The coronation ceremony had proceeded without a hitch. Isabella’s insistence that the dinner seating be rearranged to accommodate the Broekharts had ruffled a few noble feathers, but the young monarch would not be put off. Declan and Catherine had sat on her left for the entire day, with Queen Victoria on the right. Marshall Bonvilain had been forced to shuffle down two seats at the first table and was not best pleased. Not that he cared a jot where he sat, but Catherine Broekhart had been whispering into Isabella’s ear for the entire day, and he had never liked that woman. Too political for her own good.
Bonvilain sulked through the meal, complaining that the wine was tepid and the soup too salty. The lobster shell, he declared, was far too brittle.
Even Sultan Arif, a Turkish mercenary who had been with Bonvilain for more than fifteen years and risen to the position of captain, raised an eyebrow at this.
‘A Templar concerned for the state of his lobster?’ he said. ‘You have been at court too long, Marshall.’
Bonvilain calmed himself. Sultan was the closest thing he had to a friend, though he would have him murdered without remorse if it ever became necessary. Arif was the only man in the kingdom brave enough to speak plainly.
‘It’s not just the lobster,’ he said, nodding towards Declan Broekhart.
‘Ah, yes. The lapdog remembers that he is actually a guard dog.’
‘Exactly,’ said Bonvilain, happy with Sultan’s imagery.
Sultan tossed a stripped chicken bone on to his plate. ‘In Turkey, if a guard dog turns on its master, then we simply slit the beast’s stomach.’
Bonvilain smiled at the idea. ‘You can always cheer me up, Captain. But this particular dog is very popular, as is his mistress. We must consider this problem carefully.’
Sultan nodded. ‘But don’t rule out my solution.’
Bonvilain stood, as a toast was proposed to the new queen.
‘No,’ he whispered to Sultan Arif. ‘I never rule out stomach slitting.’
Sultan smiled, but his eyes were cold. Every season, he promised himself that he would leave this madman and return to Ushak. In fact, Bonvilain was barely a man any more. He was the devil. And sooner or later the devil destroyed everything in his reach. It was his nature.
After the coronation dinner, the official celebrations began, though for the 3,000 Saltee islanders and more than 6,000 visitors, the celebrations had been in full swing since the moment the papal nuncio laid the ermine-trimmed crown on Isabella’s head.
There was a strong army presence on the street. No one below the rank of lieutenant had been given leave to enjoy the coronation. In fact, Bonvilain had borrowed a company from the English General, Eustace Fitzmorris, stationed in Dublin, and paid handsomely for the privilege. An extra 130 troops with instructions not to tolerate verbal abuse or public drunkenness and to keep a special eye out for Frenchmen acting suspiciously.
There was a carnival atmosphere as Queens Isabella and Victoria mounted the dais outside the palace at Promontory Fort. The citizens congregated in Promontory Square, and listened raptly as the new queen delivered her first royal address.
Bonvilain could not fail to notice that she squeezed Catherine Broekhart’s hand for courage throughout.
Sultan leaned in to comment. ‘A fine speech,’ he said. ‘I especially liked the phrases tax revision and political amnesty.’
Bonvilain made no reply. He was beginning to wonder if he had miscalculated by allowing Isabella to live. He had supposed she would be easily manipulated, and until now she had been. Also, he needed an undisputed heir on the throne. It would be most inconvenient if a dozen or so gold-digging pretenders landed at Saltee Harbour with a family tree rolled up under their arms, and their own agenda for the Saltee diamonds. Great Britain and of course France would be delighted to see political uncertainty in the Saltees – it could be just the excuse they needed to step in and support a new order. This was Bonvilain’s kingdom, but he needed a figurehead to keep him in power.
No, Hugo Bonvilain decided. Isabella needed to live, at least until she provided an heir to rule after her. Then there would be an unfortunate accident. In the royal yacht perhaps.
Sultan spoke again. ‘Ah, you’re smiling. In public too.’
‘Thinking pleasant thoughts,’ said Bonvilain, waving a jolly wave down the line at Declan Broekhart.
Declan Broekhart was on the verge of enjoying himself, though every time a smile tugged at his lips, it was accompanied by a twinge of guilt as he remembered his dead son.
What were you doing in the palace, Conor? How could I have put you in that man’s care?
It was still difficult to believe how easily Victor Vigny had fooled them all. Catherine had refused to believe that Vigny was a spy and assassin, until a search of his quarters revealed a trunk of weapons and poisons, detailed plans of the Saltee defences and a letter from an unnamed author threatening to kill Vigny’s family unless he obeyed his orders.
Catherine saw her husband’s eyes cloud over, and realized she was losing him to memories.
‘Isn’t this fabulous, Declan,’ she said, stroking her husband’s hand. ‘Isabella is queen. A great day for the islands.’
‘Hmm,’ said Declan. ‘Those English soldiers are a disgrace. Ruffians, every last one of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if Fitzmorris cleaned out his prisons. Look at them, unshaven, slouching ne’er-do-wells.’
‘Your sharpshooters look well enough.’
‘Yes, they do,’ said Declan, proud in spite of himself.
A dozen of his men stood on the Great Saltee Wall across the square, level with the top step of the dais. They were buffed, brushed and smart in their dress uniforms, gold epaulettes winking in the lamplight. They seemed almost like identical toy soldiers but for one thing – each carried his own distinctive rifle. Most were Sharps, but there were a couple of Remingtons, an Enfield and even some modified guns. The sharpshooters were the best marksmen on the islands, and it had always been army custom to allow these elite soldiers the weapon of their choice.
One of Isabella’s aides passed a folded note to Declan. He read it quickly, then sighed, relieved that there was no emergency.
‘Queen Victoria is tired,’ he explained to his wife. ‘But she would like to see the balloons before she retires to the royal yacht.’
Catherine smiled. ‘Everyone wants to see these balloons, Declan. Fireworks balloons, what an ingenious idea. Nitroglycerine bullets, I imagine.’
‘You are right, as usual,’ said Declan, thinking, Conor would have adored this. It’s just the kind of harebrained scheme he would have come up with himself. ‘It’s a little early for the full effect. Not yet fully dark.’
Catherine pinched his shoulder. ‘Away with you to your men, husband. This is not a day for disappointing queens.’
‘Or wives for that matter,’ said Declan, with a rare smile.
Declan moved easily across the square. Even the biggest braggarts and drunkards stepped smartly out of his path. It did not do to trifle with an officer of the Wall with a Saltee Sharphooters’ badge on his shoulder. Especially Declan Broekhart, who didn’t have much use for life since a rebel took his son.
His men were waiting on the Wall, faces sweating above stiff collars and below hard hats.
‘Not long to go, boys,’ said Declan, digging deep inside himself to find the spring of camaraderie that once flowed freely. ‘A pint of Guinness for every man who finds the target.’ He peered across the sound at the glowing balloons straining on their leashes, nearly a mile away in half darkness. ‘Make that two pints of Guinness.’