Novel - Airman

Bonvilain’s Tower

  Marshall Bonvilain stepped over the threshold into the dining room, his face an exaggerated picture of regret. Behind him the last flames of destruction flickered out in the sky. From below on the Wall came the sounds of high-spirited congratulation, and the hiss of steam rising from glowing gun barrels. “A great pity,” the marshall said, chin low. “That man had so much to teach the world.”

  The gathering had been morose before; now the humor had switched to irate. Bonvilain took one look at the mood writ on his guests’ faces and realized that a crisis was fast approaching. “There was no other way, ladies . . . Declan. As marshall, I could not permit an assault on the Wall.”

  Isabella stood by the fireplace, flushed cheeks contrasting with a high-collared ivory dress. Bonvilain was unsettled by her expression, as he had not seen this look before. Ever since the coronation, Isabella’s confidence had been growing; now she had the temerity to glare at him. And just after he had supposedly saved her life! I sincerely prefer the old Isabella, he thought. Confused and grief-stricken is how I like my monarch.

  No one was talking, and they were all treating Bonvilain to the same disgusted stare. They have been conferring, Bonvilain realized. While I was on the balcony.

  “Are we all distressed?” he asked innocently. “Shall I close the window?”

  And still no one spoke. Bonvilain realized that the queen was working up the courage to deliver a lecture. “I think I shall sit for this,” said the marshall calmly, dropping cross-legged to a cushion. “Else my legs may give way. You have something to say, Majesty?”

  Isabella took a step forward, her dress almost disguising the shake in her legs. “The sweep found something, Marshall. In my father’s chamber.” These were her first words of the evening.

  “Oh really?” said Bonvilain brightly, but inside he was discomfited. In his position, there was no such thing as a good surprise.

  “Yes, Marshall, really.” Isabella took a small leather-bound book from her bag and held it close to her heart. “This is my father’s diary.”

  Bonvilain decided to brazen it out. “Why, that’s wonderful, Majesty. Something to connect you to King Nicholas.”

  “Not so wonderful for you, Marshall,” continued Isabella, clutching Catherine’s hand for support. “My father was very suspicious of your activities. He wrote how you abuse your power to build a personal fortune. How you cultivate a network of spies on the mainland. How you are suspected of complicity in dozens of murders. The list goes on.”

  “I see,” said Bonvilain, while plotting in his head. It will be difficult to make them take the poisoned wine now. Already they do not trust me.

  Isabella’s legs were no longer shaking, and her tone was regal. “Do you see? I think not, Marshall. Did you know that my father planned to see you in prison? Did you know that he planned to completely revise the power structure on the Saltee Islands? To inaugurate a parliament?”

  Bonvilain managed to maintain his bland expression, but he knew that a crisis was upon him. Typical, he thought. Murder one enemy, and three more spring up in his place.

  “May I read something for you?” asked Isabella.

  Bonvilain nodded. “It is not my place to allow or forbid, Majesty.”

  “I shall take that as a yes,” said Isabella with a curt smile. She released Catherine’s hand to open her father’s diary. “‘Hugo Bonvilain is a scourge,’” she read. “‘His power is formidable and he abuses it at every opportunity. When I have proof of his crimes, he will spend the rest of his life staring at the same cell walls he has condemned so many to suffer within. But I must be careful; nothing is beneath the marshall, and I believe if he knew of my plans then he would take whatever steps necessary to thwart them. I do not fear for my own life, but Isabella must be kept safe. She is my heart.’” Isabella’s voice almost broke at the end, but she reached for Catherine’s hand and finished strong.

  Bonvilain clapped both palms on his knees. “Well, that’s damning stuff,” he said. “Obviously the text is a forgery, planted by one of my enemies.” I must make them drink. How to do it? How?

  “I know my father’s hand,” said Isabella firmly.

  “I have no doubt of it, but an expert forger can deceive sharper eyes than ours. Have the book verified by an expert of your choice. I insist on it. This book is a grave insult to my life’s work, and I will have my name cleared.”

  “I have not finished,” declared Isabella. “You are removed from office immediately. Declan . . . Captain Broekhart will take your place.”

  Bonvilain kept the rage inside him corked up tight. “Declan would certainly make a fine marshall. I thoroughly approve, but surely I deserve an opportunity to—”

  “Enough!” ordered the queen, in a tone that brooked no argument. “You will remain here under house arrest until your affairs can be investigated.”

  Bonvilain silently cursed himself. He had provided the queen with the perfect forum to launch her attack. He had some men hidden in a secret compartment behind the wall, but it was difficult to reach behind a tapestry and pull a hidden lever under such scrutiny. Everything rests on the poisoned wine. If it were just the queen, I could force it down her gullet, but Declan Broekhart would run me through with that darned ceremonial sword, and if his wife’s stares were daggers, I would be dead already.

  A great relief shone in Isabella’s eyes, and her shoulders dipped as the tension drained from her body. The prospect of this confrontation had terrified her since the diary’s discovery.

  She had planned every word in her speech, and finally, victory was hers, and her father’s. “And now, Hugo Bonvilain,” she said, “I think we should do what we are here to do. We should raise a toast to our beloved Conor Broekhart.”

  Bonvilain bit his lip. Oh thank you, spirits of irony. The gods have a sense of humor after all.

  Bonvilain’s expression was peevish. “I hardly think . . . Under the circumstances . . .”

  Catherine stepped forward and plucked the special bottle from the ice bucket. “I realize that you invited us here in a transparent attempt to toady to Isabella and Declan, but we wish to honor our son, and you will raise a glass with us.”

  “This is ridiculous,” grumbled Bonvilain. “But I, of course, will not cause my queen displeasure.”

  He stood and slouched, and while Declan opened and poured, Bonvilain muttered under his breath and threw hateful stares. The picture of a beaten bully, and certainly not a schemer on the verge of his greatest coup.

  They held their crystal glasses aloft, Bonvilain’s at half-mast. With Catherine’s smile of approval, Isabella gave the toast. “To Conor, my best friend. My prince and savior. Look after my father.”

  Tears sparkled in Catherine’s eyes, and Declan actually moaned. Bonvilain tried not to laugh, but it was difficult. Look after your father? You can look after him yourself, if I have my way.

  Bonvilain waited for his guests to drink, but they did not. He abandoned his surly expression for a moment to glance at their faces. Each one regarded their twinkling glass with dawning suspicion. Perhaps this wine is poisoned. Perhaps this is why Bonvilain invited us here.

  There was only one way for Bonvilain to allay this suspicion. Ah well, there goes my evening. It’s the water closet for me until morning.

  “To the Broekhart boy, how I miss him,” he said, quaffing half of his glass in a single swallow.

  “To Conor, my son,” said Declan. “Heaven is lucky to have him.” And raised the glass to his mouth. But before he could do more than wet his lips, something dark detached itself from the night outside and pounced on Hugo Bonvilain. Something dark with wings.

  Conor hurtled through the window, a creature of the night, crashing into Bonvilain, tumbling them onto the low table. Crockery and cutlery flew, and both men were instantly entangled in swathes of gold-embroidered tablecloth. Only Conor’s wings remained exposed, and he must have resembled a giant moth, attracted to the cloth’s bright pattern.


  Declan reacted quickly, throwing his glass aside and wrapping his fingers around the grip of his ceremonial sword. Ceremonial, but razor sharp nonetheless.

  It is the Airman, he thought. Come to kill the queen.

  The situation with Bonvilain must be set aside until this common enemy was dealt with. He grabbed a hank of tablecloth, bent low, and used his weight and strength to spin the warring pair from the table. They rolled across the floor, still battling, though Bonvilain’s blows were growing weak and ineffective. The Airman drove his fist repeatedly into his enemy’s face, until Bonvilain’s eyes lost their focus.

  Declan reached for the collar of the intruder’s jacket but was too slow. The Airman spun around, speaking urgently. “Did you drink? Have you raised the toast?”

  A strange question for an assassin to pose, thought Declan. But no time for distractions; put him down, then ponder his questions.

  He swung his sword, intending to render the Airman unconscious with the flat of his blade, only to find it almost casually batted aside by his enemy’s forearm.

  “The toast. Did you drink?”

  Something in the man’s attitude unsettled Declan, as though he were about to make a terrible mistake. The face, or perhaps the voice. Something. He held back from striking, uncertain now of his strength of purpose.

  Catherine had no such doubts. She saw nothing of the Airman’s face. From her angle there was only her husband and the man attacking him. She hitched up her skirt and planted a solid kick square in the Airman’s side, following it with a dashing blow from a handy flower vase.

  Conor staggered sideways, dripping water and wearing daffodils. “Wait,” he gasped, shrugging off his harness and wings. “Don’t . . .”

  But he was given no respite. Isabella pulled a samurai sword from its presentation case and adopted a fencing stance before him. “En garde, monsieur,” she said, then launched a blistering attack. Conor’s saber barely cleared its scabbard in time to parry the first thrust.

  “Isabella,” he gasped, completely disoriented. “You must stop.”

  The queen was in no mood to stop anything. “I will stop when you are dead, assassin.”

  Conor managed a lucky counter riposte, which bought him the second he needed to find his balance.

  Isabella had improved as a fencer since their lessons with Victor, but Conor could still see the bones of his teachings. “You have studied Marozzo well,” he gasped. “Victor would be proud.”

  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 labored, 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 realize 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 saber from the floorboards and scanned the chamber to see his old enemy sliding along the wall, quietly making for the door.

  “Father,” called Conor, pointing with his sword. “We must secure Bonvilain.”

  Realizing 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 defense,” 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 toward 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 toward 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 occurred.

  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 onto 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 birdlike 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 duffel 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 to stay calm, Marshall,” he cauti
oned, quickening his pace toward 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 Arif ’s direction, Bonvilain went back into his own apartment, where Declan and Conor Broekhart were battling furiously with three of the Holy Cross guards. Three were already down, clutching their wounds, or unconscious. At that moment, Declan Broekhart took a blade in the shoulder, leaving his son to fight alone, which he did.

  Catherine dragged her husband clear, and Queen Isabella kept her sword leveled 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 saber’s finger guard.

  The Airman tumbled the final guard back inside the passage then reached behind the tapestry and sealed them inside. Their moaning could be heard through the grate.

  “Behind you, son,” said Declan through gritted teeth. “The marshall.”