Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears

by Michael Gardner

  Kidd returned both scrolls to the case with great care. He had no idea what source of information Hamilton Rush was using, but he felt certain that while the scrolls remained in his possession he was one step ahead. All he needed was someone capable of interpreting the second scroll. Unfortunately, there were few men capable of the task whom he could trust or safely approach.

  Vllen might be able to help, but Kidd knew the Bavarian only had a passing interest in languages. He needed a specialist. He was owed a favour by Alfred Quiller, a scholar of languages at Oxford University, but it was doubtful that the debt carried much weight, and Kidd had no desire to return to England. The risk of losing his head was too great, and he felt certain Hamilton Rush would have muddied his name beyond all repair. Where old colleagues had extended the hand of friendship he would only find enemies now.

  One option remained, Tom Flint, a former colleague in the King’s service. Kidd shuddered at the thought of seeing Flint again. Any encounter might result in a pistol ball lodged deep in his skull, right between the eyes.

  Five years ago, they had been the best of friends, and the toast of the King’s court. They had foiled assassinations, stolen intelligence and other things for the King with their unique combination of talents. Flint was cunning and resourceful, a master of languages, and a great strategist. Kidd had the daring to see those plans carried through.

  However, those days were gone. It would be a dangerous gamble to test what degree of friendship remained since their bitter parting.

  Kidd’s most recent intelligence about Flint’s whereabouts had come from a merchant whose trading route included towns along the coastline of Corsica. Flint had been frequently seen in Bastia, but had become something of a hermit, and was now living in a ramshackle hut on the northern tip of the island.

  Kidd could make the journey in less than a week, but Rome had been taxing, and his purse was now much lighter. He counted his remaining florins. Bribes, equipment and supplies had reduced his funds by half. There was no telling what lay ahead, or how long his money would need to last.

  He gained free passage to the port at Ostia by serving as a hired guard for a goods caravan. The journey was slow, taking two days longer than if he had travelled alone, but the sacrifice of time was better than losing money on yet another horse. Mercifully, the days passed without incident. Bandits and highwaymen tended to pick their targets selectively and rarely attacked a merchant train. As a career, there was good money to be made for men brave enough to ride more dangerous routes, if they lived long enough to spend it.

  Kidd scoured the wharves and found a ship bound for Bastia. The captain agreed to discount the price of passage in return for labour. Kidd agreed and parted with two more coins.

  Hauling nets of powerfully strong blue-fin tuna was demanding work and Kidd gained new respect for men that worked the waves. By the end of the first day, his muscles ached so much he could do little more than sit on the aft deck with his legs dangling over the side. The water rushed past leaving a frothy wake, and eventually the sea reclaimed all evidence of their passing. Kidd wished it were possible to do the same with the past. How different would life be now! Flint would have his sanity, and Kidd would have normal hands.

  ~ Chapter 11 ~

  MAD TOM FLINT

  London, five years earlier

  In all fairness to Flint, he wasn’t the first man to become intoxicated with the wealth and privileges he’d observed being enjoyed by his betters. Other men had tasted forbidden pleasures and discovered the King’s wrath, but Flint desired the unattainable. He desired Rosa, the King’s favourite concubine. It would have remained a harmless infatuation, but Rosa had returned Flint’s affections. Secret Servants were trusted to visit Hampton Court Palace without documents, for their business was never ‘official’. The Royal Guard would open doors that led to private chambers for such as Flint.

  It was foolish for Flint to believe he could keep the romance secret forever. The affair had lasted many months, but the King noticed that Rosa’s ardour had cooled and called upon one of his most trusted Secret Servants to investigate.

  The following evening, Flint entered Rosa’s chamber and found it empty. He called out for her, but instead of her gentle voice, the response he received was a heavy candlestick applied to the back of his head. With that blow, delivered by Hamilton Rush, Flint’s career in the service of King Henry came to an end. Flint was thrown in irons and left to rot in prison while he awaited execution.

  Upon hearing the news, Kidd rushed to Hampton Court Palace and pleaded for Flint’s life to be spared. He cited Flint’s many achievements in the service of King and Country, and implored Henry to judge it as a crime of passion, not of treason.

  Henry listened to Kidd’s plea in his customary manner, thoughtful and impassive. Then judgement was delivered. “William Kidd, in recognition of Thomas Flint’s service to us, We will grant your request and allow him to retain his head. However, Tom Flint has shown bad faith. Our Service is a privilege, which means Our trust must never be broken. His punishment will be immediate and permanent exile. Should he step upon English soil, We will have him executed.”

  Kidd’s relief was immense. Few men were so fortunate. Most had their heads separated from their shoulders and boiled, before being mounted on a spike atop London Bridge.

  Despite Henry’s stern demeanour, Kidd was certain he saw the suggestion of a smile beneath the King’s beard. “To assure Ourselves that We should continue to trust you, William Kidd, you shall carry out Thomas Flint’s punishment. We would have him dragged through the streets and publicly disgraced before he is put aboard the first vessel bound for France.”

  Kidd felt his stomach twist. He bowed awkwardly. Flint’s life might have been saved, but Kidd knew the King had called his own integrity into question. So, he took the rope tied around Flint’s neck and dragged him through the streets of London. It was difficult to bear. Crowds gathered, ever hopeful the ‘drawing’ was the precursor to the criminal being ‘quartered’. They revelled in the opportunity to jeer and pelt Flint with rotten food. Still suffering from the shock of his head wound, Flint stumbled more than once to his knees. Every time Kidd hauled him upright he wanted desperately to apologise to his friend, but under the watchful eye of Hamilton Rush, he knew that a single word of comfort would earn him a similar fate. He felt sick to the core for the remainder of the journey to Dover.

  Flint was handled roughly by his escort every step of the way, beaten, spat on, and insulted. It was a miracle he managed to board the ship alive. Proud to the last, the only word that passed his lips as he stepped onto the gangplank was, “Rosa.”

  Several months passed, and Kidd buried himself in his duties, in part to regain the King’s confidence, but more, to forget. The latter was difficult. Despite his efforts, Kidd’s duties became fewer in number and responsibility. He seemed little more now than a glorified palace guard. All the while, he was forced to watch Hamilton Rush rise in rank and status. With the full favour of the King, Rush became ever more ruthless in his desire to succeed, and his methods ever more unsavoury. The courtiers amused themselves with gossip of Rush’s torturing women and children and committing other unspeakable acts. Yet Rush was quite comfortable parading his cruelty around the court as if it were a new doublet.

  One chilly autumn afternoon, just as Kidd had stoked the fire, poured a mug of brown ale and opened his book, there was a knock on the door. He marked his place with a strip of leather.

  Hamilton Rush waited at the doorstep.

  “Hamilton? This is unexpected.”

  “I have a letter from the King.”

  “Well, you’d best come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Rush presented Kidd with the letter, neatly packaged in a felt-pressed envelope and bearing the royal seal.

  “Can I offer you refreshment?”

  Rush took Kidd’s chair next to the fire and removed a clay pipe from his vest. “No, thank you. This will suffice.”
r />   Kidd took a seat opposite, broke the seal and unfolded the thick parchment.

  My trusted and loyal servant,

  I write to you myself rather than by way of my secretary as I find myself with a curious decision at hand. Certainly you will have expected this letter to contain details of a new assignment, but I have no men with suitable and similar talents to your former colleague in which to pair you.

  Therefore, I have elected to grant you an honourable discharge from The Circle and appoint you to the duty of Master-at-Arms. There you shall school the young and talented to disappoint our enemies with blade and pistol.

  Accordingly, you will be granted lands and title suited to such service. No more to you at this time, but I trust we shall speak on it more anon.

  Written with the hand of your loving master, Henry Rex.

  Kidd closed the letter and placed it on the table. “Well, I am most fortunate.”

  Rush peered back at him from under hooded lids, a trickle of oily blue smoke escaping his lips. “How so?”

  “Few retire from The Circle with their head still attached to their shoulders.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I shall have to hone my skill with bow and arrow if I am to take up hunting deer.”

  “Quite.” The tobacco embers smouldered deep orange in the pipe. “The King will require your ring by way of answer.”

  “Of course.” Kidd pulled the band from his hand and placed it in Rush’s outstretched palm.

  The King’s trust had been lost the moment Kidd had opened his mouth to defend Flint. Henry was as capable of delivering slow and subtle vengeance as he was of removing heads. Kidd had no doubt there would be a feast, and speeches, and shortly afterwards, he would also suffer an unfortunate accident and be given a modest funeral.

  He stood at his window as Rush departed and waited for his horse’s hoof-beats to fall silent in the distance. He packed his most precious possessions, no more than he could carry and remain light on his feet. He slung the bag over his shoulder, locked the door to his home, and threw the key into the Thames.

  There would be no safe haven in England now he was a marked man. He bought passage aboard the first ship he could find, caring little where it was bound. Fortunately, men with unique talents were always sought by European noblemen and royalty, and he found new employment to begin a new life.

  Many years passed and he strayed far from home. While he travelled, Kidd paid well for news of Flint. Whispers had become rumours, and every step closer led to more credible accounts. The reports had grown more disturbing with every year that passed. It appeared that Flint’s temper had become increasingly volatile since being bludgeoned by Hamilton Rush. Now, he was known as ‘Mad Tom Flint’.

  ~ Chapter 12 ~

  CLOAKS AND DAGGERS

  The township of Bastia, Corsica, in the Duchy of Savoy

  The lush Corsican coast was a welcome sight after three days hauling nets and line. The captain seemed satisfied with the catch and steered the skiff for shore. They set down at Bastia and were welcomed by a throng of merchants eager to procure the pick of the fish. The haggling reached full voice before the mooring line had even been tied.

  Kidd left the captain to his business and departed with a brief farewell. His body felt stiff, but his mind was ready, even grateful, to return to its familiar habits. Within a matter of minutes, he found Flint’s trail warm. A coin loosened the tongue of a storekeeper, who was both amused and unnerved by the sight of Kidd fumbling with his purse with oversized hands. The sight of a coin soon wiped the smirk from his face. He told Kidd that Flint visited the village every other week for a session of bawdy entertainment at the local tavern, The Song and Dance. Afterwards, Flint would stock up with food and liquor and be on his way, generally with a sore head. Kidd listened with great interest. While the storekeeper’s physical description of Flint was accurate, the account of his behaviour was totally unlike that of the man he once knew, who would never have become carelessly drunk in the company of strangers, nor bragged about his glory days in the King’s service.

  Kidd asked for directions to the tavern. Soon he saw the sign swinging in the breeze. It depicted a woman dancing with her skirts in the air. He pushed the door open to a waft of stale beer, but there was also the mouth-watering aroma of hot fish stew. It was mid-morning, and The Song and Dance was busy. The waitresses were serving hungry and thirsty patrons, fishermen by their looks, who had finished work after an early catch. Kidd took a seat at one of the tables on a wobbly stool. After a bowl of chowder, a mug of dark ale, and an extra coin for the innkeeper, Kidd obtained directions to Flint’s hut. It was about a days walk north of the village nearby a solitary statue overlooking the bay. The innkeeper described how Flint’s purse was always full of gold coins, and how even the most daring thieves dared not challenge him for them. The only one that had done so lay in the local graveyard with a lead ball embedded in his skull. Flint may have lost his wits, but it seemed his aim was still good. It was curious that his former colleague had become flush with gold. Perhaps he had planned well for an early ‘retirement’ and had saved money in foreign parts, but then again, maybe the innkeeper was prone to exaggeration.

  Kidd replenished his water skin, purchased some hard bread and cheese, and set out on the northern road. The path was well trodden but ran through a wood that grew thickly in places. Soon he spied boot-prints leaving the road where men had paused to relieve themselves, or had lain in wait to ambush vulnerable travellers.

  Kidd heard a twig snap under a boot. He turned in the direction of the sound. A man emerged from the shadows. He wore the most curious garb, a grey cloak over thick black robes, and a broad curved sword at his side. The dress was entirely unsuitable for the climate. He wasn’t local.

  “Are you Iron William Kidd?” The man had a heavy accent and asked the question as if he already knew the answer.

  As the man stepped into a shaft of light filtering through the tree canopy, Kidd noticed he had a strip of crimson silk lining his tunic where it fastened. It reminded Kidd of a Cardinal’s attire, although the man didn’t look like a member of the clergy. He also wore a gauze kerchief over his nose like a Muslim so that only his eyes could be seen. It was an odd collision of clothing styles, practical for travel and combat, but with the look of the priest.

  Kidd lowered his pack to disencumber himself. “I beg your pardon?”

  Rough hands seized Kidd from behind, restraining his arms. The man with the scarlet stripe had a companion, and a strong one at that.

  “What do you want?”

  Kidd’s question was answered with a blow across his cheek. He squeezed his watering eyes shut.

  “Is your name Iron William Kidd?” repeated the man.

  Kidd craned his neck and eyeballed his interrogator. Scarlet Stripe had dark lashes and eyebrows, and brown leathery skin. Kidd couldn’t identify his accent or nationality. “Never heard of him.”

  Scarlet Stripe lashed Kidd’s cheek again with the back of his hand. “You lie,” he said without passion.

  Kidd clenched his jaw and again blinked away involuntary tears. His cheek burned from the blow. “Then why ask me such a pointless question?”

  Scarlet Stripe raised a fist. This time he drew blood.

  Kidd remained defiant, spitting the blood at Scarlet Stripe’s feet. “Let me know when you tire.”

  “Tell me about The Tears of Christ and I will spare your life.”

  The situation reminded Kidd uncomfortably of his interrogation of Hamilton Rush about Philip’s ring. “I know nothing about them.”

  Scarlet Stripe pulled a knife from his robes. “Yes, they told me you would be difficult.” It had a pointed blade with series of hooks at the end, and barbs at the base. It was an assassin’s blade, designed to tear flesh as it was withdrawn and leave a ragged wound. If the victim survived the knife thrust, he invariably died from blood loss. He pressed the tip into the soft flesh below Kidd’s shoulder blade. “A pity. You might
have saved yourself much pain and suffering.”

  Kidd held Scarlet Stripe’s gaze without wavering. The threat of a knife was a thug’s tactic. Dead men didn’t part with secrets. “Throw your weapon away. I shan’t warn you again.”

  “You’re in no position to give orders. We are aware of your commission to find The Tears. Speak!” Scarlet Stripe pressed the knife so the tip pierced skin.

  In one swift motion, Kidd head-butted Scarlet Stripe on the nose. He snapped his head back and delivered a similar blow to the man holding his arms. Now free to move, he finished the brawl in an ungentlemanly fashion. On this occasion, survival took precedence over honour.

  Kidd dragged the lifeless bodies into the bushes well away from the path. Vllen would have had him stay his hand, but a lifetime in the Secret Service had taught him to kill.

  Kidd shook out the pockets of the corpses and examined the contents. He found a handful of coins; doubloons, florins, ducats and even some sequins from the Ottoman Empire. They were well-travelled and well-funded. Aside from a knife and sword, the only other object they had carried was a set of plain Rosary beads. No documents. No personal possessions. This was a typical inventory for men on secret business, other ‘interested parties’, as Cardinal Cresci had called them.

  More curious was a tattoo in the centre of each man’s chest, a square divided into four vertical strips with a line projecting from the top. It was the same symbol he had seen on the wall in Lawrence’s home. Kidd was uncertain why the grey-cloaks bore the same mark. It appeared more like a cult tattoo than the markings of spies, who preferred to remove the signets of their trade whilst in the field. Whoever they were, Kidd felt certain these men were not the last of their order he would meet.