Conor was steering his horse and cart down the coast road to Wexford, and from there to Curracloe beach, five miles on the other side. It was already noon, as it had taken longer than expected to winch the wings down the side of the tower. He would have to sleep on the beach for an extra night, perhaps two, depending on conditions.
The journey too would take longer than expected. They had travelled less than a mile from Kilmore, and already the horse tired from such a load. Wings, engine, tail, body and of course his new propeller. It was a heavy burden for an old horse. He would see about trading the beast in on the Wexford docks.
He thought of Linus, and laughed aloud.
My mind compares Linus to an old beast. He would not be happy to hear that.
With Linus Wynter on his mind, he glanced over his shoulder to check for flares, as he had a dozen times already on this trip.
As if Linus needs me. As if Linus needs a…
The flares were up. All of them it seemed. Pirouetting to earth, leaving pink trails like the spokes of a ghostly umbrella.
Linus was in trouble.
It must have something to do with last night’s encounter. It could not be coincidence.
Conor pulled the cart off the road, driving it deep into a wooden copse. The horse complained, shying away from low branches, but Conor drove her on, wedging the cart tight between two trunks. The trees shook raining pine needles down on man and horse.
In seconds, Conor had unhitched the horse and was urging her back along the coast road. With this animal there were two choices. He could run her short and fast, or slow and long. Conor chose fast, something told him that long would be too late.
Conor arrived at the tower to find his only friend tied to the pillar, his face and neck rent with contusions. His first thought was, Dead. I have lost him again. But then the old man coughed.
‘Linus!’ he said, taking the American’s weight. ‘You’re alive.’
Wynter seemed surprised. ‘Conor. I didn’t hear a horse.’
‘She collapsed outside the village. Her heart I imagine.’
He quickly sliced through the rope, sliding his friend down along the pillar.
‘You won’t die today,’ said Conor, conducting a quick check for broken bones. ‘But there’s not a piece of skin on you that isn’t bruised. Your blood is blue, you’ll be delighted to know. I always suspected you were royalty.’
‘Listen to me, Conor,’ said Linus, his throat raw and ropeburned. ‘It was Bonvilain.’
Conor actually fell backwards to the grass. ‘The marshall himself? Here?’
‘Him and his bloodhound, Arif. I left the roof door open, to clear the cooking fumes. Stupid old man. They only left because they thought the villagers would come to investigate the flares. I could’ve told them that you’ve been firing up flares and God knows what for weeks now and the locals are bored rigid watching them. I could’ve told them that, but I didn’t.’
‘What did he say?’ Conor demanded. ‘Tell me, Linus.’
Linus sighed deeply. His face scarred by pain and sadness. ‘He knows you are the Airman, Conor. He plans to murder your family, Isabella too. Poison most likely, at a dinner tomorrow night. A dinner for Conor Broekhart.’
Conor squatted on the grass, dumbstruck by these tidings. It was the worst possible turn of events.
He plans to murder your family.
What can I do? What can be done?
Linus read his mind. ‘You must forget America now, Conor. It is time for action.’
‘I know. Of course. But what must I do?’ asked Conor.
‘It’s a puzzle,’ replied Linus. ‘Bonvilain knows you are coming. Exactly when and where. They will be watching sea and sky, waiting for the Airman.’
‘I could surrender myself,’ blurted Conor, desperation large on his features. ‘Then the marshall would have no need to kill anyone. His secrets would be safe.’
Linus disagreed vehemently. ‘No! It’s too late for that, Conor. Bonvilain doesn’t know who you have spoken to or what army you may have gathered with your stolen diamonds.’
‘But why does he tell me about the dinner? To torment me?’
‘To ensnare you,’ corrected Linus. ‘All of his enemies die in one night and the Airman is their murderer. Blaming you for murder is a tried-and-trusted method for Hugo Bonvilain.’
Conor sat still as a statue, staring at the stones as though they would yield up the solution to his terrible dilemma. A breeze funnelled through his fingers, and sunshine warmed his crown, but what could these normal things mean to him. Would a normal life ever be his?
‘Conor?’ said Wynter, crawling forward, one hand reaching ahead, patting the air. ‘Conor? Are you all right?’
Conor made no sound but shallow breathing and Linus realized that he would have to take charge.
‘We must leave the tower,’ he said, attempting to sound brisk and businesslike. ‘We load what we can on to the cart and leave here tonight. Even if Bonvilain sends soldiers to hunt for you, they may not know to look for Conor Finn.’
There was a rustle of grass and cloth as Conor climbed to his feet. If Linus could have seen his young friend’s eyes, he would have been struck by the sudden determination burning there.
‘Conor Finn?’ said the Airman. ‘Conor Finn is dead. My name is Conor Broekhart and I need to speak to my father.’
CHAPTER 18: HEAVIER THAN AIR
It was clear to Conor that there was only one way to end this nightmare. He must expose the marshall as a murderer. Running away was no longer an option now that Bonvilain was threatening his loved ones. Confronting the marshall would at least give the Broekharts and the monarchy a fighting chance to survive.
That is how my father would wish it. He may hate me, but surely the truth will change that.
Conor knew now that he should have made himself known that night on Great Saltee, when he had seen his young brother, but his parents had seemed so happy without him. So safe. To embrace him as part of the family would have put them all in danger.
False reasoning. Weak logic.
Making contact now would be close to impossible. Bonvilain was expecting him and would have every man on the Wall with orders to shoot on sight, as often as possible. They knew he travelled by glider and boat and so would be expecting those crafts, but there may be a third option.
Conor purchased a fresh horse in the village for an exorbitant amount, and rode it hard back to where he had hastily concealed the laden cart. Not a moment too soon, as there were half a dozen local boys perched atop the tarpaulin, picking at the ropes like curious monkeys. Conor considered hunting the lads off, but decided to employ them instead. Each boy was offered the staggering sum of a rough diamond for his strength and silence. Needless to say, the offers were accepted, as a single stone was worth a year of a grown man’s wages.
Even with the help of his new apprentices, it took sweaty hours of heaves and grunts to free the cart from within the tree trunks, and almost as long to back it on to the road.
‘Now, buckos,’ Conor said to his troops, once the horse was hitched and ready. ‘Hot chocolate for all if we make it to Saint Patrick’s Bridge before dark.’
The boys put their shoulders to the cart with gusto. Hot chocolate, diamonds and mysterious cargo! They felt like princes on a quest.
Saint Patrick’s Bridge was a long shingled bar, curving from the mainland towards the Saltees. Legend had it that when Saint Patrick was chasing the devil from Ireland, he finally managed to trap him in the Galtee Mountains. The devil took two huge bites from the slopes to clear himself a path, and off he scarpered into County Wexford with Saint Patrick in hot pursuit, hurling rocks and boulders gathered in the fields.