Airman

Chapter 3:

ISABELLA

Conor was fourteen by the time the teacher and pupil were convinced that manned flight was within their grasp. They had built a hundred models, and several life-size gliders, all of which had ended up stamped to pieces and piled on to the bonfire. Their efforts fuelled not only the fire but the island tavern conversation. There was general agreement that the Frenchman was a lunatic, and it seemed as though the Broekhart boy was going the same way. Still, it was a nice diversion of an evening to go watch a grown man jump off a high wall flapping his paper wings. And still the king footed the bill. Bringing in experimental engines from Germany, special wood from South America.
Magic wood, sniggered the tavern wits. Brimmin’ with fairy dust.
Not that the Saltee islanders complained overmuch about how Good King Nick spent his diamonds. Even if he wasted the odd pouch on a French birdman, life on the Saltees was better than it had been for generations. There was work for all who wanted it. And schooling too, with scholarships to Dublin and London for the bright sparks who didn’t fancy working for a living. The infirmary was well stocked with instruments to poke and prod at a person’s organs. If you can scream, then yer alive, as the saying goes. The sewage pipes were working, carrying all the waste out to sea, which meant sickness was down. Rats were a thing of the past, on Great Saltee at least, and Bonvilain’s Holy Cross Knights were held on a tighter leash. There was no more of the random beating or imprisonment without trial that the marshall, God bless him, was so fond of. There were grants available for home improvements, and plans for telephone wires between Great Saltee, Little Saltee and even mainland Ireland. So no one was too upset if the king wished to indulge himself in a little scientific tomfoolery. It wasn’t as if the Frenchman was ever going to fly. A man in a bird suit is still a man.
Weight and wingspan were Conor and Victor’s main problems. How can something float on air if it is heavier than air? By forcing air over the wings quickly enough to generate lift, which negates the force of gravity. To generate lift you need big wings, which are heavy. If you use small wings, they must be flapped with a machine, which is heavy. Every solution presents a dozen problems.
In spite of more than three years of failures, Victor believed their method was correct.
‘We must learn control, before we fly with an engine. Gliding is the first step. Lilienthal is our model.’
The German aviator Otto Lilienthal had flown over twenty-five yards in his glider, the Derwitzer. He was Victor and Conor’s latest hero.
La Brosse never lost hope for more than five minutes. These minutes were usually spent stamping on the latest failed prototype. After that, it was back to the schoolroom and more plans.
Finally, Conor built a model that his teacher approved of. The student held his breath, while the master studied his work.
‘You know that this can never fly.’
‘Of course,’ said Conor. ‘The airman is an essential part of the ship. His movement steers it. He pushes the horizontal rudder left, the ship banks right.’
‘So we can’t test your model.’
‘No. Not unless you know an extremely intelligent monkey.’
Victor smiled. ‘I seem to remember talking about flying monkeys once before. At any rate, monkeys are intelligent enough stay on the earth, where they belong.’
‘What does that make us?’ wondered Conor.
Victor picked up the model, swishing it through the air, feeling the craft’s urge to fly. ‘It makes us visionaries, jeune homme. A monkey glances up and sees a banana, and that’s as far as he looks. A visionary looks up and sees the moon.’
Conor smirked. ‘Which resembles a big banana.’
‘Oho!’ said Victor. ‘You would mock me? Your teacher? For such impudence you must pay.’
The Frenchman tossed the model on to a cushion and made a run for the sword rack. Conor was there before him, drawing out his favourite foil, which also happened to be Victor’s favourite.
‘Oh, black card, monsieur,’ said Victor, selecting a slightly shorter épée for himself. ‘Taking a man’s blade. How long will you hold on to it, I wonder.’
Conor backed over to the training mat, never taking his eyes from his teacher.
‘En garde!’ shouted Victor, and attacked.
In the early years, when the sport was new to Conor, the Frenchman would call instructions as they fenced.
Thrust, parry, riposte. Footwork. Move your feet, you lead-footed islander. Again, here comes my thrust, so parry. Feet, Conor, feet.
No instructions any more. Now the Frenchman struggled to stay in the fight. There were no pulled thrusts or forgiving slaps with the side of a blade. This was as war.
They battled the length and breath of the chamber, even moving out to the balcony.
He is a veritable devil, thought Victor. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Only fourteen and already he outstrips me. But the old dog has a few tricks in him yet.
‘That is the best model you have built,’ panted Victor. Riposte and counter riposte.
Conor did not reply. Never lose concentration. If your opponent makes jokes about your mother, bat them aside as you would a clumsy lunge. Insults will only make you bleed if you allow them into your heart.
‘I think you should name this one,’ commented the Frenchman. Parry on the foible, backwards glide and riposte.
Victor’s swipe knocked a bonsai tree from his terrace; below a donkey snorted his complaint.
Victor is desperate, thought Conor. I have him. Finally. He leaped from his leading foot, attempting a fleche attack, which the Frenchman barely managed to parry.
Victor fell back on his left foot, but kept the tip of his blade centred.
‘I think you should call her the Isabella,’ he said.
The name distracted Conor for barely a second, but this was ample time for Victor to breach his defence. The teacher quickly dropped low, thrusting his sword upwards for an easy passata-sotto. Had not the blades been buttoned, Conor’s heart would have been pierced from below the ribs.
‘Touché,’ said Victor gratefully, resting for a moment on one knee.
Groaning, he hoisted himself erect then returned to the cool shade of his chamber.
Conor followed dully, moments later sliding the foil into its leather sleeve on the rail.
‘Why would you say that?’ he asked quietly.
Victor shrugged. ‘Does it matter? You dropped your guard. Our friend, the flying monkey, could have defeated you.’
Conor did not appreciate the humour. If anything he seemed irritated by it.
‘It was a low trick, Victor.’
‘I am still alive, so it was a good trick. You, on the other hand, have a ruptured heart.’
Conor retrieved his model from its nesting place, plucking lint from the tail.
‘Oh, don’t sulk, please,’ begged Victor, with much melodrama. ‘You are allowed to love a princess. It is every young man’s duty to fall head over heels with a princess. You are lucky enough to actually have one to hand.’
‘Love… a princess,’ spluttered Conor. ‘What? I really don’t know…’
Victor poured himself a glass of water. ‘What an effective denial, jeune homme. But don’t feel bad; I regularly reduce people to unintelligible stammers. It’s a Gallic gift. The Italians have it also.’
His student was so nonplussed that eventually the Frenchman showed some mercy.
‘I am sorry, Conor jeune homme. I knew you had the glad eye, but I didn’t realize how glad. Arrow in the heart, is it?’
Conor’s only reply was a small nod, the barest dip of his chin. He sat on the divan, straightening his model’s rudder, blowing gently on the wings.
Victor sat beside him. ‘Why, then, do you wear the expression of a man on the gallows steps? You love a princess, and she doesn’t openly despise you. Celebrate, jeune homme. Live your life. Young love is common, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t precious.’
Conor longed to talk on this subject. It was something he had been playing close to his chest for quite a while now. If it had not been for the gliders, he would have gone insane thinking about it.
Victor read his pupil’s mood and kept silent. He noticed, not for the first time, that Conor was more man than boy now physically. He was tall for his age and strong, his countenance was generally serious and his co-ordination was excellent thanks to the fencing. Combined, these traits gave him the appearance of an older youth. Emotionally, though, Conor was very much a boy. He was a well of feelings, full to the brim, ready to spill over.
‘Isabella is my oldest friend,’ Conor began slowly. ‘I have only three friends my own age. And she is the oldest. Mother says I met her before I was even a week old.’
‘That’s young, vraiment,’ said Victor. ‘I remember the hour of your birth well. We all had a lucky escape.’
‘Have you seen the photograph? From the French newspaper. I look like an old man searching for his teeth.’
‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news, jeune homme, but your looks have not improved much.’
The banter relaxed Conor and he continued to air thoughts that he had never shared before. ‘I don’t know if she is beautiful or not — I suppose she is. I like her face, that’s all I know. Sometimes I don’t need to see her; I just hear her behind me and I forget every thought in my head. For God’s sake, Victor, I am fourteen now, not twelve. I have no time for babbling foolishness.’
‘Don’t be so hasty,’ said Victor. ‘There’s always time for babbling.’
‘It happened at her last birthday. So, I gave her a present, as usual. And when she unwrapped it, I could see she was disappointed. She had hoped for something different.’
‘What did you give the princess? I don’t recall.’
‘A spring-loaded glider. You remember? The single-wing design.’
‘Ah, yes. Just what every princess hopes for.’
Conor was desolate. ‘I know. She hated it. No doubt she flew it straight into Saint George’s Channel. I began to think about it. About Isabella. And what could be wrong. I realized that a glider was not a good present for a young lady. Isabella has become a young lady, and I cannot stop thinking about her.’
Victor stretched until his shoulders cracked. ‘You are lucky, jeune homme, to have me here this day. For I am an expert in all areas of instruction, including the women folk.’
Conor was doubtful. ‘Which explains why you are a bachelor in his forties.’
‘I choose to be a bachelor,’ said the Frenchman, wagging a finger. ‘There are plenty of ladies who would gladly tether Victor Vigny to their gatepost given the chance. If I had a drop of champagne for every heart I’ve broken, I would have had a full magnum before now.’
‘Can you, then, offer any sincere advice with no mention of a flying monkey?’
‘Very well, Conor Broekhart. Listen and be amazed.’ Victor leaned forward, elbows on knees as though about to present a great academic treatise. ‘The reason, I suspect, why Isabella was disappointed with the glider was that she expected something special.’
‘Is that the best you can do?’ said Conor.
‘She expected something special from you,’ continued Victor unabated, ‘because you have become a young man, and she a young woman.’
Conor did not understand what exactly was being said. ‘This is all biology, Victor. I know this.’
‘No, imbecile. She noticed you as a young man before you noticed her as a young lady. She had hoped for your enlightenment in time for her birthday; the glider said otherwise.’
‘And so she thought…’
‘Isabella thought that you still saw her as a childhood friend.’
‘But I don’t, not any more.’
‘She doesn’t know that. How would she know it, through mental projection?’
Conor cradled his head. ‘This is so confusing. Flying machines are easier.’
‘Welcome to the rest of your life, jeune homme. This is how things are. But let me conclude my lecture on an optimistic note. If Isabella had not wanted something special from you, specifically you, she would not have been disappointed. Do you see?’
Confusion was writ large on Conor’s features. ‘No. It’s as clear as mud.’
‘I myself gave her a very dull book, and she was delighted. But from you she wanted more than a present, she wanted a token.’
‘Mud, mud. Barrels of mud.’
Victor slapped his own forehead. ‘The boy is a dunderhead. She wished a token of affection from you, because she has affection for you.’
A smile spread across Conor’s face.
‘Do you think so?’
‘Good God! I see ivory. The first today. Where is the royal photographer?’
The smile winked out like a capped lamp. ‘You’re right, I think. It makes sense.’
‘So if it makes sense, why once more the face of doom?’
‘The original reason, which I had forgotten for a moment. Prince Christian of Denmark has requested tea with Isabella. It is the first stage of a royal courtship. Isabella has agreed to receive him today. This very afternoon.’
‘Oh. Not to worry. I doubt this Prince Christian can overturn fourteen years of friendship in an afternoon.’
‘Yes, but he is a prince.’
‘And you, sir, are a Sir. Anyway, Nicholas is a thoroughly modern king. Isabella will marry the man, or flying monkey, that she loves.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I do. It is like the old fairy tale. The boy saves the princess, they fall in love. He invents a flying machine along with his dashing teacher of course. They get married and name their firstborn after the aforementioned dashing teacher.’
Conor frowned. ‘I don’t recall that fairy tale from nursery.’
‘Trust me, it’s a classic. Let Isabella have her tea. I doubt very much that an engagement will be announced. Next week we begin work on a plan of action. Perhaps it’s time for Shakespeare.’
Conor thumped his knee. This was progress.
‘Damn next week. We can work now. I could have a sonnet ready by this evening.’
Victor stood, pacing the length of his study, which also served as a lounge and classroom.
‘First, mind your language. You are fourteen and inside the walls of a palace, not to mention in the company of a genius. Second, I have work to do this afternoon. Important work. There is a man I must visit. And tomorrow morning, I have some imports to check in our new laboratory.’
Conor transferred his thoughts from one obsession to another.
‘Imports in our new laboratory. You spend almost every evening in this laboratory. When can I see it, Victor? Tell me.’
The Frenchman raised a warning hand.
Wait, the gesture said. And be quiet.
He closed the doors to the balcony, then checked that no one listened behind the door.
‘Let me ask you something,’ he said to his intrigued student. ‘These romantic feelings you’ve been having. Why haven’t you talked to your father?’
Conor frowned. ‘I would. We are close, but this past year he has been preoccupied. The Knights of the Holy Cross grow stronger. There have been several incidents of violence against citizens and visitors. The knights openly flout the king’s wishes. Father worries for the king’s safety.’
‘He is right to worry,’ confided Victor. ‘Bonvilain’s men grown bolder by the day. The Marshall was almost prime minister, and believes there may still be a chance of obtaining that exalted office. The king has plans for a parliament, but not one that will be presided over by the knights. Serious political machinations are afoot on both sides. It is a time for caution and secrecy.’
‘Is this tied to the man you must meet? And the new laboratory?’
‘Yes. To both. The man risks his life to send news of Bonvilain’s hold over the prison authorities.’
‘And the laboratory?’
Victor knelt before Conor, gripping his shoulders. ‘It is almost ready, Conor. Finally. The renovation is finished, not that you would know from the outside. And the equipment has arrived to build our flying machine.’
Conor’s heart thumped against his ribs. ‘Everything?’
‘Yes. Everything we asked for and more. Nicholas doubled the order, and asked for anything else he could think of. A veritable Aladdin’s cave of wonders for two airmen like us. Six engines. Five crates of balsa. Silk and cotton by the roll, cable, pneumatic rubber tyres, Conor. Expensive but worth it. Two pairs of dashing goggles, the latest precision tools. Everything we need to build a workshop like nowhere on earth, and thanks to a generous grant from Nick, we have an old Martello tower outside Kilmore in which to build it. A place where Bonvilain won’t be looking over our shoulders. We shall have our own wind tunnel, jeune homme. Think of it.’
Flying machines were already taking off in Conor’s mind. ‘When can I see it?’
‘Soon,’ Victor promised. ‘Soon. Only two people on the islands know about our equipment. Three now including you. To others it is simply a hugely expensive collection of mismatches. An idiot’s shopping list locked inside a ruin.’
‘But why the secrecy?’
‘You do not yet understand the magnitude of what we attempt. When we succeed, the Saltee Islands will be the toast of the civilized world and King Nicholas will be the man who taught the world to fly. His position secure for as long as he lives. Until then, he is a crackpot king selfishly emptying the Saltee coffers. We are a stick to beat him with. This consignment is huge. It must be kept secret until we are ready. Until then, we can pretend that our trips are educational.’
Conor understood, but his excitement made him reckless. ‘Curse Bonvilain. He holds back science.’
‘Not for long,’ said Victor soothingly. ‘Very well, I will sneak you across on the ferry next weekend. You can peruse our new engines.’
‘Next weekend. Good.’
‘We can read some Shakespeare on the boat.’
Conor’s face was blank. ‘Shakespeare, I…’ Then he remembered and jumped to his feet. ‘Oh. Isabella will be at tea now. I must talk to her directly afterwards. What time is it?’
The Frenchman ignored the carriage clock on his mantle, consulting instead the sundial on his balcony.
‘I would say, perhaps a quarter past five.’
‘How could you know that?’ asked Conor in disbelief. ‘You can’t see the sun today, not through all those clouds.’
Victor winked. ‘Other men may not see the sun, jeune homme. But I am a visionary.’
?

Conor’s head buzzed with new information as he crossed the keep towards the Broekhart apartments. The day was grey, with dull light falling on the granite walls, rendering them close to black. There was nothing to distract him from his thoughts of invention and romance.
Victor was right. Isabella sat beside him every day for Latin, French, mathematics and now Shakespeare. He would have his chance. And what better way to impress a girl than by building a flying machine for her? A real aeroplane, not a toy. He would name it the Isabella, if Victor agreed, and how could a dashing romantic such as the famous La Brosse stand in the way of young love?
Conor crossed the inner courtyard, the intensity of his thoughts hurrying him along. He ignored neighbours and failed to notice friends, but rather than think him rude these people smiled.
Look at young Broekhart with his head in the skies. No surprise there — was he not born in the clouds?
A pig crossed his path, and Conor bumped into its filthy flank.
‘Sorry, Princess,’ blurted Conor, his thoughts mixing with reality.
The drover scratched his chin. ‘Who are you calling Princess? Me or the pig?’
Conor apologized twice, once to the pig and again to its owner, before hurriedly continuing across the yard, this time with his eyes focused on the here and now.
‘Porkchop says she’s free on Wednesday,’ the drover called after him, much to the amusement of anyone within earshot.
Conor took himself and his burning cheeks round the nearest corner, which was not the way he wished to go, but at least he was out of the drover’s sight.
He rested against the wall for a moment, until his scarlet embarrassment faded, ignoring the passing traffic of militia, civil servants and merchants. A couple of Bonvilain’s knights stumbled by, obviously drunk, plucking whatever they wished from the market stalls. No payment was offered and none asked for.
Conor heard an unfamiliar sing-song accent waft through an open scullery window.
‘… so very handsome,’ the voice said. ‘Gretchen, you know that little German princess, with those ears and the estates, she would kill, kill, to have afternoon tea with Prince Christian. But he is with the choosing your Isabella. She should be honoured. If you to ask me, he will making all the talking today. He will not the coming back. Christian does not like the boating, with the big waves and sick making.’
Christian would do all his talking today.
Conor came close to panicking in the street. He felt sure that the struggle to keep such powerful emotions under control must surely have resulted in some disfigurement of his forehead.
I must talk to Isabella now.
He would go to the princess. Tell her that the spring-loaded glider had been a bad idea. He would gather some flowers, and wrap them in paper, and on the paper a poem.
Pathetic. That sounds pathetic even to me, and it was my idea. I am no poet. If Isabella likes me, it is not for my poetry.
He would go to her, and be himself. Just remind her of his existence before Prince Christian charmed her off to Denmark. Maybe tell a joke. One of Victor’s.
What’s happening to me? he asked himself.
Conor had always thought that the most powerful emotion he would ever experience was the thrill of scientific discovery. To do something that no one in the history of the world had done. What could compare to that?
But then he began to see Isabella through different eyes. He noticed how she brightened the classroom with her jokes and attitude, and even her constant insults and threats of torture seemed somehow endearing. He realized that her brown eyes could make everything else in a room disappear. He wished the mornings away until she appeared in the classroom.
I must talk with her. Even my flying machines will not get me to Denmark!
The princess’s rooms were below the king’s in the rebuilt main tower. There was a sentry on the Wall above the tower door. Conor knew him as one of his father’s favourites in spite of his relaxed attitude to authority.
That Bates will be the death of me and himself, Declan often complained. I don’t know which is sharper, his aim or his tongue.
Conor saluted him. ‘Corporal Bates, nice evening.’
‘Really? Not if you’re up on a wall with an ocean breeze blowing up your trouser leg it isn’t.’
‘I suppose. I was just making conversation. I’m really here to —’
‘See Isabella, as usual. You have that big lovestruck gombeen head on you again. Go on up there before the Denmarkian fellow steals her away on his hobby horse.’
If Conor had been really listening, the hobby horse comment might have made him pause.
‘It’s Danish and do you think he can steal her away? Have you heard anything?’
Bates stared at Conor as though he were mad, then smiled slowly. ‘Oh, I think he has a good chance. Strapping lad like him. And the way he eats up all his dinner. Very commendable. I’d get up there if I were you.’
‘Should I wait here while you announce me?’
‘No, no,’ said Bates. ‘You go on up. I’m sure the princess would love to see you.’
Not exactly procedure, but Bates’s cavalier disregard for protocol was legend.
‘Very well, I will go. Thank you, Corporal Bates.’
Bates saluted merrily. ‘You are so welcome, young Broekhart. But don’t thank me now; just make sure I get an invitation to the wedding.’
Conor hurried up the staircase and he was panting by the time he reached the princess’s floor. The stairway opened to an arched vestibule with four glowing electric globes, a spectacular Norman medieval tapestry and a cherub fountain, which generated more noise from its two pumps than it did water. The vestibule was deserted, apart from Conor who steadied himself against the wall wishing he wasn’t sweating and covered in mud.
Of all the days to be wrestling pigs and running up stairs.
From behind Isabella’s door came peals of delighted laughter. Conor knew that laugh well. Isabella saved that particular laugh for special occasions. Birthdays, christenings, May Day. Pleasant surprises.
I have to go in there, to hell with the consequences.
Conor drew himself up, pasted his hair down with a licked hand and barged into the private apartment of a royal princess.
Isabella was kneeling at her small gilded reception table, hands dripping red.
‘Isabella!’ shouted Conor. ‘You’re bleeding.’
‘It’s just paint,’ said Isabella, calmly. ‘Conor, what are you doing here?’
There was a little well-dressed boy at the table.
‘This funny man is smelling of the poo poo,’ said the boy, pointing a finger dripping in green paint.
Conor suddenly felt ill.
Oh my god. Little child. Paint. Eats all his dinner.
Isabella’s face was stern. ‘Yes, funny man, explain the poo poo smell to Prince Christian.’
‘This is Prince Christian?’
‘Yes, he is painting a masterpiece for me, using only his fingers.’
‘And also the paint,’ the prince pointed out.
Isabella nodded. ‘Thank you, Christian, you are so clever. Now, Conor, explain the odd smell.’
‘There was a pig in the courtyard,’ said Conor weakly. ‘Porkchop, I think her name was. We bumped into each other.’
Christian clapped his hands in delight, splattering paint over himself.
‘The funny man does not have money for the horse, so he is riding the pig.’
Conor did not rise to the jibe. He deserved it and more.
I must look like a halfwit, he thought. Straight from fencing and pig wrestling.
Isabella cleared her throat. ‘Ahem, Sir Conor. Could you, in the minute left of your life before I have you executed, explain what you are doing here?’
Now that he was here, Conor was not sure what to say, but he did know that it should be something true. Something meaningful.
‘Firstly, Your Highnesses, apologies for the intrusion. Isabella, I had something… I have something I need to say to you…’
Isabella had not heard that tone from Conor before. Not once in fourteen years.
‘Yes, Conor,’ she said, the mischievous twinkle absent now.
‘About your birthday…’
‘My birthday is not for a while yet.’
‘Not this birthday, last birthday.’
‘What about my last birthday?’
There was a stillness then, silence even below in the courtyard as if the entire world was waiting for Conor’s answer.
‘That spring-loaded glider…’
‘You don’t want it back, do you? Because the window was open and I…’
‘No. No, I don’t want it back. I just felt I should tell you that it was the wrong gift to give you. I hope you were expecting something different. Special.’
‘A spring-loaded glider is very, very special,’ said Prince Christian seriously. ‘If the princess is not the wanting it?’
Isabella held Conor’s gaze for a few seconds, seemingly dazed, then blinked twice.
‘Very well, Prince Christian, I think teatime is over. I hope you enjoyed your tea and cakes and the lemonade.’
Prince Christian was not eager to leave. ‘Yes, the lemonade was pleasing. I was wondering may I have the vodka?’
‘No, Christian,’ said Isabella brightly. ‘You are only seven years old.’
‘A brandy then?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Yes, but in my country it is the custom.’
‘Oh really. Let’s ask your nanny, shall we?’
Isabella pulled a bell cord on the wall, and seconds later a Danish nanny arrived, gliding into the room like a carriage on rails. The lady was not smiling, and looked as though she rarely did.
She took one look at Prince Christian and rolled up her sleeves.
‘I am the baby prince washing now,’ she said, grabbing Christian by the forearm.
‘Let go of me, servant,’ squealed Christian, struggling vainly. ‘I am your master.’
The nanny scowled. ‘That’s quite enough of the master — servant talk, Christian. Be a good little prince and Nanny will make you wienerbr?d for supper.’
Immediately mollified, the little prince was led from the apartment, trailing blobs of paint behind him.
Isabella wordlessly disappeared into her washroom, and Conor heard water being poured.
She’s washing off the paint, he thought. Should I stay now? Or should I go? When she left the room, was that a dismissal?
Things had suddenly changed. They had always been equal before, now he was worrying about her every feeling, her every footstep.
I should go. We can talk later.
No. Stay. Definitely stay. Victor would not run away. If I go now, we will be back to confusion tomorrow.
‘Who are you talking to, Conor?’
Conor was about to protest that he had not been talking, when he noticed that his lips were already moving.
‘Oh, I was just thinking aloud. When I am nervous, I sometimes…’
Isabella smiled kindly. ‘You really are a scatterfool, aren’t you, Sir Conor?’
Conor relaxed. She was teasing him. Familiar ground.
‘I am sorry, Princess. Will you have me garrotted?’
‘I prefer hanging, as you well know.’
Conor took a deep breath and bared his soul. He did it quickly, like jumping into the ocean, to get the pain over with.
‘I came because you told me this tea was part of a royal courtship.’
Isabella had the grace to blush. ‘I may have said so. I was teasing.’
‘I see that now. Too late to save me from embarrassment.’
‘Christian’s father has business here. I am doing my royal duty, that’s all. No courtship.’
‘None.’
Conor’s shoulders slumped. At least now, he did not feel like a participant in some kind of race.
‘So you built up your courage, and came charging up here to declare your love?’
‘Well I…’
Do not panic. Do not panic.
‘Something like that.’
Isabella moved to the balcony and stood leaning on the carved balustrade, dark hair flowing down her back, white fingers on the stone. Beyond and below, the Wall lights were popping on like a regiment of orderly fireflies.
I should speak now, while she is turned away. It will be easier without her eyes on me.
‘Isabella, things are… Things are changing for us… between us. And that’s good. That’s as it should be. Natural. It’s only natural that things change.’ Conor groaned inwardly, this was not going very well.
Say what you want to say.
‘What I want to say is that perhaps our days of climbing chimneys are over, although I like climbing chimneys, but perhaps there are new things to do. To share. Without the company of Danish princes.’
Isabella turned to him, and her mocking smile was not as steady as it usually was.
‘Conor, you are such a scientist. Is there not a shorter, more concise way, to say all of this?’
Conor frowned. ‘Perhaps there is. I would have to do a few experiments. I am new to this and I feel clumsy.’
Isabella made a show of pouring some lemonade from a jug. ‘I am the same, Conor. Sometimes I feel as though we have made our own world here, and I have no wish to leave. Everything is perfect. Now, it is perfect.’
Conor smiled tentatively, coming back to himself. ‘So, I am not to be executed.’
‘Not today, Sir Conor,’ the princess said, handing him the glass. ‘After all, you rescued the princess from the tower. There is only one way for that fairy tale to end.’
Conor choked on a mouthful of lemonade, spraying his pig-dung-stained trousers.
‘An interesting combination of smells,’ commented Isabella.
‘Pardon me, Princess,’ said Conor. ‘I am amazed by your friendly reception. I imagined myself trussed up by Danish guards by now.’
Isabella turned her brown eyes full on him. ‘Conor, I could search the world for another swashbuckling scientist, but I doubt if I would find one like you.’ The princess realized that she had said a little too much, and felt compelled to add, ‘Even if you are a lanky-limbed, overbrained oaf.’
Conor accepted the first half of the compliment with a smile, and the second half with a grimace.
‘I feel exactly the same,’ he said. ‘Apart from the scientist, lanky-oaf part. You know what I am trying to say.’
‘Yes, Sir Conor,’ said Isabella, teasing him with his title again. ‘I do.’