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; 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.