose and fell . . .

"h.e.l.lo, Arno," I heard Germain say, but only just, and I risked raising my face to stare up at the platform, hoping that with a mix of reading the lips of the speakers and the wind in the right direction I could make out what they were saying.

"Germain," Arno said.

Germain indicated to him. "It's fitting you're here to see the rebirth of the Templar Order. After all, you were there for its conception."

Arno nodded. "Mr. de la Serre," he said simply.

"I tried to make him see." Germain shrugged. "The Order had become corrupt, clutching at power and privilege for their own sake. We forgot de Molay's teachings, that our purpose is to lead humanity into an age of order and peace."

On the stage the king had been brought up. And to give him his due, he faced his tormentors with his shoulders thrown back and his chin held high, proud to the very last. He began to give a speech he had no doubt rehea.r.s.ed in whatever rough surrounds he had been kept prior to his journey to the guillotine. But just as it came to delivering his final words, the drums started up, drowning them out. Brave, yes. But ineffectual to the very last.

Above me Arno and Germain continued to talk, Arno, I could see, trying to make sense of things.

"But you could set it right, is that it? All by killing the man in charge?"

The "man in charge"-my father. The surge of hatred I had experienced on first seeing Germain intensified. I longed to slide the blade of my sword between his ribs and watch him die on the cold stone, just as my father had done.

"The death of de la Serre was only the first stage," Germain said. "This is the culmination. The fall of a Church, the end of a regime . . . the death of a king."

"And what did the king do to you?" sneered Arno. "Cost you your job? Take your wife as a mistress?"

Germain was shaking his head as though disappointed with a pupil. "The king is merely a symbol. A symbol can inspire fear, and fear can inspire control-but men inevitably lose their fear of symbols. As you can see."

He was gesturing toward the scaffold, where the king, denied his final chance to recover some of his regal pride, had been forced down to his knees. His chin was fitted into the notched block, the skin of his neck was exposed for the waiting guillotine.

Germain said, "This was the truth de Molay died for: the Divine Right of Kings is nothing but the reflection of sunlight upon gold. And when Crown and Church are ground to dust, we who control the gold will decide the future."

There was a ripple of excitement around the crowd, which then fell to a hush. This was it. This was the moment. Looking over, I saw the guillotine blade shimmer, then drop with a soft thunk, followed by the sound of the king's head falling into the basket below the block.

There was a moment of silence in the courtyard, which was followed by a sound I would find difficult to identify at first, until, later, I recognized it for what it was. I recognized it from the Maison Royale. It was the sound a cla.s.sroom full of pupils makes when they realize they've gone too far, when a collective intake of breath says there's no going back. "That's torn it, there's going to be trouble now."

Speaking almost under his breath, Germain said, "Jacques de Molay, you are avenged," and I knew I was dealing with an extremist, fanatic, a madman. A man to whom human life had no cost other than its worth in the promotion of his own ideals, which, as the man in charge of the Templar Order, made him perhaps the most dangerous man in France.

A man who had to be stopped.

On the scaffold, Germain was turning to Arno.