Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears

by Michael Gardner

  Flint poked a grubby finger into Kidd’s chest. “Are you getting sweet on the captain?”

  “No.”

  “Ah well, I won’t tell.” Flint eyed him soberly. “Now listen. I think I’ve cracked the meaning of the symbols on the medallion. Do you have it with you?”

  Kidd couldn’t help but look around warily as Flint spoke. The port was busy with men from many countries, and he was acutely aware that the French were about. Cautiously, he removed the medallion from his pocket.

  Flint took the trinket and held it up to the light. The early morning sun caught the etchings and it sparkled with the pure allure of gold. He ran his finger along the letters slowly as he spoke. “The words don’t have a literal translation in English, but roughly it means, ‘King of Kings and Bringer of Truth’. That’s a very grand title! I’d say it whittles the list down somewhat.”

  “What makes you think it’s a man’s title?”

  Flint grinned. “The word used on the medallion for ‘King’ is ‘Padishah’. In Persian, it’s a title for men of a noble house. Lawrence’s assassin had royal blood.”

  Kidd nodded. “What about the word on the other side?”

  “That’s a bit tougher. As far as I can tell it says ‘layman’. King on one side, commoner on the other. Perhaps Faruq rose to noble status from poor beginnings. I’m not entirely sure. Turkish isn’t one of my best languages, and neither is Persian. I’d need a scholar to decipher the nuances.”

  Kidd extended his hand to take the medallion back. “This information certainly makes up for having to endure this delay with the repairs to the ship.” He held it awkwardly in his fingers. “So, our assassin was noble. It should make him easier to find.” He tucked the golden pendant into his coat. “This information must stay between us, so watch your tongue when you’re drinking.”

  “Of course.” Flint looked affronted, but it was quickly forgotten. “So... are you coming to the ball? Come on, Will, it’ll be like old times. Don’t tell me you don’t miss rubbing shoulders with royalty.”

  Kidd shook his head. “I’ll not go. I don’t think my face will be a welcome sight. I’m certain Philip wasn’t pleased to learn I failed to recover Maria’s ring.”

  “He’s actually concerned for your well-being and asked me to ensure you attend.”

  Kidd scowled. “It seems our business is a subject of open discussion.”

  “Nonsense!” snapped Flint, his enthusiasm turning swiftly to annoyance. “You have a nerve to say that to me!” He thrust a greasy finger across the harbour to where La Fortresse was berthed in the bay. “The bloody French wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t opened your damned trap!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure you meant no harm in talking to Philip.”

  Flint’s lips remained pursed awhile before relaxing into a smile. “Ah, all is forgiven. You’re a bit too serious nowadays, Will. Why don’t you don a doublet and come to the ball?”

  “I suppose I have no excuse now,” Kidd agreed reluctantly.

  Flint grinned. “Excellent! We’ll need to go shopping for some new clothes. I’ll pay if your purse is light.” He grabbed Kidd’s steel forearm and led him into the lively streets of Syracuse. “You know, Will, I can’t remember the last time we attended a proper party together. It’s bound to be dazzling!”

  ~ Chapter 23 ~

  UNEXPECTED GUESTS

  Kidd felt intensely self-conscious as he was asked to strip off his shirt. However, the Sicilian tailor gave his metal arms no regard whilst he took measurements for a new coat. The tailor instructed the seamstresses to cut the sleeves two sizes too large. Kidd imagined that tailors, especially those serving the nobility, shortened their life expectancy if they paid attention to anything out of the ordinary.

  Flint chose crushed black velvet for his coat, a grey silk doublet, matching pantaloons, fine stockings, and a new pair of shoes. Kidd selected a heavy rust-red fabric, with extra layers and folds to disguise his bulky arms, a rich brown doublet with gold buttons, and suitable accessories.

  Some hours later, and a few ducats lighter, they were dressed for the occasion. Flint continued to spare no expense. He ordered a carriage, and they were driven through the streets and around the bay. They disembarked at the tip of a short peninsula where the Castello Maniace rose straight from the sea. It was an austere structure, all granite-grey and straight lines that spoke more of a concern with warfare than grandeur or elaborate design for its own sake.

  “I miss my ordinary coat,” Kidd grumbled and stroked his chin, now smooth from the expert shave that had preceded his new clothes.

  “Relax, Will. Don’t tell me you haven’t missed fancy food, or pretty ladies!” Flint laughed from his belly. Kidd hadn’t seen Flint in such a vivacious mood for a long time, not since long before he’d been struck on the head by Hamilton Rush.

  Crowds of peasants flocked around to catch a glimpse of the rich and famous as they emerged from their carriages. A carpet had been laid along the path so they didn’t have to muddy their expensive shoes. Two columns of leather-armoured Spanish soldiers stood either side of the gate for protection. They were well armed, with side-swords, pistols and muskets.

  While Kidd gazed at the parade a peasant rushed up and pawed him eagerly. “Give us a coin, Ya Lordship! We’re starving!”

  A guard knocked the peasant to the ground with the butt of his musket and prepared to strike him again. “You’ll get scraps soon enough. Now move along before I make an example of you.”

  Kidd felt a pang of guilt as the guard personally escorted them to the great archway. While he had attended similar gatherings in Henry’s court, it had never been as a guest. To be included now with these lords and ladies, he felt dislocated. What lives they must live, without want, even for something as simple as a discarded crust of bread. He knew he was no longer part of this world.

  Flint tugged his arm. “Stop daydreaming. I’m thirsty!”

  They passed through the outer wall and into a spacious courtyard. The purpose of such a space was to defend the castle if the walls were ever breached, but on this occasion, servants lined the walkway to greet the host of invading guests with silver trays laden with glasses of fine Sicilian wine. A lute player stood to one side, singing ballads to entertain the dignitaries as they passed. Flint took a goblet in each hand and had drained the contents before they’d even reached the great hall. Kidd declined the offer of a drink, preferring to remain sober.

  A soldier stood at the door collecting firearms. Guests were allowed to keep their blades, as the gold and jewel encrusted pommels and decorative scabbards were as much a display of wealth and power as their clothing. “Greetings, my lords,” he said with a hand extended in Flint’s direction. “I’ll take your pistol if you please.”

  Flint shrugged, handing the guard his pistol, and snatching another goblet in the same motion. He gulped down the wine and tossed the goblet over his shoulder. A servant caught the glass without a blink, as if it were something he did every day.

  The entire hall appeared to be made of gold; the paper on the walls, the tassels on figured velvet drapes, the candelabra. Lush fabrics and fat cushions adorned the best hand-carved furniture, and fine paintings hung on the walls. Six singers stood on a dais performing a madrigal to the accompaniment of a harpsichord.

  The Prince sat on a chair draped with purple velvet atop a tall podium and welcomed the guests as they arrived. The noblemen bowed, and the women responded with curtsies to an appreciative nod from Philip. Kidd and Flint joined the queue to greet their host. He acknowledged most with a wave or a nod, spoke to others briefly, and gestured them into the great hall with an air of maturity beyond his years. He had fair skin, short-cropped hair, and a steely gaze filled with the assurance of his royal worth. Yet he was dressed in a plain black doublet and cape, with ruffs at the neck and sleeves. For a young man born to so much power, he affected humility.

  Kidd felt a nervous sweat break across his forehead as they drew closer. He and
Philip had unfinished business to discuss, and he had no idea what to say. Flint, on the other hand, was already busy making flirtatious conversation with the daughters of a Sicilian nobleman. Kidd came face to face with his former employer for the first time since setting out to recover Maria’s engagement ring. He bowed low, and stammered a greeting.

  “It is agreeable to see you once again, William,” said Philip in an even tone. “We assume you’ve had no success bringing the culprit to justice.” He raised his eyebrow questioningly.

  “I have a strong lead, Sire, but have been occupied with another matter.”

  “Yes, we had heard as much.” There was a slight smile in the corner of Philip’s mouth. “No matter. Another ring has been made which now rests safely in the right place.”

  Kidd mumbled something about being relieved and wished Philip happiness in his marriage.

  Philip laughed politely at the sight of Kidd’s discomfort. “Iron William, when did you lose your nerves of steel? Be at ease. We have no ill will towards you. Indeed, we still require a satisfactory outcome in respect of the task for which you were commissioned. We would have the name and the life of the villain responsible.”

  “Thank you, Sire. I am, as always, your humble servant.”

  “As am I!” added Flint somewhat drunkenly.

  Philip smiled and indicated they should join the party.

  Despite the opulence, the first impression Kidd had of the ball was of the smell of body odour ill-disguised by expensive perfumes. He’d spent too long at sea with fresh air in his lungs and the appeal of such gatherings had worn off. At the end of the hall, framed by red curtains edged and tasselled with gold, were trestle tables laden with a feast. Flint didn’t wait to be seated or served. He barged in amongst the servants arranging food on silver platters and began to help himself. There was freshly-baked bread with softened butter, peppercorn encrusted roast beef, venison pies, apples fried in ale batter, jellied eel pasties, bone marrow pate, and a multitude of other culinary delights. Kidd settled for a slice of bread and a glass of rose-scented water. He picked a crust apart awkwardly and gnawed it without much appetite. He began to wonder why he had ever sought to be included at such occasions.

  “Ah, this is the life, don’t you think, Will!” said Flint through a mouthful of pie.

  If the setting itself wasn’t ostentatious enough, the guests also competed to outdo one another in the manner of their dress. They did so with fabric, jewellery, and other adornments. It was a collision of colours, polite smiles and superficial pleasantries. Kidd focused on faces. The occasion felt familiar, and not because it conjured memories of his past life. In every corner of the great hall were men hunting for The Tears of Christ.

  The Caretaker and his entourage were gathered near the musicians, now dressed in formal cloaks and sipping glasses of red wine. The Caretaker wore a high collar and neck tie, with a triangular hat in the naval fashion. He was aware of Kidd’s attention and raised his glass to him with a polished smile.

  Not far away, gathered in the shadows of the curtains, stood a party of the Warriors of God, somehow allied to Spain, the Holy Roman Emperor, and Lawrence. They wore their crimson striped black uniforms with pride. Kidd buried his face in his ruff, aware he was also recognisable.

  However, the act was a little too late to disguise him. A man bustled through the guests in their direction. “Iron William Kidd!” he bellowed like a man greeting a long-lost friend. The gathering of treasure hunters was complete.

  Hamilton Rush smiled, exposing a mouthful of blackened teeth. Several were missing in the front. Thick patches of pink and white flesh covered his lips and ran across the right side of his cheek, scars from the burning clapper. “So, you still survive,” he lisped, as though he weren’t surprised to see his rival alive, in good health, and a guest at Philip’s ball.

  Kidd raised a hand to his ear. “I beg your pardon?”

  The subtlety of the insult wasn’t lost on Rush. He opened his mouth to retort, but before he could speak, Flint flew across the room in a whirl of silver and black. “You! You bastard!” he yelled, fists flailing to strike Rush wherever possible, but he was too infuriated to land any meaningful blows.

  As Kidd knew from recent experience, Rush was not to be underestimated in a fist-fight. Rush knocked Flint on his back with an underhanded blow to the neck and face. Flint hurriedly regained his footing, snarling and waving his fists.

  Kidd separated the two men. “I invite you to try that on me.”

  The fray ended as quickly as it had begun. Spanish soldiers swooped on Flint, twisting his arms behind his back as they pulled him away.

  Rush dusted off his sleeves. “That isn’t a polite way to greet a fellow Englishman.”

  Flint spat blood. “You’re a dead man!” His face was rigid with rage. “That bastard took my life away. Let me kill him now! To hell with the consequences!” With a sudden burst of effort he broke his restraint. The guards leaped on him and wrestled him to the floor. He fought back. A measure of brute force finally subdued him and he was dragged from the hall, with a barrage of grubby insults still spilling from his mouth.

  Rush laughed. It was a strange gargling noise accompanied by an unpleasant quantity of involuntary spittle. “You still choose poor friends.” He mopped the corners of his mouth with a silk handkerchief. “How goes the reunion of the exiles?”

  “We bear no animosity,” Kidd replied, “for each other.”

  Rush’s smile soured.

  Kidd ground his teeth and wished he could wipe the smugness from Rush’s face permanently. He would enjoy doing so with a solid blow to the base of his nose, driving the splintered bones into Rush’s brain. The only reason he hesitated was the sight of Rush’s sabre, firmly lodged in its scabbard, next to a smart leather holster. Fists encased with metal were powerful weapons, but a sharp blade with superior reach would decide the contest in close combat.

  For the first time since their encounter at the Church of San Salvatore Kidd felt vulnerable without a sabre at his side. He could still imagine the bright blade sliding from its scabbard, held loose in his fingers, poised to slash, parry, or lunge. It would be simple to feint inside Rush’s sloppy guard and to slash his throat, ending this rivalry forever. His numb fingers crept to his empty belt.

  Hamilton Rush spread his scarred lips to a grin and looped his arm over Kidd’s shoulder. “Walk with me, William.”

  Kidd slipped out of the hold in disgust. “Why shouldn’t I hand you over to Philip right now for the theft of his fiancée’s ring?”

  A laugh caught in Rush’s throat. “For the same reason you haven’t already done so. Do you take me for a fool? Who will Philip choose to believe when the consequence is a diplomatic debacle with England? The word of a respected servant of King Henry, or the word of an exile, a desperate man prepared to lie to fill his pockets with gold?” He passed through an archway to a courtyard beyond. “I think you’re better off hearing what I have to say.” He beckoned with a finger.

  Kidd straightened his coat and reluctantly followed his rival.

  “You’re a relentless opponent,” said Rush once they were out of earshot. He rested an elbow on a large terracotta urn filled with bright flowers. “What say we set our differences aside and bring this situation full circle, as it were?” Rush spread the fingers of his left hand to display the signet of his trade, the ring bearing the insignia of a lion and a unicorn. “After all, we both have something to gain from finding The Tears. Why not work together? Flint’s indiscretions are his own business. You needn’t continue to be burdened by them.” He strolled onto a finely groomed lawn towards a brass sundial mounted on a pedestal. “Henry is forgiving. Tell me everything you know concerning the whereabouts of The Tears and he will welcome you home with open arms.”

  Kidd couldn’t deny there were many people and places he missed in England, and the sense of purpose he’d found in the King’s Service. Many years had passed since he’d last set foot on English soil
and filled his lungs with country air. He missed his homeland. The endless Mediterranean summer could never match the emerald beauty of the English countryside in spring.

  “England is in your blood, William. You must feel sickened to have to work for these foreign pigs.”

  Kidd stretched out his hand. “If your offer is genuine, you’ll have my signet ring in your pocket.”

  A crooked smile formed in the corner of Rush’s lips. “All you have to do is tell me what you know about The Tears.”

  “I almost believed you for a second.”

  Rush shrugged. “It was worth a try. A friend told me you have grown soft and will part with secrets given encouragement.”

  Beyond the insult, Kidd understood the implication of Rush’s remark. It was Rush’s weakness. He liked to talk too much. There was an English informant in the French camp, someone close to The Caretaker, who’d had news of the incident at the Tunisian prison. The gathering of treasure hunters at Philip’s ball was no coincidence. Kidd felt certain they were aware of one another’s movements and discoveries. After all, spying, espionage, and subterfuge were the staples of their trade. Now he had the difficult task of discovering how he’d been exposed. For the remainder of the journey, Kidd would have to distrust everyone close to him.

  However, Rush had given him the opportunity to feed some misinformation of his own into the pot. “I was trying to save Tom’s life. Do you really think I’d tell the French the truth? What was the first lesson the Spymaster taught us all?” He laughed mockingly, drawing attention from other guests scattered around the lawn. It was enough to discomfort Rush. Perhaps the party had been a useful reminder of the past after all. The art of telling a convincing lie came back to him with a feeling like meeting an old friend, always to be found at the inn ready to share a mug of ale. “Your informant evidently believes everything he’s told. So, while you’re wandering the deserts of the Ottoman Empire, I’ll be drinking a glass of the Vatican’s best wine to celebrate my success.” He came as close as he dared to his enemy and stared him in the eye. “Good health!”