Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears

by Michael Gardner

  Tired of wrestling with sleep, Kidd stole a blanket left to air outside a farmhouse. He wrapped his face and body so he could travel without the need to stop and hide. When he happened on anyone, he held out his bandaged hands and moaned, “Unclean!”

  Not even the bravest robber dared to waylay a leper.

  * * *

  Kidd hiked for four days. Eventually, Vllen’s palazzo appeared like a green oasis amid the browning Tuscan foothills. Soon, the wild road gave way to lush lawns and neatly trimmed hedges. Barely clinging to life, Kidd staggered up Vllen’s immaculately-groomed carriageway. The palazzo was a striking structure, even though it was considered modest by Florentine standards. In his delirium, Kidd thought it looked like a collection of square sandstone cakes topped with terracotta icing.

  He was grateful for a balustrade as he negotiated the short staircase to the main entrance. Now totally unable to use his hands, he was forced to knock on the door with his head, the final insult of his injuries.

  The door was opened by a dark-haired man with tiny features. He was less than five feet tall, and elegantly dressed in a crimson doublet with gold thread and puffed shirtsleeves.

  “Vllen?” Kidd groaned.

  “Ya?” The Bavarian inventor looked rather perplexed by the vision of a mud-caked heap of rags in the shape of a man. “What you want?”

  Kidd peeled the blanket from his face with a hooked hand.

  “Wilhelm? Wilhelm!” Vllen held out his arms to embrace Kidd, and then changed his mind. “You look terrible.”

  Kidd slumped against the door frame. “I feel worse. I need help.”

  “Of course, let me assist you.” Vllen tucked his shoulder under Kidd’s arm and took his weight. “It has been many years, but we can pass pleasantries later. I owe your father my life many times over, and you are always welcome under my roof.”

  The Bavarian led him inside, kicked the door closed behind them, and issued swift instructions to puzzled servants in a Germanic dialect Kidd didn’t recognise.

  The sights and smells within the palazzo were both familiar and strange. Vllen’s souvenirs from his many journeys adorned every available space. Kidd had fond memories of whiling away many an afternoon investigating the assortment of curiosities, but there were many more now than then; long shields with embossed patterns, curved oriental swords, exotic furs, strange embalmed animals, and sculptures in stone and wood. As exhaustion took hold, Kidd thought he would make a fitting addition to the bizarre collection.

  Vllen helped him to the bathing room, which housed a wooden tub strapped together with bands of copper like some oversized wine barrel. The sight of a bath was a rarity, even in wealthy households. “I don’t need a bath, Vllen,” he said, slurring like a drunkard. “I had one a few months ago.”

  “Ya, and you stink.” Vllen lowered Kidd onto a cushioned bench. He threw several logs onto a smouldering fire under a huge brass pot. There was a tap fitted at the base, and a long pipe that ran down to the bath. It was a simple, but effective way to fill the tub with hot water.

  “I just need some medicine for my hands. I don’t want a doctor to cut them off.”

  Vllen examined the burns. “Ya ya, those butchers would amputate your hands and give you a couple of hooks in their place.” He squinted at Kidd. “You would spend the rest of your life feeling miserable every time you were served peas with your roast beef. Wait here. I will fetch you something to drink.”

  Vllen soon returned with a cup of steaming liquid. He held it up to Kidd’s mouth. The broth smelled unpleasantly of musky herbs. “I must clean you up and examine your wounds. It would be easier if you slept.”

  Too thirsty to enquire as to the contents, Kidd swallowed the liquid in a few mouthfuls. It tasted leafy and wasn’t at all refreshing, but he relaxed immediately, his vision becoming a blur. The last thing he saw was Vllen’s hands breaking his fall as his head plummeted towards the floor.

  * * *

  He woke with a taste in his mouth as though he had been chewing a cud of grass. After the fog had cleared from his sight, he realised he was lying in a soft, comfortable bed in one of the many guest rooms. He had been washed and dressed in new clean clothes. Both his hands were wrapped in moist bandages up to the elbows. The dressing smelled of piquant oil and savoury herbs.

  The sight of his hands made Kidd feel suddenly trapped, like he was in the process of being mummified before his burial. “Vllen!” he croaked. “What have you done to me?”

  Vllen snapped his book closed and stood up from a chair opposite Kidd’s bed. “What kind of way is that to speak to your host?” Vllen’s furrowed brow bore the only lines on his face. He was remarkably youthful in appearance given his fifty odd years of age.

  Kidd immediately regretted his outburst. “Sorry. My hands are bound and I have an awful taste in my mouth.”

  Vllen trotted up to the bedside. “Ya, I have saved what is left of your hands. I have also washed your filthy body and cleaned your teeth. No bad breath allowed in this house.” His expression softened as his eyes fell on Kidd’s hands. He lifted one and slowly removed the bandage. The cloth was layered with a variety of leaves which he dropped into a copper basin at the side of the bed. “This will be a difficult thing to cope with, for a man such as you.”

  Kidd nodded. “Indeed. There are a number of men who would like to see me dead. Now they have a good chance.”

  Vllen scratched his salt and pepper beard. “You were right to come to me.”

  Kidd curled his mutilated hand into a poor semblance of a fist. At the very least, Vllen’s treatments had restored some movement. “What did you have in mind?”

  Vllen fiddled with the lapels of his doublet nervously. Unlike his more famous counterparts, he was independently wealthy and didn’t rely on the patronage of royalty or the Church to conduct his work. That afforded him certain freedoms when it came to experimentation. “I have been working on certain medical procedures that some would consider ungodly. It may be fine for your King Henry to defy His Holiness, but I don’t have friends in high places as he does, so if word were to get out...”

  Kidd knew the story of his exile from England could wait for another day. “My lips are sealed. Tell me more.”

  Vllen winced. “It will be painful, not only at first, but possibly for the rest of your life.”

  Kidd shuddered as he envisioned a hook screwed into his wrist stump, providing he even survived the amputation. “I’ll endure any amount of pain if I can keep my hands!”

  “Ya ya, you are definitely your father’s son.” Vllen poked out his bottom lip, an expression he often adopted while he was deep in thought. “If you allow this surgery, then know there is no recourse if it should go awry. I make no promise of success.”

  Kidd nodded slowly. “I understand and accept. What do you intend to do?”

  Vllen’s eyes flamed passionately as he began to describe his idea. “I am not just a scientist, Wilhelm, I am also an artist. I will create new hands for the man with the iron will—hands worthy of his name. I will prepare for surgery while you take a bath.”

  “Another one?”

  Vllen shushed him. “For this to have any chance of success, you must be clean!” He rang a small brass bell on the bedside table.

  Hanns arrived to help Kidd to the bath. Kidd slipped into the steaming water and tried to relax, but his stomach was tied in a knot. He wondered how long Vllen’s treatments would take and if he would ever regain the use of his hands.

  Before those questions could be answered, fists began to pound the door. A musket was fired and men demanded entry.

  ~ Chapter 4 ~

  LORICA SEGMENTATA

  A fortnight of frustration followed Cardinal Cresci’s visit and Vllen’s treatments. Kidd’s sole comfort was that Vllen’s manservant, Hanns, was dignified and discreet as he went about the task of spoon-feeding him, or helping him to pass water. To make matters worse, Vllen insisted that Kidd was washed head to foot every day. The regime
n included having his teeth cleaned, which Hanns did gently with a small fibrous brush. If Kidd protested, Vllen would deliver a lengthy lecture about how people lived like animals and about the dangers of poor hygiene. Taking a bath soon became his preferred option. It also proved to be a good place to ponder on the predicament of The Tears.

  Kidd felt certain that he had taken more baths during his convalescence than many people would have taken in a lifetime. With bandaged hands hanging limply over the sides of the tub to keep them dry, Hanns cleaned him as meticulously as a bath attendant would a king. Yet Kidd did not feel pampered and spoiled by such royal treatment. He only felt disgruntled that he could not perform the task himself. The dull ache that ran from his fingertips to his elbows served as a constant reminder of what he had lost. Vllen offered numbing herbal brews on many occasions, but Kidd refused every one. Regardless of his condition, he did not want to have his wits dulled too much.

  When the fortnight had passed, Vllen removed the blood-speckled bandages to see if Kidd’s hands were sufficiently healed. A broad smile spread across his face as his work was unveiled. “Ya, this is surely my best creation. I drew inspiration from the armour of the ancient Roman legionaries—lorica segmentata—but I have improved the design of course.”

  Kidd was astonished at the sight of his newly-constructed hands, although he wasn’t sure if he was pleased or not with Vllen’s solution. Each hand was sheathed with intricate blue-grey metal bands that extended up his forearms to his elbows. The craftsmanship was so detailed that every piece moulded to his flesh like another layer of skin.

  Vllen took Kidd’s hands lightly in his own. “Such genius,” he mused. “Just like an insect wears his skeleton on the outside to protect his soft innards, these metal gloves will protect what remains of your muscles and bones.”

  Kidd opened and closed a fist, admiring the seamless movement of the plates. “How long will I have to wear them?”

  “Well... forever, Wilhelm. The burns in your flesh are too deep to ever heal fully. If you injure your hands again it will be amputation and two hooks for certain. But I have turned weakness into strength by fitting you with armour durable enough to last the rest of your life.” He tapped the metal plates as if to check the construction was sound. “These new hands are woven into your very being, and you will have to take good care of them. Wash with salt water to prevent infection, fresh water to remove the salt, and then oil to prevent rust. It’s similar to curing a wok.”

  “A what!?”

  “No, a wok,” Vllen replied taking great pains to pronounce the word clearly. “It’s an oriental cooking pan shaped like a bowl.” Kidd’s expression remained blank. “Ah, never mind. Just look after them or you’ll develop a squeak.”

  Kidd flexed his fingers and rotated his wrists, feeling the tender points where pins stapled the plates to his arms. While Vllen’s surgery was masterful, his fingers remained clumsy, lacking the fine control and dexterity he’d possessed before his fight with Hamilton Rush. It would be difficult to wield a sword, or carry a pistol. But more than that, he knew he would never again feel warm flesh beneath his fingertips or appreciate the complex sensation of velvet.

  “Ya, so what you think?”

  Kidd’s smile was tinged with sorrow. He was still better off than a cripple with a crutch, but it was little comfort. The metal gloves would forever serve as a reminder of the life he’d lost. “Thank you, Vllen. I will see you are paid for your work.”

  Vllen accepted the promise of payment later. Kidd asked for leave to stay another week to rest and recover some strength.

  “Stay as long as you require,” Vllen replied.

  After a few days Kidd regained more movement in his hands and was able to perform simple tasks, although they ached bitterly. Next morning, he collected a sabre and pistol from Vllen’s armoury and took a stroll to one of the many retreats in the garden. The grounds were large and tended immaculately as if Vllen had an army of gardeners at his disposal, although, like most of his staff, they were rarely seen. The Bavarian enjoyed his privacy. The garden itself was divided into discreet sections, with waterways, roses, a citrus grove, and a variety of native and exotic plants, all framed by tall trees and groomed hedges.

  Kidd strode down a long path, his boots crunching on the gravel. He knelt on the grass verge and started to load the pistol. Before his injuries, he could perform the task blindfolded, but now it took time and concentration to complete. As if he were drunk, his fingers would not cooperate with his head.

  A quail turned the corner of the path ahead, chirruping for its mate. It was a perfect opportunity to test his marksmanship. The small bird would make a fine prize and a tasty meal. With years of expertise not lost, his hand remembered how to set the firing pin. He took aim and reached for the trigger, but his enlarged finger wouldn’t fit through the metal guard. He tried each in turn, but only his little finger fitted the gap. It was such a tight squeeze he discharged the pistol accidentally. He felt the heat of the powder flash on his cheek and the smoke-sting in his eyes. He cursed and threw it aside. Filing off or enlarging the trigger-guard was out of the question. The last thing he needed was a pistol discharging in his breeches.

  He drew the sabre from its elegant black and silver scabbard. His trained eye knew the blade had been made well, but he couldn’t feel its quality. He tucked his left hand on his hip and positioned his body in the orthodox fighting stance to practice a few simple lunges. He sliced the blade through the air to loosen his shoulder and it flew from his grasp. He cursed and retrieved the weapon. He managed a few clumsy strokes before the same thing happened again. Frustrated, he gripped the hilt tight, disregarding the fact that wielding his sabre with skill required a delicate touch and a loose wrist. It was futile. What had been as natural as breathing was no longer possible. He conceded at last that this was the final day he would wear a sabre at his hip. Now, an amateurish opponent could make a fool of him in a duel.

  He retrieved the weapons and returned disheartened to the house, restoring them to their proper place in Vllen’s cabinet before slumping into a chair to brood. The gauntlets seemed little better than hooks on the end of his arms. His sword and his pistol were more than weapons. They represented both his physical and personal identity. They were the means by which he had made his living.

  He recalled the Spymaster’s speech on the day he was presented with his signet ring and promoted to the Circle, becoming one of the elite in the King’s Secret Service. “His Majesty bestows honour on William Kidd. His heroism in the service of King and Country is of Herculean proportion. Lords and Ladies, I ask you to consider a befitting title. Surely ‘Sir’, like the knights of old, is insufficient for a man of such character. His courage is such that I propose instead we let him be known as ‘Iron’ William Kidd.”

  They had been kind and impressive words. Who would respect him now?

  ~ Chapter 5 ~

  HARD LESSONS

  Kidd sank into sorrow in the days that followed. He felt as if he were as good as dead. He gave up all efforts to relearn even the simplest of skills, like eating with a knife and fork. Instead, he secreted himself away from Vllen, sitting alone in the kitchen with hunks of bread and cheese more manageable for ungainly fingers.

  What would King Henry’s courtiers say if they could see him now? No doubt his affliction would provide much entertainment and gossip. He could imagine the comments; “Have you heard? Iron William Kidd now needs to be spoon fed by a servant. They say he can’t even pass water without a helping hand.” The gentlemen would guffaw, and the ladies would raise their lacy sleeves to their lips, but it would do nothing to hide the chorus of titters.

  Thankfully, Vllen appeared to be too engrossed in his latest project to notice Kidd’s increasing absence. He felt ashamed to have to hide from his host, to behave like some unspeakable creature that lurked in the shadows of the estate, but that was exactly what he’d become. When the house became too crowded for his liking, he brooded in the
private recesses of the garden. He spent many hours in the shade staring at his hands, counting the individual plates that ran from each fingertip to his elbow. His injuries had left his hands so misshapen that when he placed his palms together, he could see the paired digits were no longer the same length. He began to hate them.

  Fate had concocted for him a cruel and inglorious end. He was no longer a man, he was a circus horror. And such a creature could never hope to find The Tears of Christ. Even fighting fit, and with the help of the finest minds and resources at his disposal, it was a significant labour. All he had was the name of a man who had been dead for fifteen hundred years. Jabez. He didn’t even like the way the word forced his tongue into his teeth when he said it aloud.

  Some days later, Kidd paused to rest under an orange tree, partly to avoid the midday sun, and partly to avoid Vllen, who had taken more interest in his absence of late. However, the Bavarian was not easily dismissed once his curiosity was piqued.

  “Wilhelm, are you worthy of the gift I have given you?”

  It was too late to escape to another part of the garden. “Go away, Vllen. My life is ruined.”

  Vllen appeared through the thick glossy leaves and planted his face an inch from Kidd’s nose. “When did you allow yourself to be so intimidated, and by an overdressed priest of all men?”

  “When they mentioned assassins and a bounty on my head.”

  Vllen poked Kidd in the nose with his stubby finger. “Ya, but what is the real reason?” Kidd turned his face away. “I’ll tell you why. You are sorry for your English rear end because you’ve lost the ability to wield a sword or carry a pistol, and therefore you believe you are impotent and vulnerable.” He shook his head in disappointment. “You are the descendent of a proud line of men, Wilhelm. You are more capable than common hired muscle, with or without a sword in your belt.” Vllen’s cheeks flushed in frustration. “Your father would not be pleased to see you resign thus.”