‘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.