Declan lowered the telescope.
He is gone. We will never know his true purpose.
Seconds later, the Airman lost his battle for control and altitude. His engine spasmed, growled and died. It seemed then as though there was a moment of echoes, as the craft spiralled down and the marksmen held their ammunition. Waiting.
It was not a long wait. Mere seconds. A short command was barked from the Wall, and the Gatling cranks were turning once more. Eighteen barrels spat fire and a fresh blizzard of rounds rocketed into the night sky. Spent cases clinked on the parapet like coins thrown to a beggar.
The bullets tore through the craft’s wings and body, almost halting its descent. The impact was terrible, splintering the fragile body and tearing the wings to nothing. Round after round slammed into the engine until it exploded in a tight orange burst. Tendrils of flame shot along ribs and ropes, tracing the remains of the aeroplane against the night sky.
They did not hear a splash.
The night sky
Conor flew his machine through the sky above Great Saltee. A savage crosswind sheared across his bow, tilting him to starboard and he noticed a congregation of lights by the third tower. Lights meant guards.
The lights below winked out one by one, and Conor’s stomach heaved with dread.
I am the target now.
For a moment there was nothing but shadowed activity from the third tower, then dots of fire flashed and a hail of shot erupted towards the heavens. A second later Conor heard the scream of the bullets and their frustrated cry as they passed below.
Pure panic bubbled in Conor’s chest, and he almost jumped bodily from the machine.
Wait. Wait. I must pass Bonvilain’s tower.
The engine was stuttering, missing beats like a failing heart, losing its battle with the skies. Both wings were in tatters now, the wind’s claws ripping strips of muslin from the frame. Below Conor’s toes, the pedal had broken free from its stanchions and jiggled uselessly.
Almost in position. A few more yards.
A second swarm of bullets blasted towards him, and Conor felt the highest missiles tugging at the landing gear, sending the wheels spinning. He was in range now. Time to say goodbye to La Brosse. All evidence of his flight would soon be destroyed.
Conor knew that the marshall would never have allowed him to reach Great Saltee alive, so the trick was to persuade Bonvilain that the Airman was finally dead. This was a challenge. As a master of deception, Bonvilain was not an easy man to deceive.
But he knows nothing about flight. In the heavens, I am the master.
Conor wore his glider harness with one extra strap that connected him to his flying machine. The rest were, as usual, buckling him to his glider, which lay folded across his back, ribs slapping against his flying jacket, ripples running along the fabric. Linus had repaired it for him and it was stronger now than it had ever been.
One more flight, old friend.
It was difficult reaching down in all the confusion, it was difficult figuring which way was down, so Conor ran his hand along his own body, finding the strap at his waist. He yanked it upwards freeing the buckle and the aeroplane rocked loosely around his torso, but did not fall away as they were still bound together by momentum and gravity. The bullets were splintering the wood around his legs now – if he did not separate, his invention would become his coffin.
With a practised motion, Conor reached for the spring-loaded lever at his side. One swift tug, and the glider’s wings deployed. They spread themselves wide against the stars like some great night bird, acting like a powerful brake, lifting Conor clear of the doomed aeroplane.
He watched it go, dipping into the shoal of glinting bullets. His historic invention was obliterated completely. Nothing left but burning fragments and a crushed metal heart.
The engine exploded, blew itself into fist-sized pieces, which spun into the darkness.
Gone. No place in history for La Brosse.
Far below on Great Saltee, a haze of gun smoke shrouded the Wall and through it Conor saw the muted glow of electric globes.
They turn the lights back on because they believe themselves safe.
Conor hung in the sky, finding his bearings. Bonvilain’s tower was marked out by the rectangular glow of an open door. Isabella and his parents were inside that tower, in mortal danger. It could be that he was already too late.
Into the lion’s den, thought Conor, then dipped the glider’s nose, aiming for the light.
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,’ he said, chin low. ‘That man had so much to teach the world.’
The gathering had been morose before, now the humour 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 thought. While I was on the balcony.
‘Are we all distressed?’ he asked innocently. ‘Shall I close the window?’
And still no one spoke. Bonvilain saw 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 in his head plotting.
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?’