Airman

Chapter 18:

HEAVIER THAN AIR

It was clear to Conor that there was only one way to end this nightmare. He must expose the marshall as a murderer. Running away was no longer an option now that Bonvilain was threatening his loved ones. Confronting the marshall would at least give the Broekharts and the monarchy a fighting chance to survive.
That is how my father would wish it. He may hate me, but surely the truth will change that.
Conor knew now that he should have made himself known that night on Great Saltee, when he had seen his young brother, but his parents had seemed so happy without him. So safe. To embrace him as part of the family would have put them all in danger.
False reasoning. Weak logic.
Making contact now would be close to impossible. Bonvilain was expecting him and would have every man on the Wall with orders to shoot on sight, as often as possible. They knew he travelled by glider and boat and so would be expecting those crafts, but there may be a third option.
Conor purchased a fresh horse in the village for an exorbitant amount, and rode it hard back to where he had hastily concealed the laden cart. Not a moment too soon, as there were half a dozen local boys perched atop the tarpaulin, picking at the ropes like curious monkeys. Conor considered hunting the lads off, but decided to employ them instead. Each boy was offered the staggering sum of a rough diamond for his strength and silence. Needless to say, the offers were accepted, as a single stone was worth a year of a grown man’s wages.
Even with the help of his new apprentices, it took sweaty hours of heaves and grunts to free the cart from within the tree trunks, and almost as long to back it on to the road.
‘Now, buckos,’ Conor said to his troops, once the horse was hitched and ready. ‘Hot chocolate for all if we make it to Saint Patrick’s Bridge before dark.’
The boys put their shoulders to the cart with gusto. Hot chocolate, diamonds and mysterious cargo! They felt like princes on a quest.
Saint Patrick’s Bridge was a long shingled bar, curving from the mainland towards the Saltees. Legend had it that when Saint Patrick was chasing the devil from Ireland, he finally managed to trap him in the Galtee Mountains. The devil took two huge bites from the slopes to clear himself a path, and off he scarpered into County Wexford with Saint Patrick in hot pursuit, hurling rocks and boulders gathered in the fields.
Old Nick was forced into the water at Kilmore, and swam hard for the open sea, stones peppering the water around him. These stones were to form Saint Patrick’s Bridge. A couple struck the devil on the noggin, knocking the chunks of mountain from his gob and into the ocean. The smaller became Little Saltee, the larger Great Saltee.
Conor had never believed these stories, putting his faith in coastline erosion and ocean currents, but today, glancing out to sea at the dark, jagged islands, it was easy to believe that they were the devil’s work.
Conor and his crew arrived at the field above Saint Patrick’s Bridge with an hour of sunlight still left in the day. A winding path led down to the bridge itself, but it was too treacherous to be negotiated by horse and cart. Everything would have to be carried.
Conor stood on the cart and issued instructions like a general commanding his troops.
Carry the lot down. Lay the pieces high on the bridge, above the waterline. Everything was breakable and secret. So care and silence were the orders of the day.
The moment Conor stripped back the tarpaulin it became obvious what the secret cargo was. Wings, engine, propeller.
One boy, the leader of the small pack, stepped forward, half-terrified, half-incredulous.
‘Sir, would you be the Airman what stuck it to those prison guards?’
Conor noted the gleam in their eyes, the lust for extraordinary adventure. ‘I am indeed the Airman, and I need your help. What say you, boys?’
The leader mulled it over on behalf of the group.
‘Well, Mister Airman,’ he said, ‘I have a brother on Little Saltee for life, didn’t do more than rob a few guineas and perhaps break a few bones. So I say, let’s get to carrying.’
The rest cheered and rushed to the cart, eager to be first down the lane.
I hope their enthusiasm lasts, thought Conor. A long night of work lies ahead.
Boys are fickle creatures, and by midnight three had been distracted by hunger or mischief or parents calling them home. Three stayed, though, and finished the lugging of aeroplane parts down to Saint Patrick’s Bridge. Whether they negotiated with their parents or were there without permission, Conor did not know and had not time to find out.
He sent one with a message for Linus, and a while later the American arrived with food and oil lamps, picking his way down the steep path. Seeming uncertain on his own lanky legs, like a beginner on stilts.
The boys gathered firewood and they lit fires around the workspace where Conor laboured among engine parts, tubs of grease, crank handles, springs, pistons, lengths of unsealed muslin, rolls of wire, pots of glue, stiff brown paper, a strange curved propeller. And slowly the aeroplane was assembled.
The boys’ leader, who went by the unlikely name Uncle, displayed a surprising aptitude for mechanics and was invaluable when it came to fetching tools, and even predicting which tools were needed.
‘I need a wrench, Uncle. The medium.’
‘I think prob’ly the small, Airman.’
Of course Uncle was proved correct, and lit himself a celebratory smoke.
Conor took to explaining his innovations to keep his mind on his work and off his family.
‘Steam engines are too heavy for aeroplanes. To lift a steam engine you need a bigger steam engine. So, Victor, my teacher, suggested a compressed gas engine, or gasoline, which is better but still too heavy. But then I remembered aluminium.’
‘Isn’t that rare? Like gold.’
‘It was. Fifty years ago, aluminium was so hard to produce that bars of it were exhibited at fairs. But now the Bayer Process makes it and, if not plentiful, then it is at least obtainable. So my crankcase and water jacket are made completely from aluminium. This engine is light enough to lift itself and the aeroplane, and it will give me at least ten horsepower in the air.’
‘You hope,’ said young Uncle.
‘Yes. I really do hope. And Uncle?’
‘Yes, Airman?’
‘I hate to say it, but you smell rank. Don’t you wash?’
Uncle stubbed out his cigarette on a boot heel. ‘No, Airman. I follow the Egyptians on washing. Bad for the soul.’
The sun rose on a new day, to find the five workers huddled around a brazier sharing a pot of chocolate. All were exhausted, but none were in a mood to quit. By mid-morning, the little band was back to full strength, as the boys who had taken off the night before happily played hookey for a chance to see the Airman fly.
‘Pick any large rocks from the bridge and toss them aside. I need a smooth runway.’
This was a simple task, and Uncle set the slower boys to it.
‘Pointless asking the dullards to help with mechanics,’ he explained. ‘Stone clearing is exactly the work for those ones. All you need are open eyes and a strong back. Every ten minutes or so, I assures them of their genius.’
Conor nodded with exaggerated gravity. Uncle was proving invaluable.
While the others cleared the sky road, Conor bolted on the wings, which were constructed from steam-curved ash ribs covered with unsealed muslin.
The craft’s shape was clear now. Single wing set, thirty feet across. A long thin body resembling a river punt, with the aluminium four-inch-bore engine centre mounted behind Conor’s new-shaped propeller.
‘I ain’t never seen a propeller like that,’ commented Uncle, who was apparently an expert on everything. ‘How’d she go in tests?’
‘What tests?’ grunted Conor, tightening the last nut on the propeller.
Linus kept the food and drink coming and when the boys flagged he pulled a tin whistle from his pocket, playing a jig or a reel, and without knowing it the boys would pick up their pace again.
The labour consumed the better part of the day, but finally the aeroplane was ready, sitting on the spit of shale on three wheels like a great sleeping bird. It was a marvel, and for long minutes the little band was silent, simply gazing at the craft, absorbing its every curve and strut.
There was fear too and none of the workers would lay a finger on the material for fear of waking the bird. Only Linus Wynter was not awestruck. He had Conor lead him to the aeroplane’s propeller, then gave the craft a thorough examination.
‘Victor would have been proud,’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ said Conor. ‘The theory is as much his as mine, which is why I did this…’
Conor pulled a strip of paper from the nose and laid Linus’s hand on what lay beneath. The American felt flaky lines of dried paint under his fingers. The paint spelled out two words.
La Brosse.
Wynter smiled sadly. ‘He would like this, that French peacock. I declare, if my tear ducts were working I would cry.’ He wiped his nose, and pulled the lapels of his dinner suit together. ‘I should have written something special. An aria to speed you on your way.’
‘There’s still time. I need at least a hundred feet to take off, so I cannot leave until low tide.’
Uncle overheard this comment, mainly because he was standing at Conor’s elbow listening.
‘Tell me something, Airman. If you need a hundred feet to take off, how many do you need to land?’
It was a pertinent question but not one that Conor seemed inclined to answer. He turned and strode towards the flat rocks, avoiding the enquiring gazes following him.
‘It’s complicated,’ he mumbled. ‘Technical. I still have some calculations to complete.’ And then, as though that was the end of the matter, ‘Anyway, where are those ash ribs? I have a few repairs to make.’
Uncle lit himself another cigarette. ‘I know Great Saltee well enough. If Airman needs the same to land as he did to take off, he’s not going to find it on that island. Anything flat on Great Saltee has a house on it. The only place he could possibly land would be outside the Palace Gates in Promontory Square.’ Uncle laughed at the lunacy of this notion. ‘Promontory Square. Imagine. If Marshall Bonvilain were a spider, that would be his web. Which would make Airman…’
‘The fly,’ breathed Linus.
Great Saltee

Marshall Hugo Bonvilain was uncommonly excited, after all this day was to be a momentous day, not just for him but for every Bonvilain who had ever been forced to toady to an idiot king. Today all their sacrifice would be made righteous. Hundreds of years it had taken to accomplish the task, but finally the Bonvilains were about to supplant the Trudeaus.
And so, when Sultan Arif had arrived in Bonvilain’s office that afternoon, he’d found the marshall almost giddy with anticipation. Bonvilain stood at the office window, clapping his hands rapidly in time to the Strauss waltz being played by a lone violinist in the corner.
Sultan cleared his throat for attention.
‘Ah, Captain, you’ve come,’ said Bonvilain delightedly. ‘What a day, eh? Historic and all that. I love Strauss, don’t you? People take me for a Wagner man, but I say just because my duties are sometimes gloomy it doesn’t mean I have to be. No, Strauss is the man if you’ve had a trying day. I think I shall have an Austrian orchestra brought over for my swearing in as prime minister.’
Sultan was surprised by this lack of discretion, and it showed in his face.
‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ said Bonvilain, jerking a thumb at the musician. ‘Poor chap was run over by a horse and carriage a few years ago, left him deaf and blind. He plays from memory. I got him from Kaiser Wilhelm, only arrived this morning. It’s an omen I said to myself. How can anything go wrong today.’
Sultan began to feel nervous. Things always went wrong around the marshall, usually for other people.
‘God willing, all will proceed well.’
‘How can it not?’ asked Bonvilain, stepping in from the balcony. ‘The queen and her loyal supporters will soon be dead. There are no heirs and so I will be sworn in as prime minister. This Broekhart boy, this Airman, will no doubt attempt some form of rescue, and then we will have him too. And even if he does not come, once Isabella is gone he will be nothing more than a disgruntled fugitive.’
The marshall sat at his desk, smoothing the felt surface with one palm. ‘Now, let us talk about poison.’
Sultan Arif placed a corked ink bottle on the desk. It was half-filled with a pale yellow powder.
‘This is wolfsbane from the Alps,’ he explained. ‘A thimble of this can be mixed with a glass of wine or sprinkled over food. Several minutes later the victim will experience a strange tingling in the hands, followed by chest pain, extreme anxiety, accelerated heartbeat, nausea, vomiting and eventually death due to respiratory arrest.’
‘Eventually,’ purred Bonvilain. ‘I like that.’ He picked up the bottle, holding it to the light as if its deadly qualities would become more apparent. ‘Now, Sultan, you know how vital it is that I appear blameless in all of this. I must suffer with the rest, and only my strength shall save me. It cannot be sham. The queen’s own physician must confirm that I am at death’s door.’
‘Then you must only drink half of your glass,’ said Sultan. ‘That is half a thimble of wolfsbane. You will suffer as wretchedly as the others, but without the respiratory arrest.’
Bonvilain poured a glass of brandy from a crystal decanter. ‘Half a thimble you say? Are you certain? You would wager my life on it?’
‘Reluctantly,’ replied Sultan.
‘I have an idea,’ declared Bonvilain, tapping a pinch of powder into his glass. ‘Why not test the measure on the musician.’ He pulled a sad face. ‘But you are so fond of blind men, and I am eager to hear more of his repertoire.’
Sultan felt a bead of sweat run down his back. ‘There is no need to test it, Marshall. We have used this method before.’
‘But not on me. I want you to take it, that would reassure me.’
‘But it will take hours to recover,’ protested Sultan weakly. ‘I am needed today.’
‘You are needed, Captain,’ said Bonvilain, proffering the tumbler. ‘And this is what you are needed for.’
‘But if the Airman arrives?’
‘If the Airboy arrives I will deal with him. I have been on a few campaigns, Sultan. I do know how to swing a sword. I am asking you to drink this, Captain. Will you refuse me again?’
Sultan felt trapped in this opulent cage. The portraits of Bonvilain marshalls though the ages glared down at him, daring him to disobey.
I could kill him, he thought. At least I could try.
But it was a battle of the mind and Sultan had already lost. He had been doing the marshall’s bidding for years now.
I have done worse than this. Much worse.
Sultan Arif thought of the damage he had done in the name of the Saltees, the lives he had ruined. The men who suffered in prison still.
He reached out, took the glass and threw the liquid into the back of his own throat.
‘Bravo,’ cried Bonvilain. ‘Careful with that glass now, it’s crystal.’
Sultan plonked the glass on the table and waited for the poison to take effect. Numbing of the extremities was the first symptom of wolfsbane. When his fingers bean to tingle, Sultan stared at them as though they belonged to a stranger.
‘Numb,’ he said.
‘Capital,’ cried Bonvilain. ‘It begins.’
Sultan was all too aware of the misery the coming hours contained. He would suffer the pain of the damned and if he was lucky live to forget it.
‘Play something doleful,’ Bonvilain called to the violinist, though the man could not hear him. ‘The Captain needs cheering up.’
An hour later, when Sultan was clawing at the carpet, his lungs aflame, each breath like a dagger wound, Bonvilain squatted before him, clicking his fingers for attention.
‘Now, Captain,’ he said genially. ‘The next time I tell you to kill a blind man, you do it. Understood?’
Sultan may have nodded, or he may have lapsed into spasm. Either way, Bonvilain felt certain that the lesson had been learned.
Saint Patrick’s Bridge

The time had come to fly. Sundown and low tide. The shale bridge was as smooth as it could ever be and the engine was primed for take-off. There was nothing to hold Conor back but his own anxieties.
He sat on the flat rocks watching the sky for birds.
‘Do you hear any bats?’ he asked Linus, who reclined beside him, long skinny legs stretching down to the sand.
‘Bats?’
‘Yes. If this is a haunt for bats, they could gum up the propeller.’
Linus was silent for a long moment. ‘No. No bats. But something is lurking on the ridge. I hear shuffling. A lot of shuffling.’
Conor stood, craning his neck backwards for the view. The villagers lined the ridge like teeth in a vast mouth, more arriving every second to fill the gaps. They peered down to catch a squint of the Airman.
‘All of Kilmore is here,’ he groaned.
‘What? Did you expect to give away diamonds, build a heavier-than-air flying machine on the beach and stay a secret? You are the Airman, come to fight Bonvilain. He is not a popular man.’
‘Look, they’re lighting torches now. They have lamps.’
Linus tapped his temple. ‘I can’t look, boy. Blind remember. And, anyway, couldn’t you use a few lights?’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Conor. ‘Of course. Lights would be most helpful.’
‘Well then, invite those good folk to come down. After all, in a few hours none of this will matter. The queen will know the truth, Bonvilain will be banished and you will once again be Sir Conor of the Saltee Islands.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Conor. ‘There is an alternative ending.’
Linus stood, brushing off the seat of his pants. ‘Not tonight, my young friend. The planets are aligned, the runes have been thrown, I found a four-leaf clover in the grass. Tonight, after three years, Conor Broekhart comes back from the dead.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Conor. ‘But for how long?’
Great Saltee

Two-year-old Sean Broekhart lay in his bed, but he was not sleepy.
‘I think he has a fever,’ said Catherine, touching the back of her hand to the young boy’s forehead. ‘Perhaps we should stay at home.’
‘Stay home,’ agreed the smiling Sean.
Declan stood in the doorway, shoulders broad in his dress uniform. ‘Sean is fine, darling. He thrives. Were he any stronger I would enlist him right now. If you don’t want to go, just say the words. No need to drag little Sean into your schemes.’
Catherine straightened a row of medals on her husband’s chest. ‘I have been saying the words since the invitation arrived. It’s so strange, don’t you think? This sudden desire of the marshall’s to celebrate Conor?’
Declan’s brow creased. A lot had changed in these past weeks. He felt more himself than he had in years, three years to be exact. And while he still felt gratitude for what Hugo Bonvilain had done for Conor and the family, he had concerns about the man’s methods, especially the tight rein he held over Little Saltee. Recently his men had begun to tell him horror stories about the prison.
‘It’s not strange, it’s natural. Hugo feels some guilt too. After all, his men were supposed to be guarding the king. That was always the problem with Nicholas, he did not want to live his life under guard. He was too trusting by far.’
‘Talk to Isabella, Declan. She is expecting it.’
‘You have already spoken to the queen about this?’
Catherine took her husband’s arm. ‘She spoke to me. Isabella has concerns too. She needs an ally that the men will listen to. You are the only one who can challenge Bonvilain.’
Declan did not want this burden. ‘The marshall is my superior officer and he has been very good to us.’
‘I don’t wish to wound you, Declan, but your mind has been elsewhere these past years. You have been blind to the injustices that grow commonplace on the Saltees. Nicholas’s dream was to create a Utopia for the people. That has become Isabella’s dream too. It is not Hugo Bonvilain’s. He wishes to be prime minister; he has always wished it.’
Declan admitted the facts like shafts of light through chinks in a heavy curtain. ‘I have heard things. Perhaps I can investigate.’
Catherine’s grip tightened on his arm. ‘One more thing, perhaps this is not the night to say it, but Victor Vigny, a traitor?’
‘They found letters in his apartment detailing the island’s defences. My own men were with Bonvilain when he found the bodies.’
‘I know all about the evidence, but I knew Victor too. He saved us, remember?’
‘He saved himself,’ countered Declan, then gently, ‘Victor was a spy, Catherine. They are a cold breed. We saw of him what he wished us to see.’
There were tears in Catherine’s eyes now. ‘Just promise me you will stand by Isabella, whatever she decides to do. Your first loyalty is to her.’
‘Of course, she is my queen.’
‘Very well,’ said Catherine, drying her eyes. ‘Now I must ready myself again. Why don’t you tell your son a story, put him off to sleep before the nanny arrives.’
Little Sean seized on the word. ‘Story, Daddy,’ he called. ‘Story, story, story.’
Declan squeezed his wife’s hand before she left the room. ‘I am here now, Catherine. I will take care of us all, including the queen.’
He sat on Sean’s bed, and as usual he could not gaze upon one son without thinking of the other, but he forced the melancholy look from his features and smiled down at the boy.
‘Well, Sean Broekhart, not feeling sleepy tonight?’
‘No sleep,’ replied Sean belligerently, tugging his father’s sleeves with small fingers.
So small, thought Declan. So fragile.
‘I think one of my stories might do the trick. Which one would you like? Captain Crow’s army?’
‘No Crow,’ said Sean, his lip jutting. ‘Conor. Tell me Conor story. Sean’s budder.’
Declan was taken aback. Sean had never asked about Conor before and for some reason, Declan had never anticipated this moment.
‘Conor story,’ insisted Sean, pummelling his daddy’s leg.
Declan sighed. ‘Very well, little one. A Conor story. There are many tales about your brother, for he was a special person who did many amazing things in his life. But his most famous deed, the one for which he earned the gold medal in the cabinet, was the rescue of Queen Isabella. Of course, she wasn’t a queen in those days, merely a princess.’
‘Princess,’ said Sean contentedly.
‘On this particular summer afternoon, Conor and Isabella had exhausted the fun to be had tracking an unused chimney to its source and decided to launch a surprise pirate attack on the king’s apartment…’
And so Declan Broekhart told the story of the burning tower, and when it was over and the princess saved, he kissed his sleeping boy and left the bedchamber with a heart that felt strangely lighter.
Saint Patrick’s Bridge

This is madness, thought Conor. Lunacy. There are so many things that can go wrong.
The engine could prove too weighty in spite of the aluminium casing. The propeller has not even been tested in a wind tunnel and could rip the nose apart as easily as propel the craft. The untreated muslin was lighter than the treated variety but may not deflect the air currents sufficiently to give lift. The steering was rudimentary at best and would allow no more than a twenty-degree turn and even that could pull the wings off. The wing tips may not provide enough balance for a take-off.
So many things.
Saint Patrick’s Bridge had become a cathedral of sorts. The villagers had made the trek down the steep path for the spectacle, and most were crowded into the natural amphitheatre above the shale outcrop. They wiggled into comfortable positions, opened baskets of food and chatted amicably while they waited. The rest lined both sides of Saint Patrick’s Bridge, holding their lanterns aloft, lighting a path for the Airman.
More expectations, thought Conor. As if overthrowing a military leader were not enough, now I must entertain a village into the bargain.
He made a final tour of La Brosse, holding an oil lamp close to the underside of each wing, searching for tears, smoothing down bumps. No more need for delay.
‘That’s your fourth final inspection, if my ears serve me correctly,’ said Linus from the shadows. ‘Go now, Conor, or you will miss the tide.’
‘Yes, of course, you are right. I should leave, immediately. It must seem silly to everyone. All this preparation for such a small journey.’
Linus stepped into the lamp’s glow. The light caught him from below, casting ghostly shadows along his thin face.
‘You are wrong, boy. This is a momentous journey. Historic.’
Conor buttoned his aeronaut’s jacket. ‘Not historic, I am afraid. There will be no official record, no photographs. Nothing is acknowledged without at the very least a fellow of the Royal Society. Every week a new crackpot appears claiming to have flown.’
Linus raised his arms high to the watchers, like a conductor acknowledging his audience.
‘Every man, woman and child here will remember what is about to happen on this beach for the rest of their lives, no matter what the history books say. The truth will never die.’
Conor strapped on his goggles and hat. ‘Linus, if something happens — something unfortunate — will you find a safe way to contact my father? He must know the truth.’
Linus nodded. ‘I will find a way, boy. This old spy has a few tricks up his sleeve, but I have faith in you.’
Conor climbed the short ladder to the pilot’s seat, positioning himself carefully on the driver’s bench.
Something on his jacket clinked against the frame. It was the winged ‘A’ symbol.
‘I don’t suppose I need this any more,’ said Conor, unfastening it. ‘Bonvilain knows exactly who I am.’ He tossed it twinkling over Linus’s head to the boy known as Uncle.
‘A keepsake for you, so that when people tell you that this never happened, at least you will know different.’
Uncle polished the winged ‘A’ on his shirt. ‘Thanks, Airman. I was hoping for the goggles, but I suppose you’ll be needing those.’
‘Unfortunately, yes. But you can have this pair if I come back, in return for one last favour.’
‘Anything,’ cried the boy, already imagining strutting along Kilmore quay, goggles at a jaunty angle on his crown. ‘So long as it doesn’t involve bathing.’
‘No. No bathing. I need two of your tallest boys to stand at the wing tips. They must be strong, and they must be quick on their toes.’
Uncle summoned his two tallest boys and positioned them as Conor had asked.
‘These two are so thick they make the village idiot look like Sherlock Holmes,’ Uncle confided to Conor. ‘They’ll run straight into the sea if you want.’ Then to the two lads: ‘Run fast, won’t ye, buckos. Hold the wings level and I’ll swap those diamonds for two bars of toffee.’
‘Righto, Uncle,’ said one.
‘Toffee,’ said the other, who looked a lot like the first.
‘They can stop before the water,’ said Conor, fixing his goggles. ‘I need them to run alongside and keep the wings balanced. As soon as I lift off, they let go. Can they do that?’
‘Of course they can, they’re not thick,’ said Uncle. ‘Sorry, they are thick. But not that thick.’
Conor nodded. ‘Good, Uncle, if things go badly for me tonight, I want you to stay with Mister Wynter, he will pay you a decent wage.’
‘Will he make me bathe?’
‘No, he will debate the matter with you until you decide to wash.’
‘Ah. One of those. Very well — for you, Airman. Though I may have to murder him in his sleep.’
‘Fair enough.’
I waste time talking with this boy. Time to be off.
Conor braced his feet against two wooden blocks and stood, leaning forward to grasp the engine’s crank. The engine had always run well enough on a block in the tower, but that was the way of things. Engines ran well until they were needed.
The engine caught on the second revolution, coughing like a sick dog then spluttering forth a roar. The crowd cheered, and Conor felt like doing the same. Stage one complete, now if he had done his calculations correctly, the vibrations would not tear his aeroplane apart for a while at least.
After an initial burst of enthusiasm, the engine settled to about ten horsepower, spinning Conor’s revolutionary propeller and sending the exhaust fumes streaming over his shoulder. The aeroplane bounced and reared, eager to be off, a wild beast on a tether.
This can never work. I have no speed control. This frame cannot last for more than five minutes.
Too late for doubts now. Too late.
Conor strapped on his harness, then released the brake lever and the plane leaped forward, bumping over the shale surface.
In his peripheral vision, Conor saw Uncle urging one of the runners on with strokes from a switch. With one hand, he buckled his harness across his chest, while the other struggled to keep the tiller straight.
You should have buckled your harness before releasing the brake. Idiot.
The ocean was approaching fast, and he had not sufficient speed. He urged the craft forward with jerks of his torso, and tried to ignore the smoke and oil spattering on his face and goggles.
You should have fixed an exhaust pipe to the body. What were you thinking?
Lanterns sped past on either side, speed trails blurring one into the next. It was all he could do to keep the aeroplane between the lines. The vibration was terrible, rattling his backbone, clicking his teeth, rolling his eyes in their sockets.
Some form of absorbance is needed. Cloth padding, or springs.
This was not the time for ideas. The aeroplane, though just brought to life, was already dying. Rivets popped, material ripped and ribs groaned. It had minutes left before the engine shook it to pieces like a dog shaking a rag doll.
Conor’s feet found the pedals on the floor and he pushed forward, angling the wings. The aeroplane lifted a fraction, then dropped to earth. He pushed again and this time the lift was greater and the vibration decreased. No longer could he feel the bump over each stone transmitted through the wood into his rear end, which was a relief.
The water loomed black before him and then underneath. Conor vaguely registered his two runners splashing into the ocean, then he was airborne and away.
I am flying a machine, he thought. Can you see me, Victor? We did it.
Great Saltee

Marshall Bonvilain had arranged for the dinner to be held in his own apartments, which was very unusual. None of the guests had ever been in the marshall’s rooms before this night, and they had never heard of him extending an invitation.
Bonvilain’s tower was separate from the main palace, further south along the Wall, and had been occupied by his family since its construction. It had the distinction of being the tallest structure on Great Saltee, and sat grey and imposing on the skyline like a reminder of the marshall’s power. He could often be seen on his balcony, brass telescope screwed to his eye, keeping a watch on everything, making the entire island feel guilty.
The dining room was sumptuous, decorated with swathes of Oriental silk and painted paper screens. The table itself was circular and low to the ground, surrounded by thick cushions.
When Queen Isabella and the Broekharts were ushered into the area, it felt as though they had stepped into another world.
Catherine was especially amazed. ‘It’s so… It’s so…’
‘Cultured?’ said Hugo Bonvilain, stepping from behind a screen. In place of his usual sternly cut blue suit and Templar stole, he wore a Japanese robe.
Bonvilain could not help but notice his guests’ surprised faces. ‘This is a Yukata Tatsu robe. Tatsu is the Japanese word for dragon, embodying the powerful and turbulent elements of nature. I spent a year in Japan in sixty-nine, as personal bodyguard to Emperor Meiji, before my father died and I was called back. Emperor Meiji insisted I take some of Japan home with me. I rarely have it taken out of storage, but this is a special occasion and I thought you might like to see a more relaxed marshall.’
Catherine was the first of the small group to recover from her surprise. ‘You look striking, Marshall.’
‘Why thank you, Catherine. No one minds sitting on cushions, I hope.’
No one objected, though cushions are not the most comfortable of seats for those with ceremonial swords at their belts, nor for that matter for those in fashionable dresses.
‘Thank goodness bustles are no longer fashionable,’ Catherine commented to the queen, ‘or we should be rolling about like skittles.’
The meal was mostly fish and rice, served by a single wizened servant.
‘Coco is also the chef,’ said Bonvilain. ‘I lured him away from a restaurant in London with the promise of a decent kitchen. He is Portuguese, but can cook any meal you wish. Japanese is one of his specialities.’
An hour passed slowly, in spite of several cultural lectures from the marshall. Eventually Catherine’s patience reached its limit. She made a small snuffling sound and twisted her napkin as if to strangle it.
Declan winced. He knew that snuffling sound well. Trouble was brewing.
‘The meal is lovely, Marshall,’ said Catherine. ‘But I am sure we did not come here just for food and small talk. Your invitation was vague, and so I would like know – how do you propose to celebrate Conor’s life?’
Bonvilain’s face was a mask of regret and understanding. ‘You are right, Catherine. I have been shying away from tonight’s raison d’être. Conor. Your son. The hero of the Saltee Islands. I thought we could share our memories of that brave young man, and then perhaps raise a toast. I have been saving a special bottle of wine.’ It was a good performance and the marshall felt that, if needed, he could produce a tear.
‘But why now?’ prodded Catherine. ‘I admit to being a little puzzled, Marshall.’
He was spared the need to answer by the sound of a bugle piping from the Wall.
Declan leaped instantly to his feet.
‘That’s the call to arms!’ King Nicholas had insisted that the Saltee buglers learn US Army signals.
‘No need for panic,’ said Bonvilain, hurrying to the balcony. ‘I was warned he might show up.’
‘Who?’ asked the queen.
‘An enemy of the state, Your Majesty,’ explained Bonvilain, fixing his eye to a brass telescope. ‘This one calls himself the Airman.’
‘Airman,’ said Declan. ‘I’ve heard rumours about him. You mean he’s a real threat?’
‘Real? Yes,’ said Bonvilain, squinting into the eyepiece. ‘A threat? Absolutely not. Simply a Frenchman with a kite. Come and look. The lenses in this thing are quite fabulous.’
Catherine grasped Declan’s arm to stop herself shaking. All this talk of flying and Frenchmen had put Victor Vigny in mind.
‘A Frenchman in a kite?’ she said, voice strained.
‘Oh, dear God, of course,’ said Bonvilain, feigning shock. ‘Exactly like Vigny the murderer. I believe this Airman could be one of his acolytes. A curious hybrid of crazed revolutionary and scientist. I should not have even mentioned him; how insensitive of me. Please remain indoors. The Wall guard will shoot him down.’
Declan took Bonvilain’s arm, leading him to one side. ‘Shoot him down, Marshall? But you said he posed no threat.’
Bonvilain bent his head, spoke in a low voice. ‘Not a realistic one, though my men have found a grenade workshop.’
Declan blanched. ‘Grenades! Marshall, I am Captain of the Wall watch. Why do I not know all of this?’
‘Captain. Declan. My informants on the mainland reported to me barely two hours ago. I fully intended to broach the subject after dinner, but, in all honesty… a Frenchman, in a glider, dropping grenades? It seemed ludicrous. Something from a penny dreadful. At any rate, the wind is towards the mainland tonight, so how could this madman possibly glide here?’
At that moment a clunking mechanical noise echoed across the channel. It thrummed from a low register to a high one, spluttering alarmingly.
‘Perhaps this Airman does not rely on the wind,’ said Declan, snatching the telescope from its stand. ‘Conor always said that one day man would build an engine-powered aeroplane.’
‘Engine-powered,’ said Bonvilain, through gritted teeth. ‘A clever one that Conor, eh?’
Declan glanced down at the Wall. The watch had extinguished their lights and gathered in a cluster at the third tower. Several had climbed the parapet and were pointing skywards. Two held telescopes pointed thirty degrees skywards north-east. Declan raised the marshall’s telescope to his eye and followed their line. For a moment he saw nothing but night sky and stars, but then something flashed across his field. Not a bird. Too big to be a bird.
Declan zigzagged the telescope, trapping the object in his circle of vision. What he saw took his breath away.
It was a flying machine. Conor’s dream come alive in front of his eyes.
The aeroplane could not be called graceful, but it was flying, lurching through the air, trailing billowing streams of smoke. In the moonlight, Declan saw the Airman seated behind the engine, shoulders hunched as he wrestled with the controls, face obscured by goggles and soot, gritted teeth white against the blackness.
‘I see him,’ he gasped. ‘The Airman. He’s flying.’
Catherine rushed to the balcony, leaning over the rail, peering skywards.
‘Oh my goodness. If only Conor could have seen this.’ She turned to her husband. ‘This cannot be coincidence. You need to talk with this sky pilot.’
Behind them a shrill whistle blew twice, and immediately the Wall watch stripped off their cloaks, twirling them like bullfighters. Three Gatling-gun teams hoisted their weapons on to custom wall mounts. Whoever this Airman was, he was headed straight for a hail of fire.
Bonvilain still had the whistle to his lips. ‘The order is given. I had no choice, Catherine. He may be carrying grenades. My first duty is to the queen. Declan, surely you understand?’
Catherine turned to her husband, eyes blazing, fully expecting his support, but it was not forthcoming.
‘The marshall is correct,’ admitted Declan, though it pained him to say it. ‘There is an unidentified craft approaching the island. The pilot may be armed. There is no option but to open fire.’
‘He is flying a motorized kite,’ said Catherine, her eyes stung by Declan’s betrayal. ‘The walls are four feet thick. Had he a brace of cannon on his wings, he could not penetrate the tower.’
Declan would not be swayed from his duty. ‘This man has conquered the skies so perhaps he can conquer our walls too. I hear rumours of grenades filled with poison gas. We must not expose the queen.’ He took Catherine’s hands in his. ‘The queen cannot die, do you understand?’
Catherine searched her husband’s face for a deeper meaning to his words, and she found it.
The queen cannot die because if she does Bonvilain becomes prime minister.
‘Very well, Declan. I understand,’ said Catherine dully. ‘The queen must live, so the Airman must die.’ She dropped her husband’s hand and stepped across the threshold. ‘I have no stomach for this murder. Enjoy your victory, Marshall.’
Absolutely, thought Bonvilain, but aloud he said, ‘One never enjoys the death of another, madam. I have been involved in many battles, but no matter how righteous the cause I have always concluded they could have been avoided. This time, sadly, there is no alternative.’
And with a regretful half-smile on his lips, the marshall raised his whistle and blew one final blast.
Below, on the Great Saltee Wall, the Gatling operators cranked their handles, pouring a thousand rounds a minute into the sky through their revolving barrel system. The bullets sped towards the Airman trailing grey smoke tails.
No one can survive that, thought Declan. No one.
Bonvilain was thinking exactly the same thing.
It was a battle of vectors and gravity. The Gatling cradles would only allow for a certain elevation, and even though they had a level range of 6,000 feet the Airman was as yet too high to be struck. But gravity was his enemy too. His fragile craft could not stay aloft forever, and when it dropped the bullets would shred it to confetti.
The noise and sheer concussion from the guns were shocking. It seemed as though the very island shook. It was easy to imagine the Wall being pounded to dust under repeated recoil. The chambers belched long cylinders of smoke, and steam rose in clouds as the water boys cooled the barrels by dousing them from buckets.
Declan had never seen Gatling guns at work on a battlefield, but he had heard that a single round could tear a man apart. There was enough lead in the air now to defeat an entire army. The sky was thick with their buzzing, like a dense swarm of metal hornets determined to find the same target.
Declan raised the telescope for one last look at the Airman. Even from this distance, it was clear that he was in dire straits. Hot oil bubbled on his face and goggles. Both hands were locked in struggle with a vertical rudder, and strips were coming loose from his wings, flapping behind the aeroplane like May Day ribbons.
Declan lowered the telescope.
He is gone. We will never know his true purpose.
Seconds later, the Airman lost his battle for control and altitude. His engine spasmed, growled and died. It seemed then as though there was a moment of echoes, as the craft spiralled down and the marksmen held their ammunition. Waiting.
It was not a long wait. Mere seconds. A short command was barked from the Wall, and the Gatling cranks were turning once more. Eighteen barrels spat fire and a fresh blizzard of rounds rocketed into the night sky. Spent cases clinked on the parapet like coins thrown to a beggar.
The bullets tore through the craft’s wings and body, almost halting its descent. The impact was terrible, splintering the fragile body and tearing the wings to nothing. Round after round slammed into the engine until it exploded in a tight orange burst. Tendrils of flame shot along ribs and ropes, tracing the remains of the aeroplane against the night sky.
They did not hear a splash.
The night sky

Conor flew his machine through the sky above Great Saltee. A savage crosswind sheared across his bow, tilting him to starboard and he noticed a congregation of lights by the third tower. Lights meant guards.
The lights below winked out one by one, and Conor’s stomach heaved with dread.
I am the target now.
For a moment there was nothing but shadowed activity from the third tower, then dots of fire flashed and a hail of shot erupted towards the heavens. A second later Conor heard the scream of the bullets and their frustrated cry as they passed below.
Pure panic bubbled in Conor’s chest, and he almost jumped bodily from the machine.
Wait. Wait. I must pass Bonvilain’s tower.
The engine was stuttering, missing beats like a failing heart, losing its battle with the skies. Both wings were in tatters now, the wind’s claws ripping strips of muslin from the frame. Below Conor’s toes, the pedal had broken free from its stanchions and jiggled uselessly.
Almost in position. A few more yards.
A second swarm of bullets blasted towards him, and Conor felt the highest missiles tugging at the landing gear, sending the wheels spinning. He was in range now. Time to say goodbye to La Brosse. All evidence of his flight would soon be destroyed.
Conor knew that the marshall would never have allowed him to reach Great Saltee alive, so the trick was to persuade Bonvilain that the Airman was finally dead. This was a challenge. As a master of deception, Bonvilain was not an easy man to deceive.
But he knows nothing about flight. In the heavens, I am the master.
Conor wore his glider harness with one extra strap that connected him to his flying machine. The rest were, as usual, buckling him to his glider, which lay folded across his back, ribs slapping against his flying jacket, ripples running along the fabric. Linus had repaired it for him and it was stronger now than it had ever been.
One more flight, old friend.
It was difficult reaching down in all the confusion, it was difficult figuring which way was down, so Conor ran his hand along his own body, finding the strap at his waist. He yanked it upwards freeing the buckle and the aeroplane rocked loosely around his torso, but did not fall away as they were still bound together by momentum and gravity. The bullets were splintering the wood around his legs now – if he did not separate, his invention would become his coffin.
With a practised motion, Conor reached for the spring-loaded lever at his side. One swift tug, and the glider’s wings deployed. They spread themselves wide against the stars like some great night bird, acting like a powerful brake, lifting Conor clear of the doomed aeroplane.
He watched it go, dipping into the shoal of glinting bullets. His historic invention was obliterated completely. Nothing left but burning fragments and a crushed metal heart.
The engine exploded, blew itself into fist-sized pieces, which spun into the darkness.
Gone. No place in history for La Brosse.
Far below on Great Saltee, a haze of gun smoke shrouded the Wall and through it Conor saw the muted glow of electric globes.
They turn the lights back on because they believe themselves safe.
Conor hung in the sky, finding his bearings. Bonvilain’s tower was marked out by the rectangular glow of an open door. Isabella and his parents were inside that tower, in mortal danger. It could be that he was already too late.
Into the lion’s den, thought Conor, then dipped the glider’s nose, aiming for the light.
Bonvilain’s tower

Marshall Bonvilain stepped over the threshold into the dining room, his face an exaggerated picture of regret. Behind him the last flames of destruction flickered out in the sky. From below on the Wall came the sounds of high-spirited congratulation, and the hiss of steam rising from glowing gun barrels.
‘A great pity,’ he said, chin low. ‘That man had so much to teach the world.’
The gathering had been morose before, now the humour had switched to irate. Bonvilain took one look at the mood writ on his guests’ faces and realized that a crisis was fast approaching.
‘There was no other way, ladies… Declan. As marshall, I could not permit an assault on the Wall.’
Isabella stood by the fireplace, flushed cheeks contrasting with a high-collared ivory dress.
Bonvilain was unsettled by her expression, as he had not seen this look before. Ever since the coronation Isabella’s confidence had been growing; now she had the temerity to glare at him. And just after he had supposedly saved her life.
I sincerely prefer the old Isabella, he thought. Confused and grief-stricken is how I like my monarch.
No one was talking, and they were all treating Bonvilain to the same disgusted stare.
They have been conferring, Bonvilain thought. While I was on the balcony.
‘Are we all distressed?’ he asked innocently. ‘Shall I close the window?’
And still no one spoke. Bonvilain saw that the queen was working up the courage to deliver a lecture.
‘I think I shall sit for this,’ said the marshall calmly, dropping cross-legged to a cushion. ‘Else my legs may give way. You have something to say, Majesty?’
Isabella took a step forward. Her dress almost disguising the shake in her legs.
‘The sweep found something, Marshall. In my father’s chamber.’ These were her first words of the evening.
‘Oh really?’ said Bonvilain brightly, but inside he was discomfited. In his position, there was no such thing as a good surprise.
‘Yes, Marshall, really.’ Isabella took a small leather-bound book from her bag, and held it close to her heart. ‘This is my father’s diary.’
Bonvilain decided to brazen it out. ‘Why, that’s wonderful, Majesty. Something to connect you to King Nicholas.’
‘Not so wonderful for you, Marshall,’ continued Isabella, clutching Catherine’s hand for support. ‘My father was very suspicious of your activities. He wrote how you abuse your power to build a personal fortune. How you cultivate a network of spies on the mainland. How you are suspected of complicity in dozens of murders. The list goes on.’
‘I see,’ said Bonvilain, while in his head plotting.
It will be difficult to make them take the poisoned wine now. Already they do not trust me.
Isabella’s legs were no longer shaking, and her tone was regal. ‘Do you see? I think not, Marshall. Did you know that my father planned to see you in prison? Did you know that he planned to completely revise the power structure on the Saltee Islands? To inaugurate a parliament?’
Bonvilain managed to maintain his bland expression, but he knew that a crisis was upon him.
Typical, he thought. Murder one enemy and three more spring up in his place.
‘May I read something for you?’ asked Isabella.
Bonvilain nodded. ‘It is not my place to allow or forbid, Majesty.’
‘I shall take that as a yes,’ said Isabella, with a curt smile. She released Catherine’s hand to open her father’s diary. ‘“Hugo Bonvilain is a scourge,”’ she read. ‘“His power is formidable and he abuses it at every opportunity. When I have proof of his crimes, he will spend the rest of his life staring at the same cell walls he has condemned so many to suffer within. But I must be careful: nothing is below the marshall and I believe if he knew of my plans then he would take whatever steps necessary to thwart them. I do not fear for my own life, but Isabella must be kept safe. She is my heart.”’
Isabella’s voice almost broke at the end, but she reached for Catherine’s hand and finished strong.
Bonvilain clapped both palms on his knees. ‘Well, that’s damning stuff,’ said Bonvilain. ‘Obviously the text is a forgery, planted by one of my enemies.’
I must make them drink. How to do it? How?
‘I know my father’s hand,’ said Isabella firmly.
‘I have no doubt of it, but an expert forger can deceive sharper eyes than ours. Have the book verified by an expert of your choice. I insist on it. This book is a grave insult to my life’s work, and I will have my name cleared.’
‘I have not finished,’ declared Isabella. ‘You are removed from office immediately. Declan… Captain Broekhart will take your place.’
Bonvilain kept the rage inside him corked up tight. ‘Declan would certainly make a fine marshall. I thoroughly approve, but surely I deserve an opportunity to…’
‘Enough!’ ordered the queen, in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘You will remain here under house arrest until your affairs can be investigated.’
Bonvilain silently cursed himself. He had provided the queen with the perfect forum to launch her attack. He had some men hidden in a secret compartment behind the wall, but it was difficult to reach behind a tapestry and pull a hidden lever under such scrutiny.
Everything rests on the poisoned wine. If it were just the queen I could force it down her gullet, but Declan Broekhart would run me through with that darned ceremonial sword, and if his wife’s stares were daggers I would be dead already.
A great relief shone in Isabella’s eyes, and shoulders dipped as the tension drained from her body. The prospect of this confrontation had terrified her since the diary’s discovery. She had planned every word in her speech and, finally, victory was hers, and her father’s.
‘And now, Hugo Bonvilain,’ she said, ‘I think we should conclude what we are here to do. We should raise a toast to our beloved Conor Broekhart.’
Bonvilain bit his lip.
Oh, thank you, spirits of irony. The gods have a sense of humour after all.
Bonvilain’s expression was peevish. ‘I hardly think… Under the circumstances…’
Catherine stepped forward, plucking the special bottle from the ice bucket.
‘I realize that you invited us here in a transparent attempt to toady to Isabella and Declan, but we wish to honour our son and you will raise a glass with us.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ grumbled Bonvilain. ‘But I, of course, will not cause my queen displeasure.’
He stood and slouched while Declan opened and poured, Bonvilain muttered under his breath and threw hateful stares. The picture of a beaten bully, and certainly not a schemer on the verge of his greatest coup.
They held their crystal glasses aloft, Bonvilain’s at half-mast. With Catherine’s smile of approval, Isabella gave the toast.
‘To Conor, my best friend. My prince and saviour. Look after my father.’
Tears sparkled in Catherine’s eyes, and Declan actually moaned. Bonvilain tried not to laugh, but it was difficult.
Look after my father? You can look after him yourself if I have my way.
Bonvilain waited for his guests to drink, but they did not. He abandoned his surly expression for a moment to glance at their faces. Each one regarded their twinkling glass with dawning suspicion.
Perhaps this wine is poisoned. Perhaps this is why Bonvilain invited us here.
There was only one way for Bonvilain to allay this suspicion.
Ah well, there goes my evening. It’s the water closet for me until morning.
‘To the Broekhart boy, how I miss him,’ he said, quaffing half of his glass in a single swallow.
‘To Conor, my son,’ said Declan. ‘Heaven is lucky to have him.’ And raised the glass to his mouth.
But before he could do more than wet his lips something dark detached itself from the night outside and pounced on Hugo Bonvilain. Something dark with wings.
Conor hurtled through the window, a creature of the night, crashing into Bonvilain, tumbling them on to the low table. Crockery and cutlery flew, and both men were instantly entangled in swathes of gold embroidered tablecloth. Only Conor’s wings remained exposed and he must have resembled a giant moth, attracted to the cloth’s bright pattern.
Declan reacted quickly, throwing his glass aside and wrapping his fingers round the grip of his ceremonial sword. Ceremonial, but razor sharp nonetheless.
It is the Airman, he thought. Come to kill the queen.
The situation with Bonvilain must be set aside until this common enemy was dealt with. He grabbed a hank of tablecloth, bent low and used his weight and strength to spin the warring pair from the table. They rolled across the floor, still battling, though Bonvilain’s blows were growing weak and ineffective. The Airman drove his fist repeatedly into his enemy’s face, until Bonvilain’s eyes lost their focus.
Declan reached for the collar of the intruder’s jacket but was too slow. The Airman spun around, speaking urgently.
‘Did you drink? Have you raised the toast?’
A strange question for an assassin to pose, thought Declan. But no time for distractions; put him down then ponder his questions.
He swung his sword, intending to render the Airman unconscious with the flat of his blade, only to find it almost causally batted aside by his enemy’s forearm.
‘The toast. Did you drink?’
Something in the man’s attitude unsettled Declan, as though he were about to make a terrible mistake. The face or perhaps the voice. Something. He held back from striking, uncertain now of his strength of purpose.
Catherine had no such doubts. She saw nothing of the Airman’s face. From her angle there was only her husband and the man attacking him. She hitched up her skirt and planted a solid kick square in the Airman’s side, following it with a dashing blow from a handy flower vase.
Conor staggered sideways, dripping water and wearing daffodils.
‘Wait,’ he gasped, shrugging off his harness and wings. ‘Don’t…’
But he was given no respite. Isabella pulled a samurai sword from its presentation case, and adopted a fencing stance before him.
‘En garde, monsieur,’ she said, then launched a blistering attack. Conor’s sabre barely cleared its scabbard in time to parry the first thrust.
‘Isabella,’ he gasped, completely disorientated. ‘You must stop.’
The queen was in no mood to stop anything.
‘I will stop when you are dead, assassin.’
Conor managed a lucky counter riposte, which bought him the second he needed to find his balance.
Isabella had improved as a fencer since their lessons with Victor, but Conor could still see the bones of his teachings.
‘You have studied Marozzo well,’ he gasped. ‘Victor would be proud.’
Isabella’s blade quivered, then froze.
What did this mean? Who was this man to invoke Victor’s name?
Declan gathered his wife and the queen behind him, sword raised for battle.
‘You will show your face, sir?’ he demanded. ‘I grant you five seconds before we duel to the death. And that death will be yours.’
Conor slowly reversed his grip, then buried the tip of his sword in the floorboards.
‘Very well. But, before I do, tell me if you drank a toast.’
‘There was no toast,’ snapped Declan. ‘Now, off with those goggles, sir.’
Conor’s shoulders slumped and he seemed on the verge of collapse, but he drew himself erect and pulled the collar down from his chin, then pushed the goggles up to his forehead. His face was blasted black from soot and oil, but his eyes were clear, and a lock of blond hair had come loose from his leather cap.
The watchers were confused. What they were seeing was not possible.
‘Father, I know you vowed to kill me should we meet again,’ said Conor slowly. ‘But there are things you do not know. Victor did not kill the king, nor was I involved. It was Bonvilain.’
‘Conor,’ breathed his mother. ‘You live?’
Declan sank to his knees as though gut punched. His breath was laboured and tears streamed down his face.
‘My son lives. How is it possible?’
And suddenly Conor understood the scale of Bonvilain’s deception.
My parents genuinely believed me dead. Bonvilain spun a different lie for each party.
Isabella was the first to reach him, hugging him tightly, kissing his cheek. Her tears mingling with his.
‘Oh, Conor. Conor, where have you been?’
Conor held her tightly, reeling from the strength of emotions aimed at him. He had been expecting mistrust and anger. Not love.
‘That was you in the cell,’ moaned Declan. ‘I said I would kill you. I sent you to hell.’
Catherine rubbed her husband’s back, but then couldn’t keep herself away from her son. She rushed to him, taking his face in her hands.
‘Oh, Conor. You are a man now,’ she said. ‘Grown as tall as your father at seventeen.’
Conor was vaguely surprised to remember that he was only seventeen. Conor Finn had been more than twenty.
Declan Broekhart’s face was suddenly terrible with rage.
‘Bonvilain did this. All of it and by God I will make him pay.’
Bonvilain!
In the swirl of emotions, Conor had forgotten about Hugo Bonvilain. He turned clumsily in the embrace of his mother and queen, to find only a puddle of blood where Bonvilain had fallen. He plucked his sabre from the floorboards and scanned the chamber to find his old enemy sliding along the wall, quietly making for the door.
‘Father,’ called Conor, pointing with his sword. ‘We must secure Bonvilain.’
Finding that his escape was thwarted, Bonvilain reached behind a tapestry and pulled his hidden lever. The fireplace slid aside on a pulley mechanism, revealing a tightly packed group of Holy Cross guards.
Bonvilain smiled, his mouth a bloody mess, more than one gap in his teeth.
‘My last line of defence,’ he said, spitting crimson. And to the soldiers. ‘Kill the women. They are impostors.’
It was a cunning order, diverting Conor and Declan from their path in order to defend Isabella and Catherine. The soldiers tumbled from their confined space, drawing daggers and swords. No guns — guns would bring the Wall watch running.
Luckily the secret space was cramped, and so the men were stiff and light dazzled, which gave the Broekharts a second’s advantage.
They used it well, bundling the half-dozen Holy Cross guardsmen back towards their hiding place.
‘Watch the marshall,’ Conor called to Isabella.
‘He is no longer the marshall,’ said the queen, raising the samurai sword.
‘I have been taught how to slice a man into three pieces,’ she said to Bonvilain. ‘Take one step towards us and I will demonstrate those strokes for you.’
Bonvilain pinched the bridge of his nose. Ordinarily he would rush this silly girl and crush the hands that held the sword, but the poison in his wine was beginning to affect him. Already his fingers were tingling and a volcano bubbled in his innards. He needed to be away from here before the more extreme symptoms.
The path to the door was blocked by the Broekharts. His secret passage was a melee of flailing limbs and blades and the only other exit was the balcony.
Bonvilain tripped over Conor’s discarded wings and on to the balcony, searching furiously below for something to rescue him.
Imagine. Hugo Bonvilain needs rescuing. How embarrassing.
Below, the Wall watch stripped down the Gatling guns, apparently oblivious to the commotion sixty feet above their heads. They had obviously not noticed the giant bird-like creature crashing into their marshall’s apartments.
Bonvilain felt his stomach lurch as the poison twisted his guts.
I must escape. I need a way down.
There! Crossing the courtyard below was Sultan Arif, a duffle bag in his hand and another slung across his back.
Where the devil is that fool going?
‘Sultan!’ he shouted. ‘Captain Arif. I need you, now!’
Sultan missed a step, but he did not stop.
‘I am going home, Hugo,’ he called, without turning. ‘I have many sins to atone for.’
For the first time in many a year, Bonvilain experienced real rage. ‘Get back here!’ he demanded, pounding the railing. ‘I don’t have time for your sulking. Send me a rope on a crossbow bolt.’
Arif disobeyed yet again. ‘If you have drunk the toast then I would advise you stay calm, Marshall,’ he advised, quickening his pace towards the gate. ‘A speeding heart moves the poison more quickly through your veins.’
‘Traitorous wretch,’ roared Bonvilain. ‘Do not doubt that we shall meet again!’
‘And I know where we shall meet,’ whispered Sultan, his back turned on Bonvilain once and for all.
A speeding heart moves the poison more quickly.
Bonvilain realized the truth of those words as a spasm hit him and he vomited bile over the balcony.
Calm yourself, Hugo. There is still time.
With one last shake of his fist in Sultan Arif’s direction, Bonvilain went back into his own apartment…
… Where Declan and Conor Broekhart were battling furiously with three of the Holy Cross guard. Three were already down, unconscious or clutching their wounds. At that moment, Declan Broekhart took a blade in the shoulder, leaving his son to fight alone.
Catherine dragged her husband clear, and Queen Isabella kept her sword levelled at Bonvilain.
That girl is really becoming quite irksome. Why did I let her live this long?
Bonvilain realized that he had allowed his schemes to become too elaborate.
I need these people dead, but, more than that, I need to be in a safe place where I can regain my strength. I have funds and supporters on the mainland.
Conor drove the three Holy Cross guards back with a wide swing, then drew a pistol from his belt, firing off two low rounds. A couple of soldiers collapsed with shattered shins.
Gunfire! thought Bonvilain. That and the word ‘poison’ from the courtyard will have the Wall watch running. I must away.
The poison was in his legs now, sticking needles in his toes, cramping his muscles.
Across the room, Conor Broekhart struggled with the final guard, a huge Scotsman wielding a shortened broadsword. This was one of Bonvilain’s mercenaries and a veteran killer. For a moment Bonvilain nurtured a glimmer of hope, then Conor stepped under the big Scotsman’s swing and knocked him flat with the sabre’s finger guard.
The Airman tumbled the final guard back inside the cavity then reached behind the tapestry and sealed them inside. Their moaning could be heard through the grate.
‘Behind you, son,’ said Declan, through gritted teeth. ‘The marshall.’
Conor rounded on Bonvilain with three years of hatred glowing in his eyes. He was a figure from children’s nightmares. A man in black, wielding a bloody weapon, lips pulled back in a snarl.
‘Bonvilain,’ he said, with a strange calmness.
Generally Bonvilain would have relished the opportunity for some choice remarks, followed by swift mortal combat with this whelp, but now his system was afire with wolfsbane. His tongue felt strange and swollen in his mouth and his legs bent under the weight of his torso.
Soon my judgement will be gone. I must escape now.
Isabella stepped forward. ‘You will answer for your crimes, Hugo Bonvilain. Your reign is over. There is no escape.’
Bonvilain bent low, grunting like a wild boar. He grasped Conor’s harness, dragging the glider on to the balcony.
‘Escape,’ he muttered, drool dripping from his slack lip. ‘Fly away, Airman.’
Conor followed him, cocking his pistol. ‘I’m warning you, Bonvilain.’
Bonvilain managed a dry laugh. ‘Conor Broekhart. Always in my way. In Paris when I ordered your father’s balloon shot down. When I set the king’s tower alight. Even now. Perhaps you are magical, as people believe.’
It was difficult to understand what Hugo Bonvilain said, his loose lips bubbled with spittle and blood. The marshall rolled his body up on to the balcony’s parapet.
‘Keep away, or you will never know my secrets.’
Conor ached to finish Bonvilain, but Isabella’s light touch prevented it.
‘Don’t, Conor. I need to know everything he has done. There is so much to be set right.’ Isabella turned to the marshall. ‘Come down from there,’ ordered Isabella. ‘Your queen commands it.’
Bonvilain struggled to his feet, clumsily pulling the harness round his shoulders.
‘I have no queen, no god, no country,’ he mumbled, cinching the chest belt with rubbery fingers. That would have to do, he did not have the dexterity for the remaining buckles. ‘All I have is cunning.’
And with a focus born of hatred, Bonvilain reached inside his dragon robe to a dagger at his belt, with the intention of flicking it from the waist. Conor saw the gleam of the blade as it cleared the silk.
Isabella! Even now he tries to kill Isabella.
Conor swung his pistol, but Declan Broekhart was quicker, even though his shoulder was wounded. He hurled his sword, spear-like, with such force that it pierced Bonvilain’s vest of chain mail and lodged in his heart.
Bonvilain sighed, as though disappointed with the book he was reading, then stepped backwards off the parapet, into the night. An updraught filled the glider’s wings, floating Bonvilain over the courtyard past the disbelieving eyes of the Wall watch and hundreds of Saltee islanders raised from their beds by the Gatling guns.
Bonvilain hung there for several moments, his dripping blood painting swirls on the flagstones, before a crosswind flipped the glider about, urging it out to sea.
Conor watched him go, dropping closer and closer to the cold ocean, the silhouetted sword protruding from his lifeless heart, and with him went the nightmare that his life had become.
None could tear their eyes from Bonvilain’s corpse, arresting even in death. Further from land he drifted, and lower too until his toes skimmed the ocean. Conor wished to see him go down, to be certain that it was over, but he did not. Bonvilain was lost to sight before the ocean claimed him.
Below was consternation. The watch were hammering on the Wall access door, and the people surged against the foot of the tower.
Declan Broekhart took Isabella by the hand, leading her to the parapet.
‘The queen is safe,’ he called, raising her hand. ‘Long live the queen.’
The cry that came back was relieved and heartfelt.
‘Long live the queen.’