Isabella’s blade quivered, then froze.
What did this mean? Who was this man to invoke Victor’s name?
Declan gathered his wife and the queen behind him, sword raised for battle.
‘You will show your face, sir?’ he demanded. ‘I grant you five seconds before we duel to the death. And that death will be yours.’
Conor slowly reversed his grip, then buried the tip of his sword in the floorboards.
‘Very well. But, before I do, tell me if you drank a toast.’
‘There was no toast,’ snapped Declan. ‘Now, off with those goggles, sir.’
Conor’s shoulders slumped and he seemed on the verge of collapse, but he drew himself erect and pulled the collar down from his chin, then pushed the goggles up to his forehead. His face was blasted black from soot and oil, but his eyes were clear, and a lock of blond hair had come loose from his leather cap.
The watchers were confused. What they were seeing was not possible.
‘Father, I know you vowed to kill me should we meet again,’ said Conor slowly. ‘But there are things you do not know. Victor did not kill the king, nor was I involved. It was Bonvilain.’
‘Conor,’ breathed his mother. ‘You live?’
Declan sank to his knees as though gut punched. His breath was laboured and tears streamed down his face.
‘My son lives. How is it possible?’
And suddenly Conor understood the scale of Bonvilain’s deception.
My parents genuinely believed me dead. Bonvilain spun a different lie for each party.
Isabella was the first to reach him, hugging him tightly, kissing his cheek. Her tears mingling with his.
‘Oh, Conor. Conor, where have you been?’
Conor held her tightly, reeling from the strength of emotions aimed at him. He had been expecting mistrust and anger. Not love.
‘That was you in the cell,’ moaned Declan. ‘I said I would kill you. I sent you to hell.’
Catherine rubbed her husband’s back, but then couldn’t keep herself away from her son. She rushed to him, taking his face in her hands.
‘Oh, Conor. You are a man now,’ she said. ‘Grown as tall as your father at seventeen.’
Conor was vaguely surprised to remember that he was only seventeen. Conor Finn had been more than twenty.
Declan Broekhart’s face was suddenly terrible with rage.
‘Bonvilain did this. All of it and by God I will make him pay.’
Bonvilain!
In the swirl of emotions, Conor had forgotten about Hugo Bonvilain. He turned clumsily in the embrace of his mother and queen, to find only a puddle of blood where Bonvilain had fallen. He plucked his sabre from the floorboards and scanned the chamber to find his old enemy sliding along the wall, quietly making for the door.
‘Father,’ called Conor, pointing with his sword. ‘We must secure Bonvilain.’
Finding that his escape was thwarted, Bonvilain reached behind a tapestry and pulled his hidden lever. The fireplace slid aside on a pulley mechanism, revealing a tightly packed group of Holy Cross guards.
Bonvilain smiled, his mouth a bloody mess, more than one gap in his teeth.
‘My last line of defence,’ he said, spitting crimson. And to the soldiers. ‘Kill the women. They are impostors.’
It was a cunning order, diverting Conor and Declan from their path in order to defend Isabella and Catherine. The soldiers tumbled from their confined space, drawing daggers and swords. No guns – guns would bring the Wall watch running.
Luckily the secret space was cramped, and so the men were stiff and light dazzled, which gave the Broekharts a second’s advantage.
They used it well, bundling the half-dozen Holy Cross guardsmen back towards their hiding place.
‘Watch the marshall,’ Conor called to Isabella.
‘He is no longer the marshall,’ said the queen, raising the samurai sword.
‘I have been taught how to slice a man into three pieces,’ she said to Bonvilain. ‘Take one step towards us and I will demonstrate those strokes for you.’
Bonvilain pinched the bridge of his nose. Ordinarily he would rush this silly girl and crush the hands that held the sword, but the poison in his wine was beginning to affect him. Already his fingers were tingling and a volcano bubbled in his innards. He needed to be away from here before the more extreme symptoms.
The path to the door was blocked by the Broekharts. His secret passage was a melee of flailing limbs and blades and the only other exit was the balcony.
Bonvilain tripped over Conor’s discarded wings and on to the balcony, searching furiously below for something to rescue him.
Imagine. Hugo Bonvilain needs rescuing. How embarrassing.
Below, the Wall watch stripped down the Gatling guns, apparently oblivious to the commotion sixty feet above their heads. They had obviously not noticed the giant bird-like creature crashing into their marshall’s apartments.
Bonvilain felt his stomach lurch as the poison twisted his guts.
I must escape. I need a way down.
There! Crossing the courtyard below was Sultan Arif, a duffle bag in his hand and another slung across his back.
Where the devil is that fool going?
‘Sultan!’ he shouted. ‘Captain Arif. I need you, now!’
Sultan missed a step, but he did not stop.
‘I am going home, Hugo,’ he called, without turning. ‘I have many sins to atone for.’
For the first time in many a year, Bonvilain experienced real rage. ‘Get back here!’ he demanded, pounding the railing. ‘I don’t have time for your sulking. Send me a rope on a crossbow bolt.’
Arif disobeyed yet again. ‘If you have drunk the toast then I would advise you stay calm, Marshall,’ he advised, quickening his pace towards the gate. ‘A speeding heart moves the poison more quickly through your veins.’
‘Traitorous wretch,’ roared Bonvilain. ‘Do not doubt that we shall meet again!’
‘And I know where we shall meet,’ whispered Sultan, his back turned on Bonvilain once and for all.
A speeding heart moves the poison more quickly.
Bonvilain realized the truth of those words as a spasm hit him and he vomited bile over the balcony.
Calm yourself, Hugo. There is still time.
With one last shake of his fist in Sultan Arif’s direction, Bonvilain went back into his own apartment…
… Where Declan and Conor Broekhart were battling furiously with three of the Holy Cross guard. Three were already down, unconscious or clutching their wounds. At that moment, Declan Broekhart took a blade in the shoulder, leaving his son to fight alone.
Catherine dragged her husband clear, and Queen Isabella kept her sword levelled at Bonvilain.
That girl is really becoming quite irksome. Why did I let her live this long?
Bonvilain realized that he had allowed his schemes to become too elaborate.
I need these people dead, but, more than that, I need to be in a safe place where I can regain my strength. I have funds and supporters on the mainland.
Conor drove the three Holy Cross guards back with a wide swing, then drew a pistol from his belt, firing off two low rounds. A couple of soldiers collapsed with shattered shins.
Gunfire! thought Bonvilain. That and the word ‘poison’ from the courtyard will have the Wall watch running. I must away.
The poison was in his legs now, sticking needles in his toes, cramping his muscles.
Across the room, Conor Broekhart struggled with the final guard, a huge Scotsman wielding a shortened broadsword. This was one of Bonvilain’s mercenaries and a veteran killer. For a moment Bonvilain nurtured a glimmer of hope, then Conor stepped under the big Scotsman’s swing and knocked him flat with the sabre’s finger guard.
The Airman tumbled the final guard back inside the cavity then reached behind the tapestry and sealed them inside. Their moaning could be heard through the grate.