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.