Airman

CHAPTER 1: THE PRINCESS AND THE PIRATE

Conor Broekhart was a remarkable boy, a fact that became evident very early in his idyllic childhood. Nature is usually grudging with her gifts, dispensing them sparingly, but she favoured Conor with everything she had to offer. It seemed as though all the talents of his ancestors had been bestowed upon him. Intelligence, strong features and grace.

Conor was fortunate in his situation too. He was born into an affluent community, where the values of equality and justice were actually being applied, on the surface at least. He grew up with a strong belief in right and wrong, which was not muddied by poverty or violence. It was straightforward for the young boy. Right was Great Saltee, wrong was Little Saltee.

It is an easy matter now, to pluck some events from Conor’s early years and say, There it is. The boy who became the man. We should have seen it. But hindsight is an unreliable science and, in truth, there was perhaps a single incident during Conor’s early days at the palace that hinted at his potential.

The incident in question occurred when Conor was nine years old and roaming the serving corridors that snaked behind the walls of the castle chapel and main building. His partner on these excursions was the Princess Isabella, one year his senior and always the more adventurous of the two. Isabella and Conor were rarely seen without each other, and often so daubed with mud, blood and nothing good that the boy was barely distinguishable from the princess.

On this particular summer afternoon, they had exhausted the fun to be had tracking an unused chimney to its source and had decided to launch a surprise pirate attack on the king’s apartment.

‘You can be Captain Crow,’ said little Conor, licking some soot from round his mouth, ‘and I can be the cabin boy that stuck an axe in his head.’

Isabella was a pretty thing, with elfin face and round brown eyes, but at that moment she looked more like a sweep’s urchin than a princess.

‘No, Conor. You are Captain Crow, and I am the princess hostage.’

‘There is no princess hostage,’ declared Conor firmly, worried that Isabella was once again about to mould the legend to suit herself. In previous games, she had included a unicorn and a fairy that were definitely not part of the original story.

‘Of course there is,’ said Isabella belligerently. ‘There is because I say there is, and I am an actual princess, whereas you were born in a balloon.’

Isabella intended this as an insult, but to Conor being born in a balloon was about the finest place to be born.

‘Thank you,’ he said, grinning.

‘That’s not a good thing,’ squealed Isabella. ‘Doctor John says that your lungs were probably crushed by the alti-tood.’

‘My lungs’re better than yours. See!’ And Conor hooted at the sky to show just how healthy his lungs were.

‘Very well,’ said Isabella, impressed. ‘But I am still the princess hostage. And you should remember that I can have you executed if you displease me.’

Conor was not unduly concerned about Isabella having him executed as she ordered him hung at least a dozen times a day and it hadn’t happened yet. He was more worried that Isabella was not turning out to be as good a playmate as he had hoped. Basically he wanted someone who would play the games he fancied playing, which generally involved flying paper gliders or eating insects. But lately Isabella had been veering towards dressing-up and kissing, and she would only explore chimneys if Conor agreed to pretend they were the legendary lovers Diarmuid and Gràinne, escaping from Fionn’s castle.

Needless to say, Conor had no wish to be a legendary lover. Legendary lovers rarely flew anywhere, and hardly ever ate insects.

‘Very well,’ he moaned. ‘You are the princess hostage.’

‘Excellent, Captain,’ Isabella said sweetly. ‘Now, you may drag me to my father’s chamber and demand ransom.’

‘Drag?’ said Conor hopefully.

‘Play drag, not real drag, or I shall have you hung.’

Conor thought, with remarkable wit for a nine-year-old, that if he had actually been hung every time Isabella ordered it, his neck would be longer than a Serengeti giraffe’s.

‘Play drag, then. Can I kill anyone we meet?’

‘Absolutely anyone. Not Papa, though, until after I see how sad he is.’

Absolutely anyone.

That’s something, thought Conor, swishing his wooden sword, thinking how it cut the air like a gull’s wing.

Just like a wing.

The pair proceeded across the barbican, she oohing and he arring, drawing fond but also wary looks from those they passed. The palace’s only resident children were well liked, not at all spoilt, and mannerly enough when their parents were nearby, but they were also light-fingered and would pilfer whatever they fancied on their daily quests.

A certain Italian gold-leaf artisan had recently turned from the cherub he was coating one afternoon to find his brush and tray of gold wafers missing. The gold turned up later coated on the wings of a week-dead seagull that someone had tried to fly from the Wall battlements.

They crossed the bridge into the main keep, which housed the king’s residence, office and meeting rooms. And this would generally have been where the pair would be met with a good-natured challenge from the sentry. But the king himself had just leaned out of the window and sent the fellow running to catch the Wexford boat and put ten shillings on a horse he fancied in the Curracloe beach races. The palace had a telephone system, but there were no wires to the shore as yet, and the booking agents on the mainland refused to take bets over the semaphore.

For two minutes only, much to the princess’s and the pirate’s delight, the main keep was unguarded. They strode in as though they owned the castle.

‘Of course, in real life, I do own the castle,’ confided Isabella, never missing a chance to remind Conor of her exalted position.

‘Arrrr,’ said Conor, and meant it.

The spiral staircase passed three floors, all packed with cleaning staff, lawyers, scientists and civil servants, but through a combination of low infant cunning and luck the pair managed to pass the lower floors to the king’s own entrance: impressive oak double doors with half of the Saltee flag and motto carved into each one. Vallo Parietis read the words. Defend the Wall. The flag was a crest bisected vertically into crimson and gold sections with a white blocked tower stamped in the centre.

The door was slightly ajar.

‘It’s open,’ said Conor.

‘It’s open, hostage princess,’ Isabella reminded him.

‘Sorry, hostage princess. Let’s see what treasure lies inside.’

‘I’m not supposed to, Conor.’

‘Pirate Captain Crow,’ said Conor, slipping through the gap in the door.

As usual, Nicholas’s apartment was littered with the remains of a dozen experiments. There was a cannibalized dynamo on the hearthrug, copper-wiring strands protruding from its belly.

‘That’s a sea creature and those are its guts,’ said Conor, with relish.

‘Oh, you foul pirate,’ said Isabella.

‘Stop your smiling then if I’m a foul pirate. Hostages are supposed to weep and wail.’

In the fireplace itself were jars of mercury and experimental fuels. Nicholas refused to allow his staff to move them downstairs. Too volatile, he explained. Anyway, the fire would only go up the chimney.

Conor pointed to the jars. ‘Bottles of poison. Squeezed from a dragon’s bum. One sniff and you ’vaporate.’

This sounded very possible, and Isabella wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not.

On the chaise longue were buckets of fertilizer, a couple gently steaming.

‘Also from a dragon’s bum,’ intoned Conor wisely.

Isabella tried to keep her scream behind her lips, so it shot out of her nose instead.

‘It’s fert’ lizer,’ said Conor, taking pity on her. ‘For making plants grow on the island.’

Isabella scowled at him. ‘You’re being hanged at sundown. That’s a princess’s promise.’

The apartment was a land of twinklings and shinings for a couple of unsupervised children. A stars-and-stripes banner was draped round the shoulders of a stuffed black bear in the corner. A collection of prisms and lenses glinted from a wooden box closed with a cap at one end, and books old and new were piled high like the columns of a ruined temple.

Conor wandered between these columns of knowledge, almost touching everything, but holding back, knowing somehow that another man’s dreams should not be disturbed.

Suddenly he froze. There was something he should do. The chance may never come again.

‘I must capture the flag,’ he breathed. ‘That’s what a pirate captain is supposed to do. Go to the roof, so I can capture the flag and gloat.’

‘Capture the flag and goat?’

‘Gloat.’

Isabella stood hands on hips. ‘It’s pronounced goooaaat, idiot.’

‘You’re supposed to be a princess. Insulting your subjects is not very princessy.’

Isabella was unrepentant. ‘Princesses do what they want – anyway we don’t have a goat on the roof.’

Conor did not waste his time arguing. There was no winning an argument with someone who could have you executed. He ran to the roof door, swishing his sword at imaginary troops. This door, too, was open. Incredible good fortune. On the hundred previous occasions he and Isabella had ambushed King Nicholas, every door in the palace had been locked, and they had been warned by stern-faced parents never to venture on to the roof alone. It was a long way down.

Conor thought about it.

Parents? Flag?

Parents? Flag?

‘Some pirate you are,’ sniffed Isabella. ‘Standing around there scratching yourself with a toy sword.’

Flag, then.

‘Arrr. I go for the flag, hostage princess.’ And then in his own voice, ‘Don’t touch any of the experiments, Isabella. ’Specially the bottles. Papa says that one day the king is going to blow the lot of us to hell and back with his concoctions, so they must be dangerous.’

Conor went up the stairs fast, before his nerve could fail him. It wasn’t far, perhaps a dozen steps to the open air. He emerged from the confines of the turret stairwell on to a stone rooftop. From dark to light in half a second. The effect was breathtaking, azure sky with clouds close enough to touch.

I was born in a place like this, thought Conor

You are a special child, his mother told him at least once a day. You were born in the sky, and there will always be a place for you there.

Conor believed that this was true. He had always felt happiest in high places, where others feared to go.

Conor climbed on top of the parapet, holding tight to the flagpole. The world twirled round him, orange sun hanging over Kilmore Quay like a beacon. Sea glittering below him, more silver than blue, and the sky calling to him as though he actually were a bird. For a moment he was bewitched by the scene, then the corner of the flag crept into his vision.

Arrr, he thought. Yon be the flag. Pride of the Saltees.

The flag stood perfectly rectangular, crimson and gold with its tower so white it glowed, held rigid by a bamboo frame so that the islands’ emblem would stand proud no matter what the weather. It struck Conor that he was actually standing on top of the very tower depicted by the flag.

This may have caused a tug of patriotic pride in an older islander, but to a nine-year-old all it meant was that his picture should be included on the flag.

I will draw myself on after I steal the flag, he decided.

Isabella emerged on to the rooftop, blinking against the sudden light.

‘Come down from the parapet, Conor. We’re playing pirates, not bird boy.’

Conor was aghast. ‘And leave the flag? Don’t you understand? I will be a famous pirate, more famous than Barbarossa himself.’

‘That wall is old, Conor.’

‘Pirate Captain Crow, remember.’

‘That wall is old, Conor. It could fall down. Remember the slates came off the chapel during the storm last year?’

‘What about the flag?’

‘Forget the flag and forget the goat. I’m hungry, so come down before I have you hanged.’

Conor stamped down off the wall, sulking now. He was about to challenge Isabella, say that she could go ahead and have him hanged for all he cared, and she was a rotten hostage. Whoever heard of a hostage giving the orders. She should learn to weep and wail properly instead of threatening to execute him a hundred times a day.

He was about to say all of this, when there came a dull thump from below that shook the blocks beneath their feet. A cloud of purple smoke oomphed through the doorway, as though someone had cleared a tuba.

Conor had a suspicion bordering on certainty.

‘Did you touch something?’ he asked Isabella.

Isabella was haughty even in the face of disaster. ‘I am the princess of this palace, so I am quite entitled to touch whatever I wish.’

The tower shook again. This time the smoke was green and it was accompanied by a foul smell.

‘What did you touch, Isabella?’

The princess of the palace turned as green as the smoke.

‘I may have removed the cap from the wooden box. The one with the pretty lenses.’

‘Oh,’ said Conor. ‘That could be trouble.’

King Nicholas had explained the lens box to Conor once, delighted to find that the boy’s passion for learning equalled his own.

The lenses are arranged in a very specific order, he had said, squatting low so that his own eye appeared monstrous through the first lens. So when I remove the cap, and light comes in one end, it’s concentrated by successive lenses until it can set paper alight at the other. With this little gadget it might be possible to start a fire from a distance. The ultimate safe fuse.

Conor remembered thinking at the time that you could leave the box by the window and have it light the fire for you each morning, a chore that he was none too fond of.

And now Isabella had removed the cap.

‘Did you move the box?’

‘Mind your tone, commoner!’

Commoner? Isabella must really be terrified.

‘Isabella?’

‘I possibly placed it on the table, by the window to see the colours passing through.’

Obviously the device had caught the afternoon light, releasing the power of the lenses into the king’s laboratory, filled with the fertilizer, jugs of fuel and various explosive materials. The concentrated light had obviously landed on something combustible.

‘We have to go,’ said Conor, all thoughts of Captain Crow forgotten. He was no stranger to the power of explosives. His father was in charge of the Wall defence and had brought Conor along on a trip to collapse a smugglers’ cave. It was a birthday treat, but also a lesson to stay away from anything that went boom. The cave wall had collapsed like toy bricks swatted by a toddler.

The tower shook again, several floor blocks rattled in their housings, then dropped into the apartment below. Orange and blue flames surged through the holes, and the snap and grind of breaking glass and twisting metal frightened the two children.

‘Up on the wall,’ said Conor urgently. ‘The floor is falling.’

For once, Isabella did not argue. She accepted Conor’s hand and followed him to the lip of the parapet.

‘The floor is a foot thick,’ he explained, shouting over the roar of the flames. ‘The parapet is four feet thick. It won’t break.’

The explosions went off below like cannon fire, each one issuing different odours, different colour smoke. The fumes were noxious, and Conor presumed his own face was as green as Isabella’s.

It doesn’t matter if the parapet holds, he realized. The flames will get us long before then.

To Isabella and Conor it felt as though the entire world shook. The stairwell spewed forth flame and smoke as though a dragon lurked below, and from the courtyard came the screams of islanders, as chunks of the tower crashed down from above.

I need to get us out of this place, thought Conor. No one else can save us, not even Father.

There was no way to walk down, not through the inferno below. There was only one way down, and that was to fly.

King Nicholas was down the corridor, in the privy, when his daughter blew up his apartment. He was admiring the new Royal Doulton wash-out toilet he had recently had plumbed into his own bathroom. Nicholas had considered installing them throughout the palace, but there were rumours of a new flush toilet on the horizon and it would be a pity to be one step behind progress.

We must embrace progress, be at the forefront of it, or the Saltees will be drowned by a tidal wave of innovation.

When the first explosion rattled the tower, Nicholas briefly thought that his own personal plumbing could be responsible for the din, but realized that not even the bottle of home-brewed ale that he had consumed with Declan Broekhart the previous evening could result in such a disturbance.

They were under attack then? Unlikely, unless a ship had managed to approach undetected on a clear summer’s afternoon.

A thought struck him.

Could he have left the cap off the lens box? If so much as a spark took flight in that room…

King Nicholas finished his royal business and yanked the door open, quickly closing it again as a roiling cloud of smoke and flame invaded the bathroom, searing his lungs. His apartment was destroyed, no doubt about it. Luckily there was no one in his rooms or above them, so the tower’s other occupants should easily escape.

Not the king, though. King Nicholas the Stupid is trapped by his own mouldering experiments.

There was a window, of course. Nicholas was a great believer in the benefits of good ventilation. He was a devotee of meditation too, but this was hardly the time for it.

The king stuffed a towel under the door, to stop a draught inviting the fire in, and flung the window wide. Glass and brickwork tumbled past his open window, and the entire structure shuddered as another explosion shook the tower. Nicholas poked his head out for a sideways peek just in time to see a plume of multicoloured smoke expelled from his lounge.

There go the fuel jars.

Below, the courtyard was in chaos. The fire division, to their credit, had already hauled the pump wagon to the base of the tower, and were cranking up some water pressure. If there was one thing they had plenty of on the Saltees, it was water. On any other day, the salt sea spray would have doused the fire, but today in spite of a stiff breeze, the sea was as flat as a polished mirror.

One man stood near the base of the tower. He cut a jaunty figure in his French aviator’s jacket and feathered cap. At his feet lay a large leather valise, and he seemed quite amused by the entire exploding tower situation.

Nicholas recognized him immediately, and called down.

‘Victor Vigny. You came?’

The man beamed, a startlingly white smile from the centre of his tanned face.

‘I came,’ he shouted in the French accent you would expect from one in such attire. ‘And a good thing I did, Nick. It seems like you still haven’t learned to keep a safe laboratory.’

Another explosion. Blue smoke and a shudder that rattled the tower to its foundations. The king ducked out of sight, then reappeared in the window.

‘Very well, Victor. Banter over and done. Time to get me down from here. Any of that famous Vigny ingenuity make it across the Atlantic?’

Victor Vigny grunted, then cast an eye around the courtyard. The fire wagon had a ladder hooked on its flank, a rope too. Neither was long enough to reach the king.

‘Who designed this thing?’ he muttered, hefting the coiled rope on to his shoulder. ‘Tall towers and short ladders. Just goes to show, there are idiots everywhere.’

‘What are you doing?’ asked a member of the fire brigade. ‘Who said you could take that?’

Vigny jerked a thumb skywards. ‘Him.’

The fireman frowned. ‘God?’

The Frenchman winced. Idiots everywhere. ‘Not quite so lofty, mon ami.’

The fireman glanced upwards, catching sight of the king in the window.

‘Do what he says,’ roared Nicholas. ‘That man has saved my life in the past, and I trust him to do it again.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty. I am at your… at his service.’

Victor pointed at the ladder. ‘Lean that against the wall, below the window.’

‘It won’t reach,’ said the fireman, eager to say something intelligent.

‘Just do it, monsieur. Your king is getting a little hot under the collar.’

The fireman grabbed a comrade and together they propped the ladder against the tower. Victor Vigny was halfway up before the stiles hit the wall.

The tower transmitted its vibrations into the rungs, and Victor knew that it wouldn’t be long before it blew its top, like a plugged cannon. The king’s apartment and everything above it would soon be no more than dust and memories.

He quickly reached the top of the ladder and, threading his legs through the rungs, he slid the rope off his shoulder and down his arm.

‘Nimble, ain’t he?’ commented the fireman to his partner. ‘But as I intelligently said, that there ladder don’t reach.’

The debris was showering down now, lumps, shards and entire granite blocks. There was no avoiding it for the three men working at the ladder. They bore the blows with hunched shoulders and grunts.

‘Lean it back,’ Victor called down, sweat dripping from his face. He tore his feathered cap off as it caught fire, revealing the shock of spiked hair that had earned him the nickname La Brosse. ‘You owe me a hat, Nicholas. I’ve had that one since New Orleans.’

The firemen took the weight of ladder and Parisian, pulling him three feet back from the tower wall. Victor Vigny took half a dozen coils in his hand and sent them spinning upwards. He had judged the coils accurately, landing the spliced end directly in King Nicholas’s hand.

‘Tie her off strong now, and be quick about it.’

Victor cinched the rope to the top rung, and then slid down the stiles as fast as he could without stripping the skin from his palms.

‘Ladder don’t reach,’ the fireman pointed out, while Victor plunged his hands into the nearest fire bucket.

‘I know that, monsieur. But the ladder reaches the rope, and the rope reaches the king.’

‘Ah,’ said the fireman.

‘Now stand back. If I know your king, that tower has more explosives in it than a similarly sized cannon. I believe we may be about to shoot down the moon.’

The fire brigade gave up. They couldn’t pump enough pressure to reach the blaze, and even if they could that fire was all sorts of colours and pouring water on it could just make it angry.

So they stood back out of the spitting castle’s range, waiting to see if the last male Trudeau in the line could save himself from death by fire or fall.

Inside the bathroom, King Nicholas put his Royal Doulton toilet through its most rigorous test. True, the toilet had been constructed to bear the weight of a hefty adult, but possibly not one swinging from a rope tied to its piping. With a dripping towel draped over his forehead, the king put four loops around the evacuation pipe and a few hitches on the end.

I really hope that pipe does not burst. Being burned alive is bad enough, without being found covered in waste.

The bathroom’s stout wooden door was cracking with heat, as though soldiers battered from without. The steel bands buckled, sending rivets pinging around the room like ricocheting bullets.

Nicholas struggled on, wiping his eyes with the towel, inching towards the dim yellow triangle that must be the window. There was no thinning of the smoke, just a faint glow in its centre.

Just follow the rope, he told himself. It’s not difficult. Move forward and don’t let go of the rope.

Nicholas tumbled through the window, remembering to hold on to the rope. He juddered to a halt at the end of its slack, like a condemned man on a gibbet.

‘Quit your dossing, Nick!’ hollered Victor Vigny. ‘Get yourself down. One hand after the other. Even a simpleton like this fireman here could manage it.’

‘I could indeed!’ shouted the fireman, deciding he would worry about the insult later, if at all.

Below the plume of smoke, King Nicholas could breath again. Each successive gasp of fresh air drove the toxins from his system and returned strength to his limbs.

‘Come down, man! I didn’t travel from New York City to watch you swing.’

Nicholas grinned, his teeth a flash of white. ‘I almost died, Victor. Some sympathy would be nice.’ These simple sentences were a considerable effort, and each phrase was punctuated by a fit of coughing.

‘That’s it now,’ said Vigny. ‘The old Nick. Down you come.’

The king came down slowly, his journey interrupted by several explosions. Once his feet had found purchase on the top rung, Nicholas descended quickly. There were other lives at stake here after all, and if he got Victor killed because of his own monumental carelessness, the Frenchman would plague him from the afterlife.

Victor had him by the elbows before his boots touched the cobbles, whisking the king away to the relative safety of the keep. They watched from behind an open gorge tower as the king’s ladder was seared and blackened.

‘What the devil was in there?’ asked Victor.

The king’s throat whistled with each laboured breath. ‘Some gunpowder. Fireworks. A couple of jars of experimental fuel, Swedish blasting oil. Fuse tape. We have been using the old grain store beneath as a temporary armoury. And, of course, fertilizer.’

‘Fertilizer?’

‘Fertilizer is important on the Saltees, Victor. It’s the future.’ He remembered something. ‘Isabella. I must show her that I am unharmed. She must see for herself.’ He cast his gaze around the courtyard. ‘I don’t see her. I don’t… Of course. Someone has taken her to safety. She is safe, isn’t she, Victor?’

Victor Vigny did not meet his friend’s gaze, his eyes were directed instead over the king’s shoulder at the tower’s parapet wall. There were two somethings in the midst of the smoke and flame. Two someones. A boy and a girl. Perhaps nine or ten years of age.

‘Mon Dieu,’ breathed the Frenchman. ‘Mon Dieu.’

The turret roof was completely gone now apart from ragged blocks round the walls, as though the dragon had grown and now occupied the entire tower. Through swathes of smoke and flame, Conor could see crumbling masonry and falling beams.

A thick column of smoke coughed from the tower, which had effectively become a chimney, drawing air from below to feed the fire. The smoke rose like a giant gnarled tree, black against the summer sky.

Isabella was not in the least hysterical, instead an eerie calm had descended over her, and she stood on the parapet, eyes glazed as though she were half asleep and uncertain of the reality of the situation.

The only way down is to fly, thought Conor. It had long been his dream to fly once more, but these were not the perfect conditions.

He had almost flown on his fifth birthday when the Broekharts had gone on a day trip to Hook Head in Ireland to see the famous lighthouse. Conor’s present had been a large kite in the Saltee colours. They set it loose on a windswept seaside pasture and a sudden gust had lifted Conor to the tips of his toes, and would have dragged him out to sea, had his father not grabbed his elbow.

Kite. Saltee colours. The flag.

On the parapet, Conor pounced on the flagpole, pulling at the knots holding the bamboo frame. The knots twisted in his hands, pulled by the wind that flapped the flag in its frame.

‘Help me, Isabella,’ he cried. ‘We must untie the flag.’

‘Forget the flag, Captain Crow,’ said Isabella dully. ‘Leave the goat too. I don’t like goats. Sneaky little beards.’

Conor struggled on with the knots. The ropes were thicker than his slim fingers, but they were brittle from the heat and fell apart quickly. With one momentous wrench, he pulled the flapping flag out of the wind, wrestling it to the parapet. It bucked and cracked under him like a magic carpet, but Conor kept it secure with his own body.

He could barely see Isabella now. She was like a ghost in the smoke. He tried to call her, but smoke went down his throat faster than words could come up. He retched and arrked like a seal, flapping his arms at the princess. She ignored him, deciding instead to lie down on the parapet and wait for her father.

Conor fumbled with his belt buckle, pulling the leather strip out from the loops of his trousers’ waistband. Then he rolled on to his back, and passed the belt behind the flag’s bamboo diagonals.

This is an insane plan. You are not a pirate on some fantastic adventure.

This wasn’t a plan, there was no time for plans. This was a desperate act.

In the melee of smoke, explosions and jets of flame, Conor struggled to his feet, keeping the flag’s tip low, hiding it from the wind.

Not yet. Not yet.

He almost stumbled over Isabella. She seemed to be asleep. There was no reaction when his fingers pulled at her face.

Dead. Is she dead?

The nine-year-old boy felt tears flow over his cheeks, and was ashamed. He needed to be strong for the princess. Be a hero like his papa.

What would Captain Declan Broekhart do?

Conor imagined his father’s face in front of him.

Try something, Conor. Use that big brain your mother is always talking about. Build your flying machine.

Not a machine, Papa. There is no mechanism. This is a kite.

Flame was climbing the parapet wall, blackening the stone with its fiery licks. Crossbeams, carpets, files and furniture tumbled into the hungry fire, feeding it.

Conor lifted the princess, dragging his friend upright.

‘What?’ she said grumpily. Then the smoke filled her windpipe and any words dissolved into a coughing fit.

Conor stood straight, feeling the massive flag flap and crackle in the wind.

‘It’s like a big kite, Isabella,’ he rasped, words like glass in his throat. ‘I will hold you round the waist, like this, and then we move to…’

Conor never finished his instructions, because a further explosion, funnelled by the tower caused a massive updraught, plucking the two children from the parapet and sending the flag spinning into open air like a giant autumn leaf.

The circumstances were unique. Had they jumped, as was Conor’s plan, they would not have had enough height for the flag to slow their descent. But the updraught caught in their makeshift kite and spun them up another hundred feet, and took them out over the sea. They hung there, in the sky, at the plateau of the air tunnel. Weightless. Sky above and sea below.

I am flying, thought Conor Broekhart. I remember this.

Then the flying finished and the falling started, and though it was drastically slowed by the flag, it seemed devilishly swift. Sights dissolved into a kaleidoscope of fractured blues and silvers.

The flag caught a low breeze and flipped. Conor watched the clouds swirl above him, stretching to creamy streams. And all the time he held on to Isabella so tightly his fingers ached.

He was crying and laughing and he knew it would be painful when they hit the water.

They crashed into the ocean. It was painful.

When he saw his daughter on the parapet, King Nicholas had tried to scramble up the tower like a dog climbing out of a well. In seconds his nails were torn and fingers bloody.

Victor Vigny had dragged him away from the wall.

‘Wait, Nick. This is not over yet. Wait. The boy… he’s…’

Nicholas’s eyes were wild and anguished. ‘What? He’s what?’

‘You have to see it. Come now. We need a boat, in case the wind takes them.’

‘A boat? A boat? What are you saying?’

‘Come, Nick. Come.’

Nicholas howled and dropped to his knees as his daughter flew into the air.

Victor watched, amazed. This boy. He was special, whoever he was. Maybe nine, no more than ten. What ingenuity.

The explosion took them high, Victor watched their trajectory and then set off for the pier at a run, dragging the king behind him.

‘The flag could drown them,’ he puffed. ‘The frame will collapse and the flag will wrap around them both.’

The king had recovered himself and soon outstripped the others through a trader’s gate and down to the jetty. There were already half a dozen boats on their way to the fallen flag. The first to reach them was a small quay punt, sculled across the wave tops by two muscled fishermen. A line of slower vessels trailed behind them to the pier.

‘Alive?’ Nicholas roared, but the distance was too great. ‘Are they alive?’

The flag was pulled from the sea and wet bundles rolled from it. Victor caught the king and gripped his shoulder tight.

The little punt spun in a tight circle and the fishermen pulled for shore, their oars kicking spume from the water. The news travelled faster than they could, passed from one boat to the next. The words, inaudible at first, became clearer with each fresh call.

‘Alive. Alive. Both of them.’

Nicholas sank to his knees and thanked God. Victor smiled first, and then began to clap with delight.

‘I came to teach the princess,’ he shouted to no one in particular. ‘But I will teach that boy too, or perhaps he will teach me.’

CHAPTER 2: LA BROSSE

Conor Broekhart was quite the hero for a time. It seemed as though everyone on the island visited him at the castle infirmary to listen to the tale of his improvised glider, and to knock for luck on the gypsum cast on his broken leg.

Isabella came every day, and often brought her father, King Nicholas. On one of these visits he brought his sword.

‘I didn’t want to jump off the tower,’ Conor objected. ‘I couldn’t think of another way.’

‘No, no,’ said Nicholas. ‘This is the Trudeau ceremonial sword. I am making you a peer.’

‘You are making me appear?’ said Conor doubtfully. ‘Is this a magical trick?’

Nicholas smiled. ‘In a way. One touch of this sword and you become Sir Conor Broekhart. Your father then becomes Lord Broekhart; of course your mother will become Lady Broekhart.’

Conor was still a little worried about the crusader’s blade five inches from his nose.

‘I don’t have to kiss that, do I?’

‘No, just touch the blade. Even one finger will do. We will have a proper ceremony when you are well.’

Conor ran a finger along the shining blade. It sang under his touch.

Nicholas put the sword aside. ‘Arise, Sir Conor. Not straight away, of course. Take your time. When you are well, I have a new teacher for you. A very special man who worked with me when I flew balloons. I think that you, of all people, will really like him.’

Balloons!

As far as Conor was concerned the king could keep his peerage, so long as he could fly balloons.

‘I am feeling much better, Your Majesty. Perhaps I could meet this man today.’

‘Steady on, Sir Conor,’ laughed the king. ‘I will ask him to drop by tomorrow. He has a few drawings you might like to look at. Something about heavier-than-air flying machines.’

‘Thank you, Your Majesty. I look forward to it.’

The king chuckled, ruffling Conor’s hair.

‘You saved my daughter, Conor. You saved her from my carelessness and her own tinkering fingers. I will never forget that. Never.’ He winked. ‘And neither will she.’

The king left, leaving his daughter behind. She had not spoken for the entire meeting, indeed she had not said much to Conor since the accident. But today some of the old light was back in her brown eyes.

‘Sirrrrr Conor,’ she said rolling the title around in her mouth like a hard sweet. ‘It’s going to be more difficult to have you hanged now.’

‘Thank you, Isabella.’

The princess leaned in to knock on his cast.

‘No, Sir Conor Broekhart. Thank you.’

Someone else came to see Conor that day, late in the evening when the nurse had shooed his mother home. The infirmary was deserted save for the night nurse who sat at her station at the end of the corridor. She drew a curtain round Conor’s bed and left a light on so that he could read his book.

Conor leafed through George Cayley’s On Ariel Navigation, which theorized that a fixed-wing aircraft with some form of engine and a ruddered tail could possibly carry a man through the air.

Heavy reading for a nine-year-old. In truth Conor skipped more words than he knew, but with each pass he understood more.

Engine and tail, he thought. Better than a flying flag at any rate. And fell asleep dreaming of a shining sword wrapped in a flag, sinking in Saint George’s Channel.

He awoke to the sound of a boot heel scraping on stone, and the heavy sigh of a large man. A sigh so guttural that it was almost a growl. This was a sound to make a boy decide to pretend that he was still asleep. Conor opened his eyes the merest slit, careful to keep his breathing deep and regular.

There was a man in his bedside chair, his massive frame swathed in shadows. By the red cross on his breast he saw it was one of the Holy Cross Guard. Marshall Bonvilain himself.

Conor’s breath hitched, and he covered it with a small moan, as though plagued by night terrors.

What could Bonvilain want here? At this hour?

Sir Hugo was the direct descendant of Percy Bonvilain who had served under the first Trudeau king seven centuries before. Historically the Bonvilain’s were high commanders of the Saltee Army and were also given leave to assemble their own Holy Cross Guard, which at one time was used to conduct raids to the mainland or hired out to European kings as professional soldiers. The current Bonvilain was the last in the line and the most powerful. In fact, Sir Hugo would have been declared prime minister some years earlier when King Hector died, had not a genealogist discovered Nicholas Trudeau eking out a living as an aeronaut in the United States.

Sir Hugo was an unusual combination of warrior and wit. He had the bulk of a lifelong soldier, but also the ability to present devastating argument in a surprisingly mellow voice.

If that Saltee fellow don’t cut you one way, he does it t’other, Benjamin Disraeli reportedly said of the marshall.

Conor had once heard his father say that Bonvilain’s only weakness was his burning distrust of other nations, especially France. The marshall had once heard a rumour of the existence of a French army of spies, La Légion Noire, whose mission was to gather intelligence on Saltee defences. Bonvilain spent thousands of guineas hunting members of the fictitious group.

Bonvilain’s breath was deep and regular as though he were resting; only a gloved finger tapping his knee betrayed that he was awake.

‘Asleep, boy?’ he said suddenly, his voice all honey and menace. ‘Or maybe awake, feigning sleep.’

Conor held his silence, shutting his eyes tight – suddenly, without reason, terrified.

Bonvilain hunched forward on his chair. ‘I never really took notice of you before now, little Broekhart. The first time, you were a baby. But this time, this time it could fairly be said that you… saved someone who should be dead. Broekharts. Always Broekharts.’

Conor heard leather stretch and creak, as Hugo Bonvilain clenched a gloved fist.

‘So I wanted to see you. I like to know the faces of my… of my king’s friends.’

Conor could smell the marshall’s cologne, feel his breath.

‘But I have said too much already, boy. You need peace and quiet to recuperate from your miraculous escape. Truly miraculous. But remember that I am watching you, very closely. The knights are watching you.’

Bonvilain stood in a rustle of the Holy Cross sheath he wore over his suit.

‘Very well, young Broekhart, time for me to go. Perhaps I was never here. Perhaps you are dreaming. It might be better for you if you were.’

The curtain round his bed swished as the marshall took his leave.

Conor dared to open his eyes after a moment to find Bonvilain’s face an inch from his own.

‘Ah, awake after all. Capital. I forgot to knock the cast. I could certainly benefit from some of your luck.’

Conor lay rigid and silent as the marshall hoisted his broken leg uncomfortably high, then administered two sharp raps on the gypsum cast.

‘Let us hope you don’t give away all of that wondrous luck, young Broekhart. You might be needing it.’

Bonvilain winked, and was gone, the curtain rippling behind him like a ghost.

Perhaps it was a dream after all. Just a nightmare.

But the dull pain from Bonvilain’s hoisting still throbbed in his leg. Conor Broekhart slept little for the rest of the night.

Of the billion and a half of people on Earth, there were perhaps five hundred that could have helped Conor achieve his potential as a pilot of the skies. One of these was King Nicholas Trudeau and another was Victor Vigny. That these three should be brought together at such a time of industrious invention was little short of miraculous.

The race for flight is littered with such fortuitous groupings. William Samuel Henson and John Stringfellow, Joseph Louis Gay-Lussac and Jean Baptiste Biot, and of course Charles Green and the astronomer Spencer Rush. The Wright brothers can hardly be included in this category, as it was almost inevitable that they would meet, sleeping as they did in the same bed chamber.

Conor had long known of King Nicholas’s interest in ballooning, after all it had been his livelihood for many years. Conor and Isabella had spent many nights by the fireside in Nicholas’s apartment enthralled by the king’s dramatic tellings of his airborne adventures. Victor Vigny was a familiar figure in these stories. He was generally presented as small in stature, broad of accent, timid and inevitably in need of rescue by King Nicholas.

The Victor Vigny that Conor met on his first day of instruction did not tally with King Nicholas’s description. He was neither tiny nor timid, and according to castle talk, it was Victor Vigny who had rescued the king.

The day after his release from the infirmary, Conor limped into Victor’s quarters on the second storey of the main building. This particular apartment had always been set aside for visiting royalty, but now the Parisian seemed firmly ensconced. The walls were covered with charts, and celestial models hung from the ceiling. A skeleton in the corner wore a scorched feathered cap and a scimitar was clutched in his bony grip. There were more swords in a rack, arranged from light to heavy. Foil, sabre, broadsword.

The man himself was on the balcony, stripped to the waist, performing some kind of exercise. He was a tall muscled man, and seemed by his movements not in the least timid.

Conor thought he would watch a while before interrupting. The Parisian’s movements were slow and precise. Fluid and controlled. Conor had the impression that this particular discipline was more difficult than it looked.

‘It’s not polite to spy,’ said Victor, without turning, his accent not so broad but definitely French. ‘You are not a spy, are you?’

‘I am not spying,’ said Conor. ‘I am learning.’

Vigny straightened, then adopted a new position, knees bent, arms stretched to the side.

‘That is a very good answer,’ he said, grinning. ‘Come out here.’

Conor limped to the balcony.

‘This is called t’ai chi. Practised since the fourteenth century in China. I learned it from a juggler on the fair circuit. That man claimed to be a hundred and twenty years old. A regimen for mind and body. It will be our first lesson every day. Followed by Okinawan Karate and then fencing. After breakfast we open the books. Science, mathematics, history and fiction. Mostly in the area of aeronautics, which happens to be my passion, jeune homme. Yours too, I’ll wager, judging by your kite-flying exploits.’

Karate and aeronautics. These did not sound like traditional occupations for a princess.

‘Will Isabella be coming?’

‘Not until eleven. She has needlepoint, etiquette and heraldry until then, though she may occasionally join us for fencing. So, for four hours every day, we can learn how to fight and how to fly.’

Conor smiled. Fighting and flying. His last teacher had started the day with Latin and poetry. Sometimes Latin poetry. Fighting and flying sounded much more enjoyable.

‘Now, how does the leg feel?’ asked Victor, pulling on a shirt.

‘Broken,’ said Conor.

‘Ah, not only a flyer but a joker. No doubt you’ll be spouting witticisms as your glider plunges into the side of a mountain.’

Glider? thought Conor. I am to have a glider. And something about a mountain?

Victor took a step back, folded his arms and took measure of his pupil. ‘You have potential,’ he said at last. ‘A slim build. The best for an airman. Most people don’t realize that flying a balloon takes a degree of athleticism, quick reactions and so forth. I imagine piloting an engine-driven heavier-than-air flying machine will take much more.’

Conor’s heart thumped in his chest.

A flying machine?

‘And you have brains. Your tower rescue proved that. More brains than that king of yours. Stocking a laboratory with explosives. He’s been doing that for years you know; it was only a matter of time. As for your personality, Princess Isabella says that you are not the most odious person in the castle, and coming from a female that is high praise indeed, Sir Conor.’

Conor winced. His title still sounded outrageous to him. If it were never used again, he would be happier. Though he had noticed today that cook gave him a toffee apple for no particular reason. And curtsied too. Curtsied? This was the same cook who had battered his backside with a floury rolling pin not two weeks before.

‘So, are you ready to learn, lad?’

Conor nodded. ‘Yes, sir. More than ready, eager.’

‘Good,’ said Victor. ‘Excellent. Now, hobble this way. I have some unguents that should help that leg of yours on its way to soundness. And exercises too, for the toes.’

All of this sounded far-fetched, but no more so than an engine-driven, heavier-than-air flying machine. It was the age of discovery and Conor was prepared to believe anything.

Victor pulled a ceramic jar from a high shelf. The lid was waxed canvas, tied on with reeds. When the cover came off, the smell was like nothing or nowhere Conor had ever smelled or been.

‘An African man from the Sahara – had a camel act – taught me how to make this.’ He took a dollop on two fingers and smeared it where the cast met Conor’s leg, below the knee. ‘Let it seep down under the cast. Smells like Beelzebub’s backside, but, when the gypsum comes off, the bad leg will be better than the good one.’

The unguent sent Conor’s skin tingling. Hot and cold at the same time.

‘If we are scientists,’ he said, keeping his tone respectful, ‘why do we need to fight?’

Victor Vigny sealed the pot, thinking about his answer. ‘I fully expect, Conor Broekhart, that between the two of us, we will learn to fly, and when that day comes, when we reveal our wondrous machine, someone will come to steal it from us. It has happened to me before. I built a glider from willow and silk: beautiful. She made the air sing when she passed. I flew a monkey over a hundred feet. For six weeks I was the toast of the fair. Tent full every night.’

Conor could see the glider in his mind. A monkey. Fabulous.

‘What happened?’

‘There was a Russian knife thrower. He came around to my wagon one night, with half a dozen friends. They burned my glider to ashes, and gave me a few licks to send me on my way. Threatened, you see, by progress. When the choices are a flying monkey or a knife thrower, who would pick the knife thrower?’

‘The knife thrower’s mother perhaps.’

Victor ran his fingers through his black hair to ensure it was appropriately erect. ‘Maybe, funny jeune homme. But then again, the females love a nice monkey. Many’s the mother would ignore her own kin for the chance to gawk at an airborne simian. The point being that, when the knife throwers come, you must be prepared.’

Conor thought about Marshall Bonvilain’s visit.

Let us hope you don’t give away all of that wondrous luck, young Broekhart. You might be needing it.

‘Where do we start?’ he asked.

Victor plucked a slim blade from the rack. ‘We start at the heart of swordplay,’ he said, slicing the air till it whistled. ‘With the foil.’

And so work began.

In later, darker times, when Conor Broekhart, alone and disheartened, remembered the life that was his, the handful of years with Victor Vigny always stood out as the happiest.

They studied martial arts, pugilism and weapons.

‘The first true fencing master to leave us an actual method of arms was Achille Marozzo,’ Victor told his pupil. ‘His Opera Nova is now your bible. Read it until it becomes a part of you. When that one is ragged, then we move back in time to Filippo Vadi.’

They spent hours on training mats putting the masters’ theories into practice.

‘First you learn to hold a sword. Think of it as a conductor’s baton. Used properly, there is not an untrained man in the world who can stand against you.’

With buttoned swords, Conor learned to thrust, parry, feint, double and riposte. He lost pints of liquid each morning in sweat, then replaced them with a jug of Victor’s foul-tasting Oriental tea.

His first weapon was a short foil, but as his wrists grew stronger he progressed to épée, sabre and rapier. Victor sawed the cast off Conor’s leg a month early, but forced him to wear a soaked bandage instead that turned his leg yellow, along with all his bed linen.

‘More circus tricks?’ Conor had asked.

‘No,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘An American friend of mine is a miracle worker with poultices and pots. Actually Nick has sent for him. I will tell you more when he has finished his work.’ And would say no more on the subject.

Victor had little time for anything heavier than a cutlass.

‘No broadsword, unless you plan to go on a crusade, and even then look what happened to the crusaders. While they were hefting their broadswords, Saladin was sticking his scimitar into their armpits.’

The Frenchman introduced Conor to escapology.

‘Scientists are the enemies of tradition,’ he said, dumping a box of assorted handcuffs on the table. ‘And tradition owns all the prisons.’

And so, more hours were spent picking locks and chewing knots. Conor found the t’ai chi most valuable when he was tied to a chair with a tantalizing apple shining at him from the table. He was now able to reach parts of his own body that previously he could not have located with a backscratcher and mirror.

Victor was a great believer in the right man for the job.

‘You need to talk to your father about guns,’ he told Conor. ‘Nick tells me that Declan Broekhart is the finest shot he has ever seen, and we spent a summer with Wild Bill Hickok in Abilene, so that’s high praise.’

Declan was delighted to help with his son’s education, and began taking Conor on Wall patrol, and down to the shooting range with a duffel bag of arms. He shot Colts, Remingtons, Vetterli-Vitalis, Spencers, Winchesters and a dozen other models. Conor was a quick study, and a natural marksman.

‘For your fourteenth birthday you shall have your own Sharps,’ his father promised him. ‘By then we should know what would suit your shoulder. I would give you one for your next, but your mother says ten is too young.’

The only weapon Victor did give Conor a few pointers on was his prized Colt Peacemaker, which Wild Bill himself had given him.

‘He invited me to come to Deadwood with him,’ he told Conor. ‘But it was not the right career choice for an aeronaut. Prospectors tend to shoot down balloons. Also I am too handsome for a prospecting town.’

All of these physical lessons were fine, but what Conor really yearned for was a mental challenge. Victor had promised him that they would build a flying machine, and the Frenchman did not disappoint. The ability to defend oneself was a necessity, but the race for flight was an obsession.

‘And it is a race, jeune homme,’ he told Conor, one morning as they stretched silk over a balsa wing frame. The wood had been part of a special shipment from Peru. ‘Many of the world’s greatest inventors and adventurers have turned their attention to this problem. Man will fly; it is inevitable. More than twenty years ago, Cayley’s triplane glider carried a passenger. Wenham and Browning have built a wind tunnel to study drag. Alphonse Pénaud was so certain of his designs that he drew up plans for retractable landing gear. Retractable! The race is on, Conor, make no mistake, and we must be first past the finishing line. Fortunately, the king supports our efforts, so we will not want for funds. Nicholas knows what the power of flight would mean to the Saltees. The islands would no longer be cut off from the world. Diamonds could be transported without threat from bandits. Medicines could be flown in from Europe. Flown in, Conor.’

Conor did think about this. He thought of nothing else. Any free minutes he had were taken up with sketching plans or building models. He forgot all about pirate games and insect eating.

Sometimes his father despaired. ‘Wouldn’t you like to make a friend? Perhaps play in the mud, get yourself dirty?’

But Conor’s mother was delighted that their son had inherited her own love of science. ‘Our boy is a scientist, Declan,’ she would say as she helped him to cover a wing, or carve a propeller. ‘The race for flight will hardly be won in the mud.’

Conor made a lampshade for the light in his room. A paper screen painstakingly decorated with depictions of da Vinci’s flapping-wing device, a Montgolfier balloon and Kaufman’s theoretical flying steam engine. Heat from the bulb rotated the shade at night, and Conor would lie in bed watching projections of these fabulous machines drift across his ceiling.

One day, he would think dreamily. One day.

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 wienerbrØd 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.’

CHAPTER 4: TREASON AND PLOT

Conor did not return home after his meeting with Isabella; he was too elated. He felt as though his heart were half its previous mass. Somehow, against all the laws of science, just sharing his thoughts with the princess seemed to make him lighter. So even though he was already late, Conor decided to preserve the feeling by passing an hour alone in his favourite hideaway. Somewhere he had not been for several months.

More times than he could remember, Conor’s parents had forbidden him to climb the keep turret. In general, he respected their wishes, but every boy has some secret transgression that he cannot surrender. For Conor, it was his perch high in the eaves below the north-east turret. This was the place where he felt closest to his nature, where he felt that the race for flight could actually be won by a boy and his teacher.

But this evening he was not thinking about heavier-than-air flying machines as he squeezed out through a medieval murder hole, and clambered along the ivy to the wooden trestles that had been put in after the chemical fire in Nicholas’s apartment. Tonight he was thinking about Isabella. Nothing specific. Just contented, warm thoughts. As soon as his back rested on the tower’s familiar mouldings, Conor felt a familiar peace settle over him. He was surprised to find the spot a tight squeeze. Soon, he would outgrow this hiding place, and he would have to find another high spot to dream of flight.

Conor sat, watching the sun set over the ocean, sharing the view with the dozen or so gulls that hoped against hope that someone would leave an open barrel of fish inside the curtain wall. Across the bay he could see a large fire somewhere in Kilmore, and the beam from the Hook Head lighthouse already cast its cone of light across Saint George’s Channel. It was a beautiful early summer night and presently the narrow patch of water between the Saltees glimmered with moonshine as though bridged.

Directly below his feet, a team of guards were running a cannon drill. And on the Great Saltee Wall, Conor was sure he could see his father striding between watch posts, dark cloak flapping behind him.

He was not tempted to call out. Better to delay his next punishment for this offence as long as possible.

Conor, I could search the world for another swashbuckling scientist, but I doubt if I would find one like you.

He smiled at the echo of the words in his mind.

Conor’s thoughts were interrupted by a regular scraping along the stone inside the tower. Feet on the steps. In all his climbs to this lofty spot, the only footsteps Conor had ever heard on those steps besides his own were his father’s coming to fetch him down. Declan Broekhart was fifty feet below on the Wall, and so it could not be him.

Conor twisted slightly in his cramped position, so that he could hang back on a creeper and peep in through the murder hole’s leaded glass. The wind caught his hair as he leaned from shelter, and he had a sudden powerful recollection of how he used to adopt this same position as a younger boy.

I would pretend to fly. I remember that.

Conor smiled at the memory.

Soon, there will be no need to pretend. Victor and I will design the machine, and I will fly it past Isabella’s window.

A figure moved inside the turret. Conor saw a shadow first, made jumpy by a jarred lamp, then the dark shape of the lantern held low to light the steps only. Shards of light flickered across the deep folds of cloth and face. The colour red sprang to life under the light. A red cross. Then a heavy brow and glittering eyes. Bonvilain.

Conor stayed still as a gargoyle. Bonvilain had almost inhuman perception. He could spot a seal’s head in stormy seas. The marshall would have good reason not to approve of Conor’s loitering so close to the king’s offices, and could justifiably shoot him as a traitor.

I will sit without breathing or stirring, until the marshall is well gone. Then home quickly.

The sight of Bonvilain’s sharply shadowed features had quite sucked the joy from the evening. That would have been the end of the day’s adventures, had not something else gleamed in the lamplight. Something that Conor knew well. A long-barrelled revolver, with a band of pearl grip poking from below Bonvilain’s fingers.

It was, without the shadow of a doubt, Victor’s Colt Peacemaker. This was extremely curious. Why would Marshall Bonvilain be prowling the serving passages of the castle with Victor’s pistol?

You’re making a mistake. That can’t be Victor’s gun.

But it was. Conor’s keen eye had picked out enough detail to know he was not mistaken. He had studied the gun countless times, breath fogging the glass case.

There must be a thousand explanations for this. Just because you do not know the reason, doesn’t mean there isn’t one.

It was true and sensible, but Conor was a boy and a scientist, the most curious breed of human alive, and he could no more turn away from this than a convict could ignore an open door. If Bonvilain had Victor’s gun, then his teacher should know about it, and know why. His teacher had long suspected that the marshall was not to be trusted and here could be the proof.

Conor waited several moments, until the last light of Bonvilain’s lantern danced past and darkness had closed behind the marshall, then swung himself monkeylike to the sill built into the murder hole, an action that would have had his parents clutching their hearts in shock.

Had the window creaked on his way to the murder hole? He couldn’t remember as it hadn’t been of vital importance at the time. Conor tested it with a gentle prod. No creaking, just a slight rasp of dust in the hinges. Safe enough, surely.

He slipped inside, arms first, walking along the floor with his hands until his feet dropped to the floor behind him.

Conor crouched on the uneven granite, listening. The sound of his own breath hitting the stone seemed enormous. Bonvilain would hear it surely.

But no. The marshall’s footsteps continued at their previous pace and Conor could see faint flickers from the lamp ahead. He turned his face to the light, and followed Bonvilain up the spiral staircase on all fours, feeling his way, staying low.

This passage led to the serving door in King Nicholas’s own apartment, which was bolted shut and guarded whenever the king was in residence, but when Conor slid his head round the corner, the door was unguarded and wide open. No guard meant no king. And if King Nicholas was not in his apartments, why would Bonvilain be skulking around up here, armed with another man’s pistol?

A myriad reasons. There are things that you do not know. For example, King Nicholas may have asked for the gun so that he could have a replica made for Victor, to complete the set. A birthday present.

Unlikely, but possible.

Conor crept through the doorway, quiet as the curious breed of tailless Manx cat that had taken hold on the island. The light ahead was dim, but steady. Bonvilain was still. Had he heard something or was he listening to something? Waiting or spying?

Conor’s stomach twinged. He should go back now. Really. Interfering in the marshall’s business was a serious business. Bonvilain was never reluctant to cry traitor, and good men had been gaoled for less.

But the revolver. Victor’s revolver.

Half a dozen steps more, Conor promised his prudent half. I will peek round the next bend, then retire. Little or no risk.

Not exactly true, but Conor proceeded nonetheless, searching out every step with probing fingers before mounting it. He hugged the floor and wall, seeking the darkest shadows and inched his face around the final twist in the stairs.

Bonvilain was half a dozen steps above; the lantern rested at his feet, casting sharp triangles of light upwards. His face appeared demonic in this light, but it was just the angle. Surely.

Suddenly Bonvilain’s head turned towards Conor’s position, and he had to fight every instinct not to stand up and flee. He was invisible, cloaked by the dark. After a long breathless moment, Conor realized that the marshall’s main intention was not to cast his eyes down the stairway, but to move his ear closer to the wall. He was listening to something. Or, more likely, someone.

And another detail, in his left hand a dark lump. Light glinted on a chiselled edge and Conor saw that Bonvilain held a brick. He had removed a small brick from the wall and was eavesdropping on whoever was in the king’s apartment.

Words floated down the stairwell, and because of the turret’s acoustics they were as clear to Conor as they doubtless were to Bonvilain himself.

The king’s voice. And Victor’s. So the marshall spied on his own king.

Conor closed his eyes and strained his ears, trying to make sense of what he heard, when what he should have been doing was running just as fast as his young legs would carry him. Running to fetch his father.

Inside the king’s apartment, Victor Vigny was seated in one of a pair of Louis XV armchairs by the fireplace. The main door crashed open and in bounded King Nicholas, balancing two frosted tankards on a tray. With great pomp and much bowing Nicholas I presented Victor with a cold glass of beer.

‘That is fantastic,’ said Victor after a deep swig. ‘Colder than the backside of a polar bear. The refrigerator is working well, I see.’

Nicholas sat and took a drink from his own glass. ‘Perfectly, though the ammonia is a little dangerous. Those Germans need to find a new gas.’

‘Someone will,’ said Victor, wiping away a foam moustache. ‘That’s progress.’

‘Can you imagine the benefits of reliable refrigeration?’

‘You mean beyond cold beer?’ joked Victor.

Nicholas rose to pace the floor, the subject of progress never failing to excite him.

‘We can trade with the United States. Fresh produce. And we can export too.’

‘Diamonds don’t need freezing,’ quipped Victor.

‘Other things. The Plantago. And we can freeze produce out of season, in a giant warehouse. Strawberries and salmon all year.’

Victor was suddenly serious. ‘You, my good friend, have bigger fish to worry about.’

‘What have you heard?’ asked Nicholas, sitting once more.

Victor sighed. ‘It is as bad as you feared, and worse. My man on Little Saltee tells me that Bonvilain works the prisoners to death. As far as he can tell, many of the inmates are guilty of nothing more than vagrancy. We can’t prove it yet, but by my count at least half of the diamonds go missing between the mine and the treasury.’

‘Dammit,’ swore Nicholas, hurling his glass into the fireplace. ‘Bonvilain is a plague. A blight on the Saltees. He treats the islands as his personal property. I must be rid of him.’

Victor nodded towards the fireplace. ‘A fine beginning. Crystal in the grate should have the marshall quaking in his boots.’

The king’s eyes flashed fire for a moment, but then he settled, and looked towards the grate, perhaps regretting the loss of a cold beer.

‘How long have we been together, Victor?’

‘If I answer this, will a speech be next?’

‘Oh, I am missing my beer now.’

Victor relented. ‘Twenty years, Nick. Every fair in the blessed United States, and now the top of this fine castle.’

‘All that time and what have we achieved? Victor, we can help people here. Not just a few shillings to the needy, actually help. Make things better forever. It’s all in the machines. We can build them. Look at young Conor Broekhart. Have you ever seen a mind like that?’

‘I know it,’ said Victor with a touch of pride. ‘Isabella knows it too.’

Nicholas smiled. ‘Poor Conor.’

‘I think poor Conor has no idea of the hoops Isabella will trot him through.’

The king could not stay happy long. ‘Damn him! Damn Bonvilain. He is a tyrant. I am the king, am I not? I will be rid of him.’

‘Careful, Nicholas. Sir Hugo has the army on his side. Declan Broekhart is the only one who could sway them. The men look up to him. We should invite him to one of our talks.’

The king nodded. ‘Very well. Tonight. I cannot wait another day. I will see Bonvilain in prison before the month is out. The future will only wait for so long. This island is trapped in the Middle Ages because of that man. His guards are murderous thugs and his justice is self-serving and vicious. After seven hundred years, the alliance between the Trudeau and Bonvilain families is about to come to an end.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Victor, tipping back the rest of his beer.

Bonvilain came through the serving door with the Colt already extended, walking with confident measured strides. There was no overblown villain’s preamble, Sir Hugo had been in too many life-or-death situations for that. He allowed himself one sentence only.

‘Victor Vigny, you have killed the king.’

Both Frenchman and monarch reacted quickly, neither bothering with protestations or pleadings. There was murder in Bonvilain’s eyes, not a single doubt about that. Victor hurled his body across the room to shield his friend, while Nicholas’s right hand dropped to the Smith and Wesson revolver that he always wore slung low on his hip in the American style.

Victor, the younger man, almost achieved his goal, but no matter how quick the man, the gun is quicker. Bonvilain fired and the bullet clipped the webbing between the Frenchman’s outstretched thumb and index finger, which deflected the bullet slightly, but not enough to save the king. Nicholas fell back in his chair and was dead before the Smith and Wesson dropped from his fingers.

Bonvilain grunted, satisfied, then picked up the king’s gun and turned it on Victor Vigny, who lay on the hearth rug, blood streaming from his hand.

‘You almost made the distance,’ said Bonvilain admiringly. ‘Commendable effort.’

Victor looked into the marshall’s eyes and knew his own life was over.

‘So, I am the murderer?’ he said.

‘Yes. You shot the king with your own gun. There is a test they are developing in Scotland Yard that can match the bullet to the gun. I shall have an expert shipped over. I have also employed a Dutch handwriting expert to forge letters from you to the French government detailing the Saltee defences. I ask you, do these sound like the actions of a man who has trapped the islands in the Middle Ages?’

‘Nobody will believe that I killed the king,’ protested Victor. ‘He was like a brother to me.’

Bonvilain shrugged. ‘Not many knew that. You were his secret spy, remember? Spying on me. Now, to business. I am sure you have a dirk in your boot, or a Derringer in your beard, or some other spy trickery, so fare thee well, Victor Vigny. Tell your master that the alliance between the Trudeau and Bonvilain families continues a while longer.’

‘You will never stop us all,’ cried Victor, valiantly jumping to his feet, a dirk in his hand, pulled from some fold of clothing.

Bonvilain tutted, shooting Victor four times in the chest. A little excessive perhaps, but he was understandably upset – after all, the king had been murdered.

A thought struck him.

Stop us all. What had Vigny meant by that? Were there more spies on the islands?

‘Or were you toying with me, Frenchman?’ he asked squatting down and curling Victor’s fingers around the grip of his own Colt Peacemaker. ‘Leaving a few doubts behind to prey on my mind?’

The main door opened and a sentry entered.

‘Am I supposed to come in yet?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Bonvilain, irritated that it had been necessary to involve a sentry. He would have to be disposed of at the earliest opportunity. ‘You see what has happened here? You heard the gunshots and came in. They shot each other, simple as that. You don’t need to offer any opinions. You say what you saw.’

The sentry nodded slowly, though this was not the first time he’d heard these simple instructions.

‘I say what I saw. Yes, Marshall. And you won’t kill me?’

‘Of course not, Muldoon. You wear the red cross. I don’t kill my own guards.’

Muldoon was obviously relieved. ‘Good news for me. Thank you, Marshall. I appreciate being allowed to continue with my worthless life.’

Bonvilain was struggling not to end Muldoon’s worthless life immediately. ‘You should probably go and raise the alarm.’

Muldoon bobbed his head. ‘Yes, Marshall. Absolutely. But who is that boy behind you, sir?’

Bonvilain blinked. ‘Excuse me?’

Conor was a sharp young man, and it hadn’t taken him long to realize what was happening. Apparently Victor was not just the royal tutor, he was also a spy for King Nicholas. Bonvilain must have listened to this conspiracy blossom from his spot behind the wall, and intended to put an end to it, before it put an end to him.

But why Victor’s gun?

His teacher’s own voice chided him.

For goodness’ sake, boy. Is it not obvious?

Conor paled in the darkness.

Of course. Victor’s weapon. Victor’s crime.

When Bonvilain went through the door, Conor had already formulated a rudimentary plan. He would rush through two paces behind shouting a warning. Victor should react quickly and disarm Bonvilain without undue difficulty.

He was on his feet and halfway up the stretch of stairs, when the first shot rang out.

So quickly? So quickly? Who had taken the bullet? Perhaps King Nicholas had fired first and all was well. Only one shot, after all. One shot for one man.

Conor kept moving, but carefully now. He did not want to be shot for a traitor by his king or teacher. They would be nervous, on the lookout for Bonvilain’s men, and there was no need for a warning now. It was too late, one way or the other.

The boy eased into the doorway, squinting against the sudden lamplight. His eyes adjusted in time for him to witness Victor shot down as he rushed Bonvilain. He froze, speechless, as his eyes took in the tableau of horror before him. The king, dead. Victor too. Horribly. And Bonvilain grinning and talking to himself like a madman. Now he was placing Victor’s gun in the Parisian’s hand. These events were nightmarish. Too brisk to be true. They skimmed the surface of reality like skipped stones on a flat sea.

A knock on the door, and in comes a sentry. Conor recognized him from his corridor-roaming with Isabella. A dullard, in the watch because of some relation. But a subject, nonetheless, and so should be warned.

Conor was a breath from shouting when the sentry began to converse with Bonvilain. The man was a part of things! Bonvilain would escape completely. The king would be dead and Victor’s memory blackened. It was unbearable.

This plot must be stopped. Bonvilain could not be allowed close to Isabella. Conor stooped low, creeping to Victor’s side, using the furniture as cover. The Parisian lay on his side, as though comfortably asleep. His eyes were wide with surprise and blood bubbled on his lips. Dead. Dead.

Conor fought the tears. What would Victor have him do? What would his father have him do? Stop this conspiracy. He had training aplenty to do it and there was a loaded gun inches from his fingers.

Then Victor’s eyes blinked and found focus. The Frenchman lived for a stolen moment.

‘Don’t do it, boy,’ he whispered, showing a remarkable grasp of the situation. ‘The Martello tower in Kilmore. Find it and burn it. Bonvilain must never learn our secrets. The eagle has the key. Go now. Go.’

Conor nodded, the tears coming freely, dripping from his nose and chin.

Martello tower. Kilmore. Burn it. Go now.

He might have left then and avoided years of heartache, had not the Parisian rattled out his final breath.

Dead. Again.

Conor was stunned. To lose his friend and mentor twice in as many minutes. They would never fly together now.

They would never fly.

The Broekhart in him took over, pushing down the scientist. Victor had been trying to protect him, but there was no need; Conor was trained in all the weapons of combat, including Oriental and Indian, had they been available.

Conor prised the Colt from Victor’s hands. The pearl handle against his palm brought both confidence and sadness. This was a gun he had twirled a thousand times while Victor chided him for a show-off.

He twirled it again to settle himself, then popped out the cylinder, checking the load. Five shots left. Plenty for some wounding. Conor came to his feet, the tears on his face drying quickly.

The sentry saw him first.

‘But who is that boy behind you, sir?’ he said dully.

Bonvilain turned slowly, already pulling a sad face.

‘Ah, young Broekhart,’ he said, as though Conor was expected. ‘A terrible tragedy.’

Conor aimed the Colt at Bonvilain’s chest, a large enough target. ‘I heard everything, Marshall. I saw you shoot Victor.’

Bonvilain dropped the act. His face was once again its sharp self. Angles and shadows.

‘No one will believe you.’

‘Some will,’ said Conor. ‘My father will.’

The marshall considered this. ‘You know, I think you might be right. I suppose that means I must kill you too, unless you kill me.’

‘I could do it. And that oaf too,’ said Conor, cocking the Colt.

‘I am sure you could, theoretically, but the time for theory is over. This is not the practice field, Conor; we are at war now.’

‘Stand where you are, Marshall. Someone heard the shots. They will be coming.’

‘Not through these walls. No one is coming.’

It was true and Conor knew it. Victor had told him that one night he and Nicholas were testing fireworks in the grate and not a soul in the palace had heard.

‘You, soldier. Put down your rifle and sit on the chair.’

The sentry did not appreciate being ordered about by a fourteen-year-old boy, but then again the boy seemed very familiar with the weapon in his fist.

‘This chair? There’s blood on it.’

‘No, idiot. That chair. By the wall.’

The sentry laid his weapon on the stone floor, shuffling across to a stool by the wall.

‘This is a stool,’ he mumbled. ‘You said chair.’

Bonvilain took a sneaky step forward, hoping that Conor was distracted by the sentry’s inanities. Not so.

‘Don’t move, traitor. Murderer.’

Bonvilain smiled. His teeth were glossy, like yellow pearls.

‘Now, Conor, I will explain to you what I am about to do. I intend, and this is a promise, to take a leisurely walk across the space between us and then choke the life from your body. The only way you can stop this coming to pass is to shoot me. Remember, this is war – no school today.’

‘Stay where you are!’ shouted Conor, but the marshall was already on his way. Five steps divided them. Four now.

‘Take your shot, boy. Soon I will be too close and it will be difficult to get a bullet past my hands.’

I chose badly, Conor realized. I should have fled down the passage and fetched my father.

He had never shot a person. Never wanted to.

I want to build a flying machine. With Victor.

But Victor was dead. Murdered by Bonvilain.

‘I am upon you,’ said the marshall.

Conor shot him twice, under his outstretched arms in the upper chest.

I had to do it. He gave me no choice.

Bonvilain’s steps faltered slightly, but he kept coming. He was purple in the forehead, but the light in his eyes never wavered.

‘And now,’ he said batting the gun from Conor’s fingers, ‘to choke the life from your body. As promised.’

Conor was lifted from the floor, his arms and legs flapping, battering ineffectively against the marshall’s flanks, which seemed to jingle when struck.

‘I am a Templar, boy,’ said Bonvilain. ‘Have you never heard of us? We like to wear chain mail going into war. Chain mail. I have a vest on at the moment just in case things did not play out as I planned. Prudence is never wasted, as we see here today.’

This revelation did not matter much to Conor now. All he knew was that Bonvilain still lived. He had been shot, but lived.

‘You hold him, Marshall!’ said the sentry, reclaiming his rifle. ‘Hold him still and I will shoot him.’

‘No!’ shouted the marshall, imagining the indignity of an epitaph that included the phrase accidentally shot while strangling a youth.

‘You prefer to do it yourself,’ said the sentry, sulking slightly.

Bonvilain thought as he strangled. He held in his hands, literally, the solution to his Captain Broekhart difficulty. Victor Vigny had been right: Declan Broekhart was his only real opposition in the Saltee Army. Surely there was a way to win the captain’s loyalty from this situation. And if it required a little manipulation, was that not his speciality?

An idea poked from the depths of Bonvilain’s brain, like the head of a sly serpent from a swamp. What if the rebel Victor Vigny had not acted alone. What if he had an accomplice, the sentry for example. The sentry was certainly expendable.

Bonvilain felt a shiver run up his spine. He was on the verge of brilliance, he could feel it. For Bonvilain, it was moments like these that made life tolerable. Moments that presented him with a challenge worthy of his specific talents.

‘You there, idiot,’ he said to the sentry. ‘Open the window.’

‘That one?’ said the sentry, though there was but one window in the apartment.

‘Yes,’ said Bonvilain innocently. ‘The one overlooking the cliffs.’

Conor awoke from near strangulation in a damp windowless cell, where he languished for hours. His solitude was interrupted periodically by a brace of guards who stomped with considerable gusto on his slim frame. On their final visit, the pair stripped him of his clothing and bundled him into a Saltee Army uniform.

As yer own clothes stink of blood and fear.

Conor wondered about this briefly through his pain. Why a soldier’s uniform? Before his addled brain could reach any conclusion, the beatings recommenced, backhanded blows across the face. One eye closed and he felt the blood flow down his nose. The guards propped something soft on his head. A towel perhaps? To staunch the flow of blood maybe? It seemed unusually compassionate.

There were more confusing meddlings with his person. One swabbed his cheeks with what smelled like gunpowder. The other scratched on his arm with an ink pen. It went on for what seemed like hours.

When the guards were satisfied with their arrangements, the fatter of the pair clamped a set of manacles on Conor’s wrists and a lunatic box over his head, pulling the head cage’s leather mouth strap tight until it forced Conor’s teeth apart, ratcheting back between his jaws. The only noises he could make now were groans and grunts.

The cell itself was a ten-foot block of hell, and Conor could not credit that such a place existed on Great Saltee.

The walls and floor were granite. Hewn from the island itself. No bricks or mortar, just solid rock. There was no escape from here. Water trickled through grooves worn by centuries of erosion. Conor did not waste a second thirsting for it. The combination of lunatic box and manacles meant that he could not pass anything through the metal grille to his mouth. In any case, the grooves themselves were flaked by salt. Sea water.

They left him for an age, wallowing in his misery. The king was dead. Isabella’s father murdered by Bonvilain. Victor was gone too. In the blink of an eye, his mentor and friend cruelly killed. And what was to become of Conor himself? Surely Bonvilain would not leave breath in the body of a witness. Conor felt the weight of the cage upon his head, the gall of manacles chafing his wrists and the threat of his impending murder heavy on his heart.

The metal slab of door swung, dragging on the hinges. A tallow yellow light filled the room with a sickly glow, and in that glow stood the unmistakable silhouette of Sir Hugo Bonvilain. The king’s marshall and murderer. Because of this man, Isabella was an orphan.

Rage took hold of Conor’s body, filling his limbs with strength. He lurched to his feet, arms outstretched towards Bonvilain.

The sight cheered Bonvilain tremendously. The man actually whistled as he grasped the lunatic box’s grille, stuffing his thick fingers between the bars. He stepped to the side and casually swung Conor into the wall, wincing at the clang and clatter.

‘I used your own momentum against you,’ he said, as though school were in session. ‘Basic training. Basic. If one of my men made that mistake I’d have him flogged. Didn’t that French dandy teach you anything?’

Bonvilain squatted, propping Conor against the rough damp wall.

‘A great day, isn’t it? Historic. The king is gone, apparently assassinated by rebels. Do you know what that means?’

Conor could not reply even if he wanted to. If it had not been for the pain, this would all seem like a cruel dream. A night terror.

Bonvilain rattled the lunatic box, to make sure he had Conor’s attention.

‘Hello? Young Broekhart. Still with us?’

Conor tried to spit at his captor, but all he could do was gag.

‘Good. Alive for now. Anyway, about the king being dead, let me tell you what it means. It means an end to these ridiculous reforms. Money for the people. The people? Unwashed, uneducated rabble. No more money for the people, you can bet the blood in your veins on that.’

Everything King Nicholas has done will be undone, thought Conor dully. All for nothing.

‘Isabella becomes queen. A puppet queen, but a queen nonetheless. And can you guess what her obsession will become?’

Of course. It was so obvious that a boy could see it, even in Conor’s dazed state.

‘I see by your eyes that you can guess. She will dedicate her life to stamping out the rebels. It will consume her; I will make sure of it. There will be no end to the number of rebels I will unearth. Any merchant who refuses to pay my tax. Any youth with a grudge. All rebels. All hanged. I am closer now to being king, than any Bonvilain has ever been.’

This statement hung between them, heavy with centuries of treason. Creak of manacle chains and drip of water.

Bonvilain yanked Conor’s head as close as the bars would allow, and unhooked the box’s mouth strap.

‘Before he died your teacher said that I would never stop them all. Was Victor Vigny working with the French aeronauts? Or La Légion Noire – the Black Legion?’

Conor’s lip was swollen from one punch or another and his jaws were shot with pain, but he managed to speak.

‘There is no Black Legion. You will destroy the Saltees fighting an imaginary enemy.’

‘Let me tell you something, little man,’ snarled the marshall. ‘If it weren’t for the Bonvilains, these islands would be nothing more than rocks in the ocean. Nothing but salt and bird droppings. We have nursemaided the Trudeaus for centuries. But no more. These islands are mine now. I will milk them dry and Queen Isabella stays alive so long as she does not interfere with that plan.’ Bonvilain rattled Conor’s cage. ‘I am interested to hear what you think of this plan, young Broekhart.’

‘Why tell me, murderer? I am not your priest.’

Bonvilain shook the lunatic box, as though it were a mystery gift.

‘Not my priest. Very good, I will miss our exchanges. I tell you, little Broekhart, because these are the very moments that make life worth living. I am at my best in the thick of action. Stabbing, shooting and plotting. I enjoy it. I exult in it. For centuries, the Bonvilains have been behind the throne, steering it with their machinations. But never anything like this.’

Bonvilain was almost dazed by happiness. Everything he had planned for was now within reach.

‘And you, my little meddler, have transformed a good plan into a perfect one. It’s your father, you see. He is a great soldier – I can admit it. A wonderful soldier. He inspires great loyalty among the men. I was planning to remove him, and weather the storm. But now the rebel Victor Vigny and you, his indoctrinated student, have killed the king. Your father is honour bound to protect the new queen with every breath in his body. And because I will promise to keep his son’s name out of the investigation, Declan Broekhart will owe me his reputation, and so you have made him loyal to me. For that, I thank you.’ Bonvilain leaned closer, his face stretched in pantomime sadness. ‘But I have to tell you that he hates you now and so will Isabella when I tell her my version of tonight’s events. Your father, I would go so far as to say, would kill you himself, if I would allow it. But that’s family business and none of mine. I should let him tell you himself.’

And with that Bonvilain hooked up the lunatic box’s bridle and threaded the manacle chain through a ring on the wall. He stood, his knees cracking, his huge frame filling the cell, his broad scarred brow suddenly thoughtful.

‘You would think I suffer, with all the people I have killed, the hundreds of lives I have destroyed. Should demons not visit me at night? Should I not be tormented by guilt? Sometimes, I lie still in my bed and wait for judgement, but it never arrives.’

Bonvilain shrugged. ‘Then again, why should it? Perhaps I am a good man. After all, Socrates said: There is only one good, knowledge, and one evil, ignorance. So, as I am not ignorant, I must be good.’ He winked. ‘Do you think that argument will fool Saint Peter?’

Conor realized at that moment that Bonvilain was, in a very dangerous way, completely mad.

Bonvilain came back to the moment. ‘Anyway, let us continue the philosophical discussion some other time. Why don’t I fetch your father? I fancy he has a few words for his errant son.’

Bonvilain strode jauntily from the cell whistling a Strauss waltz, conducting with an index finger.

Conor was left on the floor, neck aching from the weight of his cage. But in spite of the pain, there was now a spark of hope. His father would see through this charade surely. Declan Broekhart was nobody’s fool and would not leave his son to wallow in a filthy cell. In minutes, Conor felt certain, he would be free to expose Bonvilain as a murderer.

Bonvilain had not even bothered to close the cell door. A moment later, he shepherded Declan Broekhart into the room. Conor had never seen his father so distressed. Declan’s back, usually ramrod straight, was hunched and shuddering and he held on to Bonvilain like an old man leaning on his nurse. The face was the worst thing. It was dragged down by grief: eyes, mouth and wrinkles running like candle wax.

‘Here he is,’ said Bonvilain softly, with great compassion. ‘This is he. Just a few seconds.’

Conor inched along the wall, straightening himself.

Father, he tried to say. Father, help me. But all that emerged from between his swollen, hampered lips were thin groans.

Declan Broekhart loomed over him, tears dripping from his chin.

‘Because of you,’ he whispered. ‘Because of you…’

Then he lunged at Conor, reaching not to embrace, but to kill. Bonvilain was ready for it. He restrained Declan Broekhart with strong arms.

‘Now, Declan. Be strong. For Catherine. And for young Isabella. We all need you. The Saltees need you.’

As he said this, Hugo Bonvilain peered over Broekhart’s shoulder and winked merrily.

This combination of grief and lunacy were like physical blows to young Conor. He recoiled from his father, drawing his knees to his chin.

What was happening? Was the world mad?

Declan Broekhart gathered himself, dragging a sleeve across his brow.

‘Very well, Hugo,’ he said haltingly. ‘I am composed now. You were right. That wretch is nothing to me. Nothing. His death would not restore anything. Little Saltee can deal with him. Let us leave here; my wife needs me.’

Wretch? His father was calling him a wretch.

‘Of course, Captain Broekhart. Declan. Of course.’

And so Bonvilain led him out. Two soldiers together, comrades in grief.

What? What is this? Declan? Little Saltee?

Conor used the last of his strength to moan around his mouth strap, calling his father back. And his father did turn back, if only for a moment. If only to deliver a few final withering remarks. He vented these words with his eyes closed, as if to even look at his son was more than he could bear.

‘Your foul actions have taken my king from me,’ he said. ‘And worse, much worse – because of what you have done this day, I have no son. My son is gone, and this…’ Declan Broekhart paused to struggle with his rage, eventually calming himself. ‘My son is gone, and you remain. A word of warning, traitor. If I ever see you again, it will be on the day I kill you.’

These were words that no man should hear from another, but from father to son they were indescribably harsh. Conor Broekhart felt as though he was indeed broken-hearted, as his name suggested. He could do nothing but raise his manacled hands to the lunatic box’s grille and tug repeatedly, jerking his injured head until the pain drove those hateful words from his head.

‘Insane,’ said Bonvilain sadly, leading Declan Broekhart from the cell. ‘But then, he would have to be, to do what he did.’

As they left the cell, Bonvilain could barely maintain his show of grief. The waiting guards were ready to draw cutlasses, but Bonvilain shook his head slightly. His manipulation had worked so Declan Broekhart would live for now.

‘Take the captain back to his carriage,’ he instructed the guards. ‘I will watch the prisoner myself.’

Declan grasped Bonvilain’s wrist. ‘You have been a friend today, Hugo. We have had our fiery moments in the past, but that is behind us. I will not forget your speedy apprehension of the traitor. And I trust he will pay for his part in the king’s murder, and for what he did to Conor. My son.’

Broekhart’s face cracked in grief once more.

How weak the man is, thought Bonvilain. There is no need for such hysterics.

‘Of course, Declan. He shall pay. You can count on it.’

They parted with a handshake and Broekhart half walked, half stumbled along the length of the stone corridor. Bonvilain returned to Conor’s cell, to where the wretched boy lay unconscious. A tiny fly in the master spider’s web.

Bonvilain knelt beside him. He found himself feeling a touch sorry for young Conor.

It’s natural, not weakness, he told himself. I am human after all.

It was incredible, really, how easily the entire thing had been accomplished. Allow the king to set up his meeting with Victor, then blame the Parisian for Nicholas’s murder. Conor Broekhart had been a delightful bonus, a way to keep the father loyal. Admittedly he had toyed with them both a little, but that was the skill of it. His god-given talent to manipulate people.

The final part of the plan had only occurred to him after Conor had surprised him in the king’s apartment. Following his near strangulation, the boy’s face had been so swollen that he was barely recognizable. Even his own mother wouldn’t know him. Bonvilain had ordered the youth to be dressed as a soldier, a ratty old ball wig arranged on his head and his chin coated with gunpowder stubble. The final trick was to have one of his sergeants, a gifted man with pen and ink, to draw a quick copy of the regimental tattoo on Conor’s forearm. A small touch, but enough to make an impression. With the blood, shadows, wig and uniform, it was unlikely that Broekhart would know his own son. Especially if he had just been informed that his son had been wrestled out of the king’s window, trying to defend Nicholas, and that this prisoner was one of the traitorous soldiers involved in the plan. A sentry’s corpse had already been found at the base of the Wall, Conor’s dead body must have been swept south by the currents.

Of course, if Declan Broekhart had recognized his son, then Bonvilain himself would have immediately slit his throat. Conor could have taken the blame for that too. A busy day for the boy. Regicide in the afternoon, patricide in the evening.

But now, thanks to Bonvilain’s little games, Declan Broekhart thought his son was dead and Conor thought his father despised him for being a traitor. Sir Hugo had utter control over the Broekhart family and should Declan ever turn against him, then Conor could be resurrected and used to blackmail his father. Unswerving loyalty in return for his son’s life. Bonvilain knew that toying with Conor was unnecessary and cruel, but that was the fun of it. His own brazen audacity thrilled him.

Bonvilain clapped his hands gently three times.

Bravo, maestro. Bravo.

I love this, thought Bonvilain. I exult in it.