Rush appeared to be rattled, but he stood his ground. “You haven’t a chance!” he scoffed. “I hear you can’t carry a sword any more.”
“I’m unarmed. Care to test my resolve?”
Rush laughed nervously. “Not in front of ladies.”
“Yes, that would be an undignified way to die!” Kidd straightened his doublet and retreated to the great hall entrance. “Farewell, Hamilton.” He disappeared through the arch, stepped past a group of drunken guests, stripped off his rust red coat, and tossed it over the back of a chair. Three steps on, he reached for a bright green overgown with beaded tails that had been abandoned on a coat rack. He pulled it on. It was tight around the forearms, but suitable for the purpose. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the French, and the Warriors of God, working their way through the guests, presumably to see where both he and Hamilton Rush had gone.
He paused under the heavy folds of a curtain. Rush emerged from the courtyard, blustering, and pushing people aside. A number of men rushed to his side, servants and personal aides. Kidd should have spotted the Englishmen earlier, but they were deeply tanned and dressed in the current French fashion. Maybe Hamilton Rush was right and he had grown unwary. It had been a mistake to attend the ball.
Kidd decided to make a discreet exit, but first he had to find Flint. Leaving the ballroom unnoticed was his first problem. He was confident he could evade a few men in a crowded room, but not three independent groups working against him. Philip had impounded all firearms, but a small dagger concealed in the folds of an assassin’s sleeve could be stuck in his back without causing any fracas.
Philip rose from his chair and clapped his hands. The hall fell silent instantly. He called for the feasting to end and motioned for the servants to clear the tables. “Give the remains to the poor,” he said. “Let the entertainment commence.” The musicians struck up a lively dance tune. Everyone was expected to participate. It was an opportunity to meet other guests and exchange pleasantries. Afterwards there would be more feasting and a masque, as lavish a spectacle as Philip could arrange.
Kidd eyed the rostrum at the end of the hall. An army of servants were busy clearing the first course of the banquet with polished precision. Other attendants arranged the curtains in preparation for the masque. The actors, dancers and singers were probably no more than a few feet inside the wings, ready to make their entrances.
Meanwhile, the guests flocked into the centre of the hall and formed lines for the dance. Kidd moved swiftly, keeping close to the wall through the bustle of gathered skirts and coat-tails. He stole through the curtains and marched towards the servants clearing the table. “You!” he said curtly to a young man, “His Royal Highness requires you to take a plate to the gentleman in detention.”
“Aye, milord.” The man bowed his head, selected a number of morsels and arranged them elegantly on a plate.
Kidd gave thanks for the unquestioning obedience of servants. “Take me to him,” he added with a frown. “I do not wish to miss the masque.”
The servant nodded and led Kidd through a series of doorways, along stone corridors, and up several flights of stairs. They arrived at a solid door, which was barred and guarded by two Spanish soldiers. Kidd repeated his story and they removed the brace and unbolted the door. He excused the servant, took the plate of food, and stepped inside.
Flint was draped over a plush couch with his feet in the air nursing a bottle of wine. He rolled off as Kidd entered and reeled to his feet, spilling half the contents on the floor. “Will! What are you—?”
“Sshhh!” Kidd said quickly. He pressed the door closed behind him. “The party is over I’m afraid. Hamilton Rush isn't our only concern. Every man with an interest in The Tears is downstairs tonight.”
“Ah, so nothing has changed, and word gets around as always,” said Flint drunkenly. “You can bet they’re as busy spying on each other as they are trying to find The Tears.”
Kidd grabbed Flint’s coat, which had been dropped in a heap on the floor, and tossed it to him. “We have to get out of here.”
Flint pulled his arms through the sleeves. “And how do you suppose we’re going to engineer this escape without being noticed?”
“By walking out the front door. However, in this particular dance, you will have to let me take the lead.”
Kidd knocked, and the door was opened by the grim-faced guards. He led Flint briskly down the hall by the arm to prevent him from weaving into walls. He retraced the path the servant had taken and they emerged at the wings of the stage just as the last of the feast was being cleared. He propped Flint against a wall and risked a glance around the edge of the curtain. The guests had returned to their tables to refresh themselves with more wine. An actor strutted onto the stage reciting verse while he strummed a lute.
“Damn,” muttered Kidd. With all eyes on the opening acts of the masque, they had no chance of reaching an exit without being seen.
Kidd stopped two servants carrying the leftovers from the last table. “His Royal Highness has noted you are taking the food to the poor before serving the guests. Leave this and get them more wine!”
“Yes, milord.”
Kidd took two linen towels and carefully draped one over each arm. “Strip down to your shirtsleeves,” he told Flint. “You’ve just been seconded to Philip’s serving staff.” They lifted the table and almost spilled all the dishes onto the floor. Flint wasn’t faking drunkenness. “Take the front and point your nose straight ahead,” said Kidd. They raised the table off the floor again and headed across the front of the stage to the passageway opposite. Kidd kept his eyes fixed on the back of Flint’s head, resisting the urge to see if they had been recognised now they were in plain view. When they were three steps from freedom, Flint lost his footing and dropped the table again. It crashed to the floor just as the crowd broke into a thunderous applause. The performers were worth their fee.
Kidd abandoned his end, grabbed Flint by the elbow, and dashed for the corridor. He didn’t stop to look back and ran with Flint in tow.
As the sun crept toward the horizon, they passed through the courtyard, and into a crowd of peasants gathered at the gate. The servants settled the tables on the ground under the light of the guard’s torches. The poor were allowed at approach and set upon the tables to consume every morsel.
It saddened Kidd to see these people so impoverished that they grateful for the scraps of the rich. It was one of the many sights he’d ignored while he’d been in favour with noblemen and royalty. He led Flint away. “Come, we have overstayed our welcome.”
~ Chapter 24 ~
THE KEEPER OF THE TEARS
The Mediterranean Sea, between Sicily and Crete
Kidd ran up the Masala’s gangplank. “We have company, a great deal of company.”
“And not the friendly kind,” added Flint, hobbling after him.
Harissa looked displeased when they related the details. “Weigh anchor!”
Kemal seemed confused. “What about the repairs?”
“They’re worth nothing if we’re to be used for target practice,” she replied. Kemal nodded and strode off to muster the sleepy sailors. She looked at Flint sideways. “At least the keel is in one piece thanks to your boatbuilding crew. Shame they couldn’t finish the job.” She leaned on the wheel and listened to the cranking of chains as the anchor was dredged from the sea. Once it was stowed, the drumming of wood and water sounded as oars were set in motion. Guided by the stars, the old galley crept out of the harbour and into dark waters.
Kidd remained on the deck and watched the lights twinkling around the Castello Maniace until they disappeared from sight. He gripped the gunwale tightly, unable to feel the wood against his fingers, only the enduring touch of cold metal against his skin.
Three warships would follow at the break of dawn. There was a time when Kidd wouldn’t have worried about the French, or Hamilton Rush, or The Warriors of God. With his sabre in one hand and his pistol in the other, he
knew he could master any adversary. In those days, he was greeted at every port by noblemen with bags of gold coins and promises of other rewards; women, drink, and sumptuous feasts. He had access to people and places that most men could only dream of. There was a time when the sight of the poor falling over each other for scraps of food would have turned his stomach. Now he felt like a travesty of his former self, impotent, and burdened with an insurmountable task. The thought hit him with a sting as painful as catching the red hot clapper had been, and he wished he could be his old self, a man who stared back at him from the mirror with steel in his eyes and fire in his belly.
“What’s on your mind?” Flint emerged at his side, dabbing his mouth with a dry cloth. His lip was now swollen after his fight with Hamilton Rush.
“Just looking at the stars.”
“Is that right?” Flint tucked the cloth in his pocket and leaned on the railing. “You’ve a face full of worry.”
“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing at all,” Kidd answered with a hollow tone. “Even if I can find The Tears, I’m not sure that giving them to the Church isn’t going to cause more harm. If so many covet them, there will surely be war.”
Flint laughed. “Well, that won’t be your concern, will it? You’re letting the job become greater than the man who’s supposed to do it.” He knuckled Kidd in the upper arm. “Where’s your fighting spirit? Where’s the hard-nosed bastard I used to know and hate?”
Kidd shrugged.
“Fine,” grumbled Flint. “Have it your way.”
Kidd spent a sleepless night pacing the deck. There were too many thoughts and memories warring inside his head. When dawn arrived, he sat down at the front of the ship, his legs astride the bowsprit. He watched the waves break against the hull while the sun climbed high into the sky. The Sicilian coastline had long faded from sight and the ship was surrounded by water in all directions. He pulled the medallion from his shirt and traced the symbols with his finger. How would he find a reliable scholar to unlock their meaning when no one could be trusted? The man with the title ‘King of Kings and Bringer of Truth’ might be anywhere in the world, or another corpse. It seemed to be the fate of every man who’d possessed The Tears.
He toyed with the medallion while he watched the waves. He hoped Harissa was a better sailor than their opponents, who continued to grow in number, and were better funded. How could he hope to compete?
In his frustration, he’d failed to notice the medallion had come apart in his hands. He cursed under his breath. The pieces might have been lost in the ocean. When he looked at the broken halves, he realised this was what they were designed to do. The joining mechanism was a pin and sleeve. He clipped the medallion back together and took it apart several times. No jeweller would craft a valuable pendant that could be broken or construct it so its parts could be separated easily. He uncoupled the halves again. What if it wasn’t a medallion at all? What if it were part of something else?
Intrigued, he returned to his bunk and retrieved Faruq’s blade. Many bunks were occupied by sailors either snoring or relaxing, so he found a quiet spot in the bowels of the ship away from prying eyes. After his conversation with Hamilton Rush, he couldn’t dismiss the thought that there might be more than one spy aboard.
He took a rough cloth cut from an old sail, and a flask of oil and began work on the sword, cleaning away surface rust and the grime of age. The blade revealed nothing new, and certainly bore no relation to the medallion in any way. The hilt and pommel were heavily encrusted with dirt and it was hard work to buff it clean. He went through a number of rags before his efforts yielded a result. In the centre of the guard, in the place where the blade was bound to the hilt, he found a pin-sized hole. Sword-making hadn’t changed much over time. These holes were used to attach adornments to blades for ceremonial purposes, adornments that might be removed when the weapon was being put to use. He separated the medallion and ran the pins into the hole. The parts fitted together with the precision that only a sword-smith could accomplish.
He held the sword up to the light. It had been transformed from a functional blade to one that would be carried by a man of wealth and power, perhaps even a king. Perhaps Lawrence had known this, and snatched the medallion from his murderer as the fell act was committed.
Kidd turned his efforts to abrading the cross-guard. There were indentations buried in the ancient rust, so he retrieved a length of salt-bleached rope and worked the coarse fibres into the metal. Letters emerged on one side, the same size and style as on the medallion fragment. Together, they formed a new word. He read it over and over hoping he would be able to comprehend the strange language. He knew in his heart this was the name of the man who had taken The Tears from Lawrence.
He made the decision to keep his discovery to himself. Now, more than ever, the presence of an informant on-board the Masala was a possibility he had to consider. It would be an easy assignment for a skilled agent to infiltrate a crew of free traders. It would be a pointless exercise to ask Harissa to identify such a man. She would tell him many men came and went as they pleased. If they wanted three meals and a bunk on her ship, they only needed to work hard and obey her rules.
The leakage of information had to be cauterised. His enemies already knew too much and the only way to protect the secret was to tell no other soul. Not even Flint. It was not a question of trust in Flint’s case. Nobody hated Hamilton Rush more than Tom Flint. Kidd would never question his loyalty, but as he had witnessed at Philip’s ball, his old companion’s partiality to drink was dangerous.
Kidd prised the medallion from the hilt and stowed it in his coat pocket. He smeared pitch on the hilt to conceal the letters once more. He would have only himself to blame if his advantage was lost.
~ Chapter 25 ~
GLADIATORS, GOLD AND GLORY
The island of Crete, in the Venetian Republic
The days that followed were filled with apprehension as they watched the horizon for any sign of pursuit. The sight of a ship would cause Harissa to alter course and veer away. Even stray wisps of cloud made the sailors nervous.
Kidd could do nothing but count each day as it was lost. He felt powerless, and there wasn’t anywhere on the ship where peace and solitude could be found. It was a wonder how the men serving aboard the Masala could endure the cramped space and lack of privacy for such long periods. Worse still, the extended time at sea had coated his hands with a salt-tarnish, and many of the joints now squeaked. Scrubbing his hands with oil soon passed being a simple chore. It was a daily battle. By the time Crete was sighted, he felt almost as mad as Tom Flint.
Harissa had plotted their course carefully, gradually veering north, and then east towards the northern tip of the island. The plan to take the most direct route to Beirut had long since been abandoned, along with more precious time, but the Masala arrived without incident. “They’ll not travel this way,” she explained with the aid of her map. “It’d be a waste of time. I’d not be surprised if all three warships are halfway to Cyprus by now. They’ll reach Beirut long before we do, but at least we’ll get there in one piece.”
The Masala skimmed the coastline and found a port town to set down for provisions. Kidd was relieved to hear the splash of the anchor as the galley settled in a bay near the village. Whitewashed buildings shone brightly in the sun against the craggy green-brown hills beyond, and the water was so clear he could see the sandy bottom as if he were looking through a pane of glass. Colourful fish darted in and out of rocks and weeds to welcome them into their waters.
Harissa announced they would take three days shore leave. By the look in her eyes, she was expecting to debate the point with Kidd, especially since much time had already been lost. “The oarsmen need a rest, and we’re short of money and wares to trade,” she said, before he could open his mouth.
“I agree,” he said, to her surprise. “Time may be against me, but we won’t get far without food and water and able-bodied men to steer the ship. Personall
y, I’ve had enough of staring at the sea for one whole lifetime!”
In truth, he hoped the respite would give him an opportunity to find someone who could understand Persian, and to unlock for him the name on the Damascus blade.
The corners of her eyes crinkled into a smile. “Aye, if you have no love for the waves, the ocean will drive you mad. Enjoy the grass between your toes... land-lubber!”
Kidd slid Faruq’s sword into his belt, pulled on his leather coat, and prepared to go ashore.
“Oi! Where are you going?” Flint sat astride the handrail leading to the forecastle. Two weeks at sea had done his health a power of good. He had gained weight, the colour had returned to his cheeks, and he barely limped any more.
“Ashore. I’m sick of being cooped up on this ship.”
“Want some company?”
“I’m fine. You rest, Tom. We still have much to do.”
“Suit yourself.” Flint trotted down the stairs and fixed a beady eye on the sword. “Why are you taking that?”
“If anything happens to it, I’ll have only myself to blame.”
Flint shrugged. “Fair enough. Try to stay out of trouble.” He tipped his hat and disappeared behind the loose folds of collapsed sails.
Kidd joined the first rowing boat of weary sailors headed for the township. He hopped onto dry land as the boat pulled into the jetty and lashed the mooring line to the closest bollard. Despite the continued sense of rocking, he was glad to be on dry land once more. The sailors were interested in drink, women and song, and departed for the nearest tavern.
Although Kidd had never been to Crete, he could gather information here in much the same way as in any other part of the world. However, a few conversations with street vendors in the terraces made him realise a translator would be harder to find than expected. Although close to the Ottoman Empire, the Cretans spoke only Greek. Some were so poorly-educated they had only a basic grasp of their native language, let alone knowledge of an old Turkish dialect.
Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears Page 18