The fence - pointed logs driven into the ground, one circle inside the other to provide a sheltered path for guards to walk - had it’s last post erected two hours ago. It was too high to climb, the scaffolding being kept internal. Stumps were unrooted from the trees that had dared to grow too close to the perimeter, and dragged inside to be chopped up for firewood. Charles oversaw the progress with great satisfaction.
A rig of pulleys and rope had been wrenched into place, teams of men heaving the gates upright, others using large mallets to bash the industrial nails into place, securing the marine hinges to the fence. Timber was not ideal, but it would do for now. Sandstone would be quarried locally, once he’d secured a trustworthy contractor (since the Babbington incident, Charles found himself even more hesitant to employ external help), and a proper wall would be built, like the castles of old.
It would still be a town, of course, but it would be a town with particularly thorough defences.
An almighty roar rose from the men as the gate creaked, and they strained to suspend it above the ground. The men with the mallets drove the nails home, fixing the gates. They cheered as it was finished, the men releasing the ropes. The gates moaned as they settled in their hinges.
Wood now. Sandstone and steel later.
*** When the Assassins finally convened, it was not in the darkness. They huddled in a marketplace, idly pretending to browse fruit, staying in motion to avoid eavesdroppers. Stephane did most of Duncan’s talking, the other man still quiet after his capture. Maybe it was shame, maybe it was fear, but he had eaten more than what he had at breakfast, so Stephane had to trust Duncan to speak up if something more sinister was at play.
Dobby leaned into a farmer’s stall and purchased some vegetables. She was toting a wicker basket with her, a slab of meat already in the bottom, wrapped in newspaper. Their den, small though it was, had a proper spit and they intended to have a good roast for dinner. She seemed unconcerned to the civilians around her, but the twitch in her right hand, wanting to go for her knife, was obvious to her fellow Assassins.
“I do not suppose that you managed to find out what Lee intends for Connor? Figurehead, trainer, slav-” she queried, for what had to be the seventh time since the conversation had started.
“No,” said Stephane, cutting her off.
They did not want to think of what Lee had forced Connor to do. The mere fact that Lee had slid so far into insanity to believe that transforming Connor into Haytham had been a rational idea was enough inspiration. Lee and Haytham’s relationship had been close, the Assassins knew that much. Turning to sodomy didn’t seem out of the question.
“There were more than five hundred men stationed there, and some families as well. They intend to stay.”
Grunting, Jacob passed some coin to the seller, discreetly hanging back a little from the main group. A military camp was one thing, but families were another. They did not kill the innocent. They were not Vikings that mindlessly pillaged and burned. They were not, and Jacob’s teeth bared at the thought, Templars.
“It is too many to go up against without knowing exactly how many civilians are in there,” sighed Clipper. “Their fortifications are increasing with every day that passes.”
He rubbed at his temples in exasperation. Taking on a fort was Connor’s forte, not his. Perhaps if there hadn’t been families, they would have been able to sneak in, but this was a whole new game.
Jamie spoke up, tugging at his hat, “We need to strike when they’re distracted. Make them laugh while we stab them in the gut. What is Lee preparing Connor for? Presumably a debut into society. Clearly Lee is allowing Connor control.”
“Haytham seemed to be in power when he visited me. He decided whether I lived or died,” said Duncan.
When the other turned their attention to Duncan, he glanced down, unable to bring forth a level of confidence that he had enjoyed previously.
“I cannot go with you,” he announced.
“But you know the-” began Stephane.
“Yes, I know, but I cannot go back. I am deeply sorry. I will help with your preparations,” said Duncan, lifting his head but staring at a point that was over Stephane’s shoulder. He gave them a wry smile, “Besides, someone has to look after the dens. I will need to check on the Homestead as well - Connor would not like it if his community had been abandoned for so long.”
Dobby huffed, but didn’t say anything. Duncan had a point - despite their desperate need for extra hands on the rescue mission, the Templars could and would easily retaliate by burning the Homestead to the ground. That wouldn’t help anyone, least of all Connor.
"It is better," agreed Jamie.
He gave Duncan a reassuring smile.
"Now," he continued. "About that distraction..."
***
A carriage rolled to a halt outside of a small shop. The driver hopped from his seat and removed his hat as he entered the shop. His assistant held the horses, and from the shop the first man emerged with four men in black and a grieving family, weeping for a man that met death too early.
Grief's Madness 11/? (TW: as above) also author can't count
A rig of pulleys and rope had been wrenched into place, teams of men heaving the gates upright, others using large mallets to bash the industrial nails into place, securing the marine hinges to the fence. Timber was not ideal, but it would do for now. Sandstone would be quarried locally, once he’d secured a trustworthy contractor (since the Babbington incident, Charles found himself even more hesitant to employ external help), and a proper wall would be built, like the castles of old.
It would still be a town, of course, but it would be a town with particularly thorough defences.
An almighty roar rose from the men as the gate creaked, and they strained to suspend it above the ground. The men with the mallets drove the nails home, fixing the gates. They cheered as it was finished, the men releasing the ropes. The gates moaned as they settled in their hinges.
Wood now. Sandstone and steel later.
***
When the Assassins finally convened, it was not in the darkness. They huddled in a marketplace, idly pretending to browse fruit, staying in motion to avoid eavesdroppers. Stephane did most of Duncan’s talking, the other man still quiet after his capture. Maybe it was shame, maybe it was fear, but he had eaten more than what he had at breakfast, so Stephane had to trust Duncan to speak up if something more sinister was at play.
Dobby leaned into a farmer’s stall and purchased some vegetables. She was toting a wicker basket with her, a slab of meat already in the bottom, wrapped in newspaper. Their den, small though it was, had a proper spit and they intended to have a good roast for dinner. She seemed unconcerned to the civilians around her, but the twitch in her right hand, wanting to go for her knife, was obvious to her fellow Assassins.
“I do not suppose that you managed to find out what Lee intends for Connor? Figurehead, trainer, slav-” she queried, for what had to be the seventh time since the conversation had started.
“No,” said Stephane, cutting her off.
They did not want to think of what Lee had forced Connor to do. The mere fact that Lee had slid so far into insanity to believe that transforming Connor into Haytham had been a rational idea was enough inspiration. Lee and Haytham’s relationship had been close, the Assassins knew that much. Turning to sodomy didn’t seem out of the question.
“There were more than five hundred men stationed there, and some families as well. They intend to stay.”
Grunting, Jacob passed some coin to the seller, discreetly hanging back a little from the main group. A military camp was one thing, but families were another. They did not kill the innocent. They were not Vikings that mindlessly pillaged and burned. They were not, and Jacob’s teeth bared at the thought, Templars.
“It is too many to go up against without knowing exactly how many civilians are in there,” sighed Clipper. “Their fortifications are increasing with every day that passes.”
He rubbed at his temples in exasperation. Taking on a fort was Connor’s forte, not his. Perhaps if there hadn’t been families, they would have been able to sneak in, but this was a whole new game.
Jamie spoke up, tugging at his hat, “We need to strike when they’re distracted. Make them laugh while we stab them in the gut. What is Lee preparing Connor for? Presumably a debut into society. Clearly Lee is allowing Connor control.”
“Haytham seemed to be in power when he visited me. He decided whether I lived or died,” said Duncan.
When the other turned their attention to Duncan, he glanced down, unable to bring forth a level of confidence that he had enjoyed previously.
“I cannot go with you,” he announced.
“But you know the-” began Stephane.
“Yes, I know, but I cannot go back. I am deeply sorry. I will help with your preparations,” said Duncan, lifting his head but staring at a point that was over Stephane’s shoulder. He gave them a wry smile, “Besides, someone has to look after the dens. I will need to check on the Homestead as well - Connor would not like it if his community had been abandoned for so long.”
Dobby huffed, but didn’t say anything. Duncan had a point - despite their desperate need for extra hands on the rescue mission, the Templars could and would easily retaliate by burning the Homestead to the ground. That wouldn’t help anyone, least of all Connor.
"It is better," agreed Jamie.
He gave Duncan a reassuring smile.
"Now," he continued. "About that distraction..."
***
A carriage rolled to a halt outside of a small shop. The driver hopped from his seat and removed his hat as he entered the shop. His assistant held the horses, and from the shop the first man emerged with four men in black and a grieving family, weeping for a man that met death too early.