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 carefuclass="underline" nothing is below 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,’ said Bonvilain. ‘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 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 conclude 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 humour after all.
Bonvilain’s expression was peevish. ‘I hardly think… Under the circumstances…’
Catherine stepped forward, plucking 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 honour 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 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 saviour. 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 my 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 on to 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 round 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 causally 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 sabre barely cleared its scabbard in time to parry the first thrust.
‘Isabella,’ he gasped, completely disorientated. ‘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.’