Sir Hugo was an unusual combination of warrior and wit. He had the bulk of a lifelong soldier, but also the ability to present devastating argument in a surprisingly mellow voice.
If that Saltee fellow don’t cut you one way, he does it t’other, Benjamin Disraeli reportedly said of the marshall.
Conor had once heard his father say that Bonvilain’s only weakness was his burning distrust of other nations, especially France. The marshall had once heard a rumour of the existence of a French army of spies, La Légion Noire, whose mission was to gather intelligence on Saltee defences. Bonvilain spent thousands of guineas hunting members of the fictitious group.
Bonvilain’s breath was deep and regular as though he were resting; only a gloved finger tapping his knee betrayed that he was awake.
‘Asleep, boy?’ he said suddenly, his voice all honey and menace. ‘Or maybe awake, feigning sleep.’
Conor held his silence, shutting his eyes tight – suddenly, without reason, terrified.
Bonvilain hunched forward on his chair. ‘I never really took notice of you before now, little Broekhart. The first time, you were a baby. But this time, this time it could fairly be said that you… saved someone who should be dead. Broekharts. Always Broekharts.’
Conor heard leather stretch and creak, as Hugo Bonvilain clenched a gloved fist.
‘So I wanted to see you. I like to know the faces of my… of my king’s friends.’
Conor could smell the marshall’s cologne, feel his breath.
‘But I have said too much already, boy. You need peace and quiet to recuperate from your miraculous escape. Truly miraculous. But remember that I am watching you, very closely. The knights are watching you.’
Bonvilain stood in a rustle of the Holy Cross sheath he wore over his suit.
‘Very well, young Broekhart, time for me to go. Perhaps I was never here. Perhaps you are dreaming. It might be better for you if you were.’
The curtain round his bed swished as the marshall took his leave.
Conor dared to open his eyes after a moment to find Bonvilain’s face an inch from his own.
‘Ah, awake after all. Capital. I forgot to knock the cast. I could certainly benefit from some of your luck.’
Conor lay rigid and silent as the marshall hoisted his broken leg uncomfortably high, then administered two sharp raps on the gypsum cast.
‘Let us hope you don’t give away all of that wondrous luck, young Broekhart. You might be needing it.’
Bonvilain winked, and was gone, the curtain rippling behind him like a ghost.
Perhaps it was a dream after all. Just a nightmare.
But the dull pain from Bonvilain’s hoisting still throbbed in his leg. Conor Broekhart slept little for the rest of the night.
Of the billion and a half of people on Earth, there were perhaps five hundred that could have helped Conor achieve his potential as a pilot of the skies. One of these was King Nicholas Trudeau and another was Victor Vigny. That these three should be brought together at such a time of industrious invention was little short of miraculous.
The race for flight is littered with such fortuitous groupings. William Samuel Henson and John Stringfellow, Joseph Louis Gay-Lussac and Jean Baptiste Biot, and of course Charles Green and the astronomer Spencer Rush. The Wright brothers can hardly be included in this category, as it was almost inevitable that they would meet, sleeping as they did in the same bed chamber.
Conor had long known of King Nicholas’s interest in ballooning, after all it had been his livelihood for many years. Conor and Isabella had spent many nights by the fireside in Nicholas’s apartment enthralled by the king’s dramatic tellings of his airborne adventures. Victor Vigny was a familiar figure in these stories. He was generally presented as small in stature, broad of accent, timid and inevitably in need of rescue by King Nicholas.
The Victor Vigny that Conor met on his first day of instruction did not tally with King Nicholas’s description. He was neither tiny nor timid, and according to castle talk, it was Victor Vigny who had rescued the king.
The day after his release from the infirmary, Conor limped into Victor’s quarters on the second storey of the main building. This particular apartment had always been set aside for visiting royalty, but now the Parisian seemed firmly ensconced. The walls were covered with charts, and celestial models hung from the ceiling. A skeleton in the corner wore a scorched feathered cap and a scimitar was clutched in his bony grip. There were more swords in a rack, arranged from light to heavy. Foil, sabre, broadsword.
The man himself was on the balcony, stripped to the waist, performing some kind of exercise. He was a tall muscled man, and seemed by his movements not in the least timid.
Conor thought he would watch a while before interrupting. The Parisian’s movements were slow and precise. Fluid and controlled. Conor had the impression that this particular discipline was more difficult than it looked.
‘It’s not polite to spy,’ said Victor, without turning, his accent not so broad but definitely French. ‘You are not a spy, are you?’
‘I am not spying,’ said Conor. ‘I am learning.’
Vigny straightened, then adopted a new position, knees bent, arms stretched to the side.
‘That is a very good answer,’ he said, grinning. ‘Come out here.’
Conor limped to the balcony.
‘This is called t’ai chi. Practised since the fourteenth century in China. I learned it from a juggler on the fair circuit. That man claimed to be a hundred and twenty years old. A regimen for mind and body. It will be our first lesson every day. Followed by Okinawan Karate and then fencing. After breakfast we open the books. Science, mathematics, history and fiction. Mostly in the area of aeronautics, which happens to be my passion, jeune homme. Yours too, I’ll wager, judging by your kite-flying exploits.’
Karate and aeronautics. These did not sound like traditional occupations for a princess.
‘Will Isabella be coming?’
‘Not until eleven. She has needlepoint, etiquette and heraldry until then, though she may occasionally join us for fencing. So, for four hours every day, we can learn how to fight and how to fly.’
Conor smiled. Fighting and flying. His last teacher had started the day with Latin and poetry. Sometimes Latin poetry. Fighting and flying sounded much more enjoyable.
‘Now, how does the leg feel?’ asked Victor, pulling on a shirt.
‘Broken,’ said Conor.
‘Ah, not only a flyer but a joker. No doubt you’ll be spouting witticisms as your glider plunges into the side of a mountain.’
Glider? thought Conor. I am to have a glider. And something about a mountain?
Victor took a step back, folded his arms and took measure of his pupil. ‘You have potential,’ he said at last. ‘A slim build. The best for an airman. Most people don’t realize that flying a balloon takes a degree of athleticism, quick reactions and so forth. I imagine piloting an engine-driven heavier-than-air flying machine will take much more.’
Conor’s heart thumped in his chest.
A flying machine?
‘And you have brains. Your tower rescue proved that. More brains than that king of yours. Stocking a laboratory with explosives. He’s been doing that for years you know; it was only a matter of time. As for your personality, Princess Isabella says that you are not the most odious person in the castle, and coming from a female that is high praise indeed, Sir Conor.’