‘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.
PART 2: FINN
CHAPTER 5: LITTLE SALTEE
The following evening Conor Broekhart was roughly bundled into a shallow-draught steamboat and shipped off to Little Saltee. He was the only prisoner on deck, and was forced to share the aft cage with two pigs and a goat. There were two guards on the grubby steamboat, and the most senior was eager to share his own importance with Conor.
‘I don’t normally ferry prisoners,’ explained the man, an Irishman, aiming a kick at the cage door to make sure Conor was listening. ‘Only the warden insisted I ship your bones personally. Myself, as it were, the order came direct from Marshall Bonvilain. So, what’s a body to do? Turn down Bonvilain? I doubt it, sonny. Not unless you want to spend the afternoon shaking hands with your maker.’
Conor was not interested in chatter. He was as lost in this day as a chick wet from the egg. On the surface, things were the same. He recognized Little Saltee’s shape to the north, but it seemed a dreadful place now even at a distance. Yesterday he had looked upon the island as the seat of justice. Only yesterday? Could it be? How much had happened in one day.
The ferry’s broad hull hammered the waves, raising a salty mist that the boat steamed through. The spray unfurled across the gunwales, drenching the cage’s occupants. Not one of them flinched. For a moment Conor felt only blessedly cool, then the salt sank into his wounds causing him to cry out.
His cry seemed to please his escort. ‘Ah! Still alive are we, Mister Conor Finn?’
Mister Conor Finn?
Conor wasn’t surprised. Bonvilain would not wish his prisoner’s real name known. So he was to be Conor Finn.
‘Conor Finn,’ continued the guard. ‘Friend to smugglers and first-class lunatic. Turf head. Scatterfool. You won’t be enjoying it in our mad wing. Not in the slightest.’
Conor Finn. Smuggler and lunatic.
Bonvilain was taking no chances. Even if there were someone to talk with. Who would believe a smuggler and a lunatic?
‘No, Little Saltee is not a place for mirth. No maypoles nor circus antics. Especially not for Conor Finn. Bonvilain says to take special care of you in the mad wing. And if Bonvilain says it, then Arthur Billtoe does it.’
Conor squinted through puffy eyelids, taking a serious look at this guard. The man was not unlike a lithograph Victor had once shown him of the Pongo Abelii or Sumatran orang-utan. His pugnacious features were ringed with a thick fringe of dirty brown and grey hair, the same hair that ran in rivulets into the neck of his ruffled pirate’s shirt. He wore thigh boots on squat powerful legs and silver rings adorned his fingers. At another time, Conor might have poked fun at this man’s swashbuckling rig. But now, his appearance was frightening. How could someone so removed from reality be trusted to perform a guard’s duties?
Still, there existed somewhere a spark of the old Conor. The Conor from yesterday.
‘Nice boots, Captain,’ he mumbled.
Billtoe was not angry, not a bit of it. He smiled, revealing half a dozen plug-stained teeth.
‘Oh, we shall have some sport with you, my lad. You have no idea. I dress how I fancy, and I do what I fancy. In my corner of Little Saltee, Arthur Billtoe is king.’