Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears

by Michael Gardner

  ~ Chapter 13 ~

  FRIEND OR FOE

  Kidd veered into the forest walking due east until he caught sight of the sea. From there he followed the coastline north. The salt-smell of the sea filled his lungs and he marched on at a vigorous pace. As the sun turned the ocean a rich orange-gold, Kidd sighted a small Roman watchtower overlooking the bay. It looked like a good place to shelter for the night. He made his way through the tussock to the ruin. It was deteriorated in places, but the stonework was otherwise sturdy. The remains of a fire indicated other men had rested here recently. As Kidd closed his eyes, he hoped it wasn’t more of the mysterious grey-cloaks.

  He woke at dawn, rolled up his blanket and resumed his journey. Some hours later he saw a giant stone head looking down at him from the hill beyond, the marker the innkeeper had told him to look out for. Soon he came across the telltale signs of human settlement, a shortage of fallen branches underneath the trees, and footprints in the undergrowth. The tracks were made by the same pair of boots, by a man who repeatedly trod the same route.

  Kidd found a clearing at the top of the hill. A crude hut stood on the cliff edge to take in a sweeping view of the sea. It was little more than rough cut logs lashed together. The roof probably leaked when the rains came. Kidd approached with caution, stepping softly to muffle his footfalls.

  A second later he heard a pistol’s firing pin being cranked into position.

  “Who goes there? Friend or foe?”

  Kidd recognised the slight brogue in the speaker’s voice. He raised his hands and turned around slowly. It was the man he sought, although more scrawny and haggard than he remembered. The clothes were the same, in particular the stiffened, gathered black hat, battered with age, and oversized leather coat, perfect for concealing a pistol at each hip. “I would hope that you still count me a friend, Tom.”

  Tom Flint squinted. “Will? Will!” He disarmed his pistol, tucked it into his belt, and ran to meet Kidd with open arms.

  Flint embraced Kidd as if no time had passed, but as he pulled away a puzzled look crossed his face. “By God, Will, why are you wearing armour? Have you been sent to finish me off?”

  “Much has changed, Tom.” Kidd pulled back his sleeve and displayed the steel bands pinned to his flesh. “I was injured. This was marginally preferable to having two hooks at the end of my arms. It’s a long story.”

  Flint raised an eyebrow. “You’d better come inside and tell it.”

  Flint’s hut was in a state of disarray. Before he had always been orderly with his possessions, but it seemed to be comfortable enough. There was a makeshift table, bed, and several wooden crates stuffed with food and belongings. Where Flint kept his fabled wealth was a mystery.

  Flint invited Kidd to sit down while he cut a wedge of ripe cheese, and uncorked a clay jug. He thumped a pair of pewter mugs onto the table and filled them with brown ale. After a deep slug Flint ran a beady eye along Kidd’s forearms. “Do you mean they’re fitted to you hands permanently?”

  Kidd nodded.

  Flint made a face. “Ah, that must have hurt.”

  “It still does sometimes.” Kidd opened and closed his fists and felt the pins pull deep inside his flesh. “Tom, we never had a chance to discuss—”

  “Speak nothing of it.” There was an irritable flicker in Flint’s eye. “That’s all past now. Another life. Nothing more.” He chuckled. “Ah, Will, but we did have some good times together did we not?” He held up his mug for a toast.

  “We did, Tom. Cheers.”

  Flint banged the mugs together, slopping beer onto the table. He emptied the mug and let out a satisfied belch. “Do you remember that vault we broke into, in the Château de François, the one with those devilish traps?”

  Kidd drained what remained in one long gulp and reached for the pitcher. “The truth of the matter is I haven’t tracked you down to discuss old times. I need your help.” He saw a flash of the man he remembered. It was the same look of enthusiasm Flint used to have when a letter arrived bearing the King’s seal: Orders for their next mission.

  “My help? Sounds intriguing. Tell me more...”

  Kidd cleared his throat with a swig of ale and recounted the events that had occurred since the destruction of the Church of San Salvatore; the fight with Hamilton Rush and the injuries to his hands, how Vllen had saved him, and the unexpected appearance of Cardinal Cresci.

  “In brief,” Kidd concluded, “the Pope holds me accountable for burning down that church. I can’t disprove the accusation. So, they gave me a choice, either spend the rest of my life with a sizeable bounty on my head, or find The Tears of Christ.”

  Flint rubbed his fingers, his breath whistling through his teeth. “The Tears of Christ? Well now, I caught wind that you’d run into a bit of trouble, but that’s quite a pickle and no mistake.”

  Kidd’s ears pricked up. “You heard? How?”

  Flint laughed. “Ah, you know, word gets around. When we were partners, my job was to find things out, and yours was to knock heads together.” He cut a thick wedge of cheese and began to eat it from the tip of the knife. “Who is this Cardinal Cresci anyway and why are you so worried about him? Why don’t you just disappear until it all blows over? That’s what we were trained to do.”

  Kidd held up his mailed fists. “I’ve become rather recognisable recently. This life of exile is hard enough. I can’t spend the rest of my days always looking over my shoulder. Certainly not without protection, a safe haven or a country to call home. No, I have to clear my name. It’s all I have left.”

  “Ah, it’s your choice, but it sounds to me like someone’s having a laugh at your expense. The Tears of Christ are nothing but a myth. You’ve been set up.”

  Kidd removed the scroll-case from his tunic. He spread both scrolls across the table carefully avoiding the puddle of beer. “I’ve got proof they’re not.”

  Flint’s eyes flashed. He reached for the scrolls. “Let me see.”

  Kidd placed a gauntlet in the way. “Not unless you’re prepared to help me, right to the end.”

  Flint eyed him suspiciously. “So, you have new hands, but you’re still the same hard-nosed bastard I knew all those years ago. Give me one reason why I should? I’m quite cosy where I am.”

  Kidd swallowed his beer. “Well, despite the consequences, I did save you from having your head chopped off. Now I need you to help me keep mine.”

  Flint banged his mug on the table. “And look where that got me!” He pulled his pistol from his belt, knocking over the pitcher in the process. Beer washed across the table threatening to ruin the scrolls and their secrets forever. The danger was only averted by the large gaps in the poorly-made table.

  Dealing with Flint’s firearm was a more pressing concern. Kidd raised his hands slowly. Flint held the pistol steady. As quick as Vllen’s snake, Kidd reached out and covered the muzzle with his palm, locking his fingers around the barrel. “If you discharge your pistol, it’ll backfire. I’m not worried about that, but you should be. You know only too well what happens to a man when his firearm backfires.”

  Flint pondered the situation, and then tucked the pistol back into his breeches as quickly as it had appeared. “Ah, I was only joking, Will. You didn’t think I was going to shoot the man that saved my life now did you?”

  Kidd flexed his squeaky fingers and rescued the scrolls from their imminent danger. “With you, Tom, I could never be sure.”

  “You know me, Will. My heart is in the right place, but my head hasn’t been right since I was clobbered by that bastard Rush. Can’t think straight sometimes. So, one last mission together, eh?”

  Kidd nodded. “Make preparations, we need to leave as soon as possible.”

  Flint started filling his pockets with various nick-knacks and possessions. He grabbed a hunk of cheese, sniffed it, thought better of taking it, and tossed it over his shoulder. Most carefully he pocketed a box of gunpowder and folded a parcel of wadding and shot in a travelling cloth. “But, W
ill, for better or worse, when this is done, we’re even.”

  Kidd nodded.

  Flint grinned, but there was a look in his eyes Kidd had never seen before, a glimmer of madness perhaps. There was a time Kidd would have trusted Flint with his life.

  Now he wasn’t so certain.

  ~ Chapter 14 ~

  FIRE AND ACID

  “What’s the damned hurry?” complained Flint. The return hike wasn’t especially taxing, but he was breathless and sweating. It appeared his health had suffered in recent years.

  Kidd urged him on. “Henry has renewed his interest in my affairs. I ran into Hamilton Rush in Rome. He was quite determined to send me to an early grave. It stands to reason he’ll look for you too. I’d do the same if I were wearing his boots. There are others, grey-cloaked men, here in Corsica. Two accosted me on the road. They were aware of my mission to find The Tears. We need to erase our trail and disappear.”

  Nothing more was said about The Tears for the remainder of the journey. Instead, the reunited companions exchanged news of the world and reminisced about old adventures. They were famished and weary by the time they saw Bastia across the bay. A few mugs of ale at The Song and Dance and a bowl of shellfish soup with crusty bread restored them. After supper, they rented a room for the night and retired early, barring the window shutters before lighting lamps and candles. Kidd removed the case from his coat and spread the scrolls across the table. Flint’s eyes glinted in the candlelight as he read Jabez’s confession. He scanned the page, absorbing the Latin text quickly. When he’d finished he placed the scroll on one side and sighed. “Do you think The Tears could mend my head?”

  “I don’t know,” Kidd replied, “but I’m certain that if this confession is true, there’s more at stake here than the recovery of a religious artefact. What do you make of the other scroll?”

  Flint raised the second scroll to the light. The look of absolute concentration on his face reminded Kidd of the man he once knew. “These are Egyptian hieroglyphics. It’s a dead language, so you’re going to have to dig up some corpses if you want them interpreted.”

  It wasn’t the news Kidd had hoped to hear. “Then we’re dead too.”

  Flint held the scroll up to the light. “Not quite yet. I think the hieroglyphs are a decoy.”

  Kidd peered over his shoulder. “A decoy?”

  Flint traced a finger along the papyrus. “Look... the author has repeated the same sets of symbols in different combinations. Their purpose is to fill space.”

  “They’re meaningless?”

  “No, they fill the space left by the real message!” He grabbed a candle and tipped it to pour melted wax onto the scroll.

  “No!” Kidd grabbed Flint’s arm, but hot wax splashed over the ancient papyrus.

  Flint grimaced. “Will! You’re hurting my arm. Look...”

  Brown letters had begun to appear where the wax had settled.

  “Tom Flint, you’re a genius!”

  Flint grinned. “I know. Would you like to let me go?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Let’s see what’s written here.”

  Kidd nodded and released him.

  Flint lit a second candle and dripped wax onto the papyrus. Words appeared and formed sentences. “The message was probably written with lemon juice or vinegar. It becomes invisible when it dries, and reappears when heated.” He carefully picked the hardened wax from the top of the scroll.

  Kidd ran his eye along the first line of text. It was an old Spanish dialect, but he recognised a few words. “It looks like a letter. If I’m reading correctly, it’s addressed to the Warriors of the Messiah.”

  Flint picked wax from the final word. “It definitely wasn’t written by Jabez. The signature is Lorenzo. Fetch us some wine, this could be a long night.”

  Kidd left Flint to the meticulous task of applying and removing wax. He found the innkeeper and parted with another coin for a jug of red wine. When he returned, he found the table littered with opaque flakes. Flint gently blew the remnants from the scroll and began mumbling to himself. He searched in his pack and removed a stick of black chalk and a sheet of paper on which to scribble notes. Kidd knew better than to interrupt his old friend while he worked, and waited until Flint had finished before filling the cups with wine.

  Flint didn’t seem to mind that the wine was dry and rough. He gargled a mouthful of it briefly before reading the letter aloud.

  “Guerreros del Dios. My Brothers. The twilight of my life has become the dawn. On the eve of my execution, I have been given new life, new hope, and reconfirmed my faith. A stranger came to me this night by order of Valerian; a healer, to ensure I was healthy enough to be put to death. He was a godless man, but he carried a great treasure, and was tortured by the weight of a terrible guilt. He asked me if I could release him from his pain. The answer is simple, I told him, and recited three words from Luke 4:23. Physician, heal thyself.

  He looked at me with ancient eyes. The subtlety of my reply was not lost on him. He drew from his robes a beautiful blue stone and gave it to me without any request for reward. He said; if you take my burden, I shall accept yours in return. How could I refuse? For surely this was God’s work. As soon as I touched The Tears I knew it was true. He took my robes and my place at the execution. So, my brothers, never forget the name Jabez, for he has restored a great treasure of the Church.

  I have had years to imagine what I would do if I regained my freedom, even though I believed it was a fool’s fantasy. However, now that I have my liberty, I shall flee this land and cross the sea to Tunis. There, I will build a secret church, a safe haven from men like Valerian.

  Seek a temple bearing symbols of the arachnid, for they have been my only companions during my incarceration, and are worthy guardians of this great treasure. After all, we are all God’s creatures.

  Go to Tunis and seek the signs, my brothers.

  Yours with absolute faith, Lawrence.”

  Flint scratched his head. “I’m not sure that Lawrence was in his right mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s more, a curious verse.” Flint took a slurp of his wine.

  “Those who know about my griddle,

  Will comprehend this little riddle.

  If you seek my ancient prize,

  Then heed the spider’s watchful eyes.

  For a warning, the spider bites

  Men who lack the proper rights.”

  The floorboards creaked as Kidd paced the room. “What does it mean?”

  “That even though Lawrence was a Saint, he wasn’t much of a poet.” Flint chuckled, but it was laced with a bitter note. “Years of imprisonment can do strange things to a man’s head.”

  “Who are these Warriors of The Messiah the letter is addressed to?”

  “Not Warriors of The Messiah, the word means God.” Flint picked his patchy beard. “I’ve heard of them, but I thought they were a fable. In the days of Roman persecution, a group of warriors formed a secret army to defend Christianity. They were supposed to have no allegiance to any king or country, only to The Faith.” Flint poured another cup of wine and gulped the contents. “Apparently I was wrong.”

  “The grey-cloaks. Their dress resembled that of a warrior-priest and they bore a strange tattoo on their chests, a square divided into four rectangles with a line at the top.”

  Flint sketched the symbol. “You should have paid more attention to your Bible scholarship. That’s the symbol of Saint Lawrence. It represents the griddle Valerian constructed for his execution.”

  “They can’t have found Lawrence’s hideout. It seems all parties have fragments of information, but none have enough to lead them to the prize. Now we have another enemy, and no idea of their strength or resources.”

  “Lucky, lucky me,” said Flint with a scowl. He wrapped the scroll-case in the sheet of paper and started to rub it lightly with the chalk. “Lawrence may have been protecting the treasures of the church, but he was also a smuggler. It requires care
ful thought and planning to run such an operation, and to leave messages to allies in code.”

  Kidd sat down and took a sip of wine. “Not decorative etchings, but a map!”

  “Indeed.” Soon the map was complete and he unfurled it. Viewed flat and complete, the pattern on the cylinder was a street diagram. “There,” said Flint pointing to a spider shaped symbol with a dusty finger. “The temple is in the Medina, the ancient city quarter of Tunis.”

  “I’ve never been to the African continent. What’s it like?”

  Flint banged their cups together. “It’s lawless and barbaric. You’ll fit in fine.”

  They discussed strategy until there was no wine left in the jug. Kidd felt quite heady, so he crawled into bed, and fell asleep. He awoke in the black of night to the sound of the window shutters banging in the breeze. He was certain he’d barred them earlier. Flint was blissfully unaware of the din, snoring contentedly under a frayed blanket on the floor.

  Kidd decided it was better to let him sleep. He brushed the sleep from his eyes with a corner of the bed sheet, quietly found his feet, and lit a candle from the slow-burning lamp. A soft light filled the room. There was no sign of entry, so he replaced the window bar with a yawn to silence the shutters. He tossed and turned for some time. When sleep finally took him, his dreams were filled with a sense of danger.

  ~ Chapter 15 ~

  FLIGHT OF THE MASALA

  The Mediterranean Sea, east of the Kingdom of Sardinia

  Flint stood at the window with one eye to a crack in the shutter. “Hurry up. There are grey-cloaked men like you described on the street, asking questions, and not politely either.”

  Kidd stuffed the last of his possessions into his pack. “Lend me your hat. The last two I met knew me by name and by sight.”

  Flint tossed his hat onto the table. “They’ve brought more men to do a better job of knocking your teeth out.”