Someone else came to see Conor that day, late in the evening when the nurse had shooed his mother home. The infirmary was deserted save for the night nurse, who sat at her station at the end of the corridor. She drew a curtain around Conor’s bed and left a light on so that he could read his book.
Conor leafed through George Cayley’s On Navigation, which theorized that a fixed-wing aircraft with some form of engine and a ruddered tail could possibly carry a man through the air.
Heavy reading for a nine-year-old. In truth Conor skipped more words than he knew, but with each pass he understood more. Engine and tail, he thought. Better than a flying flag, at any rate. And he fell asleep dreaming of a shining sword wrapped in a flag, sinking in St. George’s Channel.
He awoke to the sound of a boot heel scraping on stone, and the heavy sigh of a large man. A sigh so guttural that it was almost a growl. This was a sound to make a boy decide to pretend that he was still asleep. Conor opened his eyes the merest slit, careful to keep his breathing deep and regular.
There was a man in his bedside chair, his massive frame swathed in shadows. By the red cross on his breast, it was one of the Holy Cross Guard—Marshall Bonvilain himself.
Conor’s breath hitched, and he covered it with a small moan, as though plagued by night terrors. What could Bonvilain want here? At this hour?
Sir Hugo was the direct descendant of Percy Bonvilain, who had served under the first Trudeau king seven centuries before. Historically, the Bonvilains were high commanders of the Saltee army and also were given leave to assemble their own Holy Cross Guard, which at one time were used to conduct raids to the mainland or hired out to European kings as professional soldiers. The current Bonvilain was the last in the line and the most powerful. In fact, Sir Hugo would have been declared prime minister some years earlier when King Hector died, had not a genealogist discovered Nicholas Trudeau eking out a living as an aeronaut in the United States.
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 arguments in a surprisingly mellow voice. If that Saltee fellow don’t cut you one way, he does it t’other, Benjamin Disraeli had 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 rumor of the existence of a French army of spies, La Légion Noire, whose mission was to gather intelligence on Saltee defenses. 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 Sir Hugo 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, he was 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 around Conor’s 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 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 bedchamber.
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 story 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, saber, 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 tai chi. Practiced 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.”