by Eoin Colfer
Not yet. Not yet.
He almost stumbled over Isabella. She seemed to be asleep. There was no reaction when his fingers pulled at her face. Dead. Is she dead? The nine-year-old boy felt tears flow over his cheeks, and was ashamed. He needed to be strong for the princess. Be a hero like his papa.
What would Captain Declan Broekhart do? Conor imagined his father’s face in front of him.
Try something, Conor. Use that big brain your mother is always talking about. Build your flying machine.
Not a machine, Papa. There is no mechanism. This is a kite.
Flame was climbing the parapet wall, blackening the stone with its fiery licks. Crossbeams, carpets, files, and furniture tumbled into the hungry fire, feeding it. Conor lifted the princess, dragging his friend upright.
“What?” she said grumpily. Then the smoke filled her windpipe, and any words dissolved into a coughing fit.
Conor stood straight, feeling the massive flag flap and crackle in the wind. “It’s like a big kite, Isabella,” he rasped, words like glass in his throat. “I will hold you around the waist, like this, and then we move to . . .”
Conor never finished his instructions because a further explosion, funneled by the tower, caused a massive updraft, plucking the two children from the parapet and sending the flag spinning into open air like a giant autumn leaf.
The circumstances were unique. Had they jumped, as was Conor’s plan, they would have not had enough height for the flag to slow their descent. But the updraft caught their makeshift kite and spun them up another hundred feet, taking them out over the sea. They hung there, in the sky at the plateau of the air tunnel. Weightless. Sky above and sea below.
I am flying, thought Conor Broekhart. I remember this.
Then the flying finished and the falling started, and though it was drastically slowed by the flag, it seemed devilishly swift. Sights dissolved into a kaleidoscope of fractured blues and silvers. The flag caught a low breeze and flipped. Conor watched the clouds swirl above him, stretching to creamy streams. And all the time he held on to Isabella so tightly his fingers ached. He was crying and laughing, and he knew it would be painful when they hit the water.
They crashed into the ocean. It was painful.
When he saw his daughter on the parapet, King Nicholas had tried to scramble up the tower like a dog climbing out of a well. In seconds his nails were torn and bloody.
Victor Vigny had dragged him away from the wall. “Wait, Nick. This is not over yet. Wait. The boy . . . he’s . . .”
Nicholas’s eyes were wild and anguished. “What? He’s what?”
“You have to see it. Come now. We need a boat, in case the wind takes them.”
“A boat? A boat? What are you saying?”
“Come, Nick. Come.”
Nicholas howled and dropped to his knees as his daughter flew into the air.
Victor watched, amazed. This boy. He was special, whoever he was. Maybe nine, no more than ten. What ingenuity. The explosion took them high; Victor watched their trajectory and then set off for the pier at a run, dragging the king behind him. “The flag could drown them,” he puffed. “The frame will collapse, and the flag will wrap around them both.”
The king had recovered himself and soon outstripped the others through a trader’s gate and down to the jetty. There were already a half dozen boats on their way to the fallen flag. The first to reach them was a small quay punt, sculled across the wave tops by two muscled fishermen. A line of slower vessels trailed behind them to the pier.
“Alive?” Nicholas roared, but the distance was too great. “Are they alive?”
The flag was pulled from the sea, and wet bundles rolled from it. Victor caught the king and gripped his shoulder tight. The little punt spun in a tight circle, and the fishermen pulled for shore, their oars kicking spume from the water. The news traveled faster than they could, passed from one boat to the next. The words, inaudible at first, became clearer with each fresh call. “Alive. Alive. Both of them.”
Nicholas sank to his knees and thanked God. Victor smiled first, and then began to clap with delight.
“I came to teach the princess,” he shouted to no one in particular. “But I will teach that boy, too—or perhaps he will teach me.”
CHAPTER 2: LA BROSSE
Conor Broekhart was quite the hero for a time. It seemed as though everyone on the island visited him at the castle infirmary to listen to the tale of his improvised glider, and to knock for luck on the gypsum cast on his broken leg.
Isabella came every day, and often brought her father, King Nicholas. On one of these visits he brought his sword.
“I didn’t want to jump off the tower,” Conor objected. “I couldn’t think of another way.”
“No, no,” said Nicholas. “This is the Trudeau ceremonial sword. I am making you a peer.”
“You are making me appear?” said Conor doubtfully. “Is this a magical trick?”
Nicholas smiled. “In a way. One touch of this sword and you become Sir Conor Broekhart. Your father then becomes Lord Broekhart, and of course your mother will become Lady Broekhart.”
Conor was still a little worried about the crusader’s blade five inches from his nose. “I don’t have to kiss that, do I?”
“No, just touch the blade. Even one finger will do. We will have a proper ceremony when you are well.”
Conor ran a finger along the shining blade. It sang under his touch.
Nicholas put the sword aside. “Arise, Sir Conor. Not straight away, of course. Take your time. When you are well, I have a new teacher for you. A very special man who worked with me when I flew balloons. I think that you, of all people, will really like him.”
Balloons! As far as Conor was concerned, the king could keep his peerage, so long as he could fly balloons. “I am feeling much better, Your Majesty. Perhaps I could meet this man today.”
“Steady on, Sir Conor,” laughed the king. “I will ask him to drop by tomorrow. He has a few drawings you might like to look at. Something about heavier-than-air flying machines.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I look forward to it.”
The king chuckled, ruffling Conor’s hair. “You saved my daughter, Conor. You saved her from my carelessness and her own tinkering fingers. I will never forget that. Never.” He winked. “And neither will she.”
The king left, leaving his daughter behind. She had not spoken for the entire meeting; indeed she had not said much to Conor since the accident. But today, some of the old light was back in her brown eyes. “Sirrrrr Conor,” she said, rolling the title around in her mouth like a hard sweet. “It’s going to be more difficult to have you hanged now.”
“Thank you, Isabella.”
The princess leaned in to knock on his cast. “No, Sir Conor Broekhart. Thank you.”
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.”
Karate and aeronautics. These did not sound like traditional occupations for a princess. “Will Isabella be coming?”
“Not until eleven. She has needlepoint, etiquette, and heraldry until then, though she may occasionally join us for fencing. So, for four hours every day, we can learn how to fight and how to fly.”
Conor smiled. Fighting and flying. His last teacher had started the day with Latin and poetry. Sometimes Latin poetry. Fighting and flying sounded much more enjoyable.
“Now, how does the leg feel?” asked Victor, pulling on a shirt.
“Broken,” said Conor.
“Ah, not only a flyer but a joker. No doubt you’ll be spouting witticisms as your glider plunges into the side of a mountain.”
Glider? thought Conor. I am to have a glider. And something about a mountain?
Victor took a step back, folded his arms, and took measure of his pupil. “You have potential,” he said at last. “A slim build. The best for an airman. Most people don’t realize that flying a balloon takes a degree of athleticism: quick reactions and so forth. I imagine piloting an engine-driven heavier-than-air flying machine will take much more.”
Conor’s heart thumped in his chest. A flying machine?
“And you have brains. Your tower rescue proved that. More brains than that king of yours—stocking a laboratory with explosives. He’s been doing that for years, you know; it was only a matter of time. As for your personality, Princess Isabella says that you are not the most odious person in the castle, and coming from a female that is high praise indeed, Sir Conor.”
Conor win
ced. His title still sounded outrageous to him. If it were never used again, he would be happier. Though he had noticed today that cook gave him a toffee apple for no particular reason. And curtsied too. Curtsied? This was the same cook who had battered his backside with a floury rolling pin not two weeks before.
“So, are you ready to learn, lad?”
Conor nodded. “Yes, sir. More than ready—eager.”
“Good,” said Victor. “Excellent. Now, hobble this way. I have some unguents that should help that leg of yours on its way to soundness. And exercises too, for the toes.” All of this sounded far-fetched, but no more so than an engine-driven, heavier-than-air flying machine. It was the age of discovery and Conor was prepared to believe anything. Victor pulled a ceramic jar from a high shelf. The lid was waxed canvas, tied on with reeds. When the cover came off, the smell was like nothing or nowhere Conor had ever smelled or been.
“An African man, from the Sahara, had a camel act, taught me how to make this.” Victor took a dollop on two fingers and smeared it where the cast met Conor’s leg, below the knee. “Let it seep down under the cast. Smells like Beelzebub’s backside, but when the gypsum comes off, the bad leg will be better than the good one.”
The unguent sent Conor’s skin tingling. Hot and cold at the same time. “If we are scientists,” he said, keeping his tone respectful, “why do we need to fight?”
Victor Vigny sealed the pot, thinking about his answer. “I fully expect, Conor Broekhart, that between the two of us, we will learn to fly, and when that day comes, when we reveal our wondrous machine, someone will try to steal it from us. It has happened to me before. I built a glider from willow and silk, beautiful. She made the air sing when she passed. I flew a monkey more than a hundred feet. For six weeks I was the toast of the fair. Tent full every night.”
Conor could see the glider in his mind. A monkey. Fabulous. “What happened?”
“There was a Russian knife thrower. He came around to my wagon one night, with half a dozen friends. They burned my glider to ashes, and gave me a few licks to send me on my way. Threatened, you see, by progress. When the choices are a flying monkey or a knife thrower, who would pick the knife thrower?”
