Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears Page 2

  Kidd fixed Rush with a steely gaze, his voice a dog’s growl. “Where’s the ring?”

  Rush searched Kidd for any sign of weakness, but everything about the man was made of metal, sharply-angled jaw, rust coloured hair, even his scowl looked as if it had been forged in a smithy. However, in all the years they’d known each other, Rush couldn’t recall seeing a different expression on Kidd’s face. His nickname was well-earned. He was as unbending in body and temperament as an iron rod.

  Kidd’s voice betrayed no emotion either. “Remember our training, Hamilton. I know your ways. I know your tricks and when you’re lying.”

  When they had stood together in Henry’s service, they had been part of its elite. But Kidd’s expulsion now saw them on opposite sides of a quarrel, and he now represented Philip of Spain. It showed a mercenary character, to willingly side with Spanish pigs over mother England!

  Rush passed his fingers slowly through the rag-pile searching for a stray shaft of wood to use as a weapon. “I know you hold me accountable for your fall from grace, but I know nothing of any ring.” He tried not to think about the drops of sweat running down his face. A display of nerves was as good as an admission of guilt. He grinned and shrugged. Playing the fool was safest. This contest could be won by the skill of his wits.

  “It makes me nervous when you lie,” said Kidd. “When that happens, my hands start to shake. I fear I have a light trigger on this pistol.” He scrapped Rush’s jugular with his blade, spilling no blood, but shaving each whisker from the skin.

  Rush’s neck felt cold and bare. “William, I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re referring to. It seems to me you’ve hunted me down to exact some form of petty vengeance.” His hand closed around something solid, a thick metal rod with a fist-sized ball at one end. His apparent misfortune with the bell had taken a turn for the better. It was the missing clapper, good enough to be used as a mace. He would thank the monks later for neglecting to have the bell repaired.

  “Philip would like the ring you stole from him returned, as he wishes to marry Maria of Portugal.” Kidd’s blade opened a delicate cut across Rush’s throat. “You see, Hamilton, shaky hands. No more lies!”

  Rush felt a sting and a trickle of blood, although he noted Kidd’s hands lacked even the slightest quiver. Their game of bluff was almost over, a certain stalemate. He had but one move left and gripped the clapper tight. “I don’t have it.” The cut grew longer. Rush let loose a distraught cry. His final play rested on the fact that both men knew the art of extracting information by inflicting pain was ineffective if wounds were too severe. The sound was convincing enough to make Kidd glance away for a second. Rush punched him hard below the ribcage. The breath burst from Kidd’s chest. He stumbled and his pistol discharged with a loud crack, the powder flash igniting the volatile tar.

  The barrel erupted into a column of fire and surged out like a wave with the abundance of pitch-soaked cloth and wood. Rush rolled away and threw off the burning rags. He rose to his feet and swung the clapper hard before Kidd’s sabre could be raised against him. The brass ball struck a glancing blow to the forehead of his foe.

  Kidd reeled but did not fall. He raised his sword again and pressed a hand over the wound, blood flowing through his fingers.

  Rush circled his opponent, testing him with the makeshift mace. Kidd was the better swordsman, but he appeared to be stunned and fighting by instinct. A few solid exchanges with the heavier clapper soon knocked the sabre from his weakened grasp.

  Rush’s grin turned to a grimace. The fire was fast becoming an inferno, consuming summer-dry wood with ravenous intensity. Luck was not playing the dutiful servant. The time was ripe to dispatch Kidd once and for all, but the heat was already singeing his bare legs. He cast the clapper aside and danced around the flames towards the staircase. Kidd however was not content to let Rush go. He dived across Rush’s path and grabbed an ankle. Rush lost his balance and tumbled down the stairs. He tried to break his fall, but hit the floor awkwardly. Pain twisted through his back.

  Kidd stumbled down the stairs and fell on him, swinging punches. Rush fended off the blows with his forearms. As a lad he’d fought with his fists to survive on the rough streets of London East End. He’d been punch-drunk many times and knew how to defend himself while his head cleared. A swift uppercut knocked his rival back and he rolled away from the scuffle.

  Overhead the flames roared louder. Rush scrambled to his feet, as did Kidd, who blocked the only passage of escape. Rush cursed. What was it going to take to knock this man over?

  Kidd reached for a chair and smashed it apart on the door frame, keeping one of the legs for a club. He forced Rush to retreat deeper into the loft with menacing strokes.

  The bell-tower groaned and dust spilled from gaps in the stones as it surrendered to the fire’s appetite. Rush pressed his body against the wall and raised his arms to shield his head. Kidd pursued him, hungry and heedless.

  The ceiling collapsed with the terrible screech of wood and nails being ripped apart. Like the angel of death, the massive brass bell crashed down on them in a shower of flames. The floor shattered under Kidd’s feet as the bell thundered on its way to the foundations of the church. Kidd fell after it in the tempest of fire and smoke.

  Rush laughed at the deafening clang as the bell hit stone, but his glee was short-lived. The remaining floorboards gave way. He reached out for anything that might prevent his fall, but his fingers found nothing.

  All breath was knocked from his body. He tried to fill his lungs, but couldn’t. He struggled to remain conscious and rolled onto his side. After a moment he was able to take in a lungful of smoky air.

  Kidd, with remarkable good luck, also managed to survive the fall, although a weighty rafter had pinned his left shin to the floor. He sat up and struggled to push it off. Rush had never fought a man of such endurance. He could not allow Kidd to live.

  As if it was ordained, the searing hot clapper fell to the stone by his hand. It was a divine directive to execute his rival, something he should have done long ago. He stamped the flames from a smouldering tapestry and wrapped his hands. He’d be known as the man who’d defeated Iron William Kidd. He would earn prestige, respect, and gold from Henry. “I took pleasure in ruining your partner’s career,” he told Kidd, “but I shall enjoy your death so much more.”

  Rush swung the clapper. Kidd caught the end in cupped hands. His flesh sizzled and smoked. Grunting through clenched teeth he wrestled Rush to the ground, twisted the clapper from his grasp, and turned the weapon against him. Taking Rush by the collar he pressed the searing ball into Rush’s face and held it there. For each man, burns compounded and ran deep. Finally, Kidd lost hold of the clapper and let it fall. Both men collapsed, spent to the last.

  Rush had no idea how much time had passed when he regained his senses. A light touch confirmed his face had been badly wounded, but now it just felt numb. Struggling to his feet, he managed a smile of sorts as he looked at his enemy pinned to the floor with crippled hands. There was no escape for him now. Iron William Kidd would surely die. He reached into a secret pocket in his jerkin and took out a ring, delicate, and exquisitely wrought. The sapphire, chosen to match Maria’s eyes, sparkled in the flames. “Pretty,” he croaked.

  It was a fitting token for her hand. With the balance of power in Europe on a knife-edge as every nation struggled for dominance, an alliance with the Portuguese would assure Philip’s power when he succeeded his father. Rush had been offered a handsome reward to spoil the occasion. Another burning rafter fell. The roof was near collapse and the walls would not be far behind.

  Rush saluted his foe dismissively. He stumbled out of the church and down the hill to freedom, content in the knowledge that this was their final encounter. Hell had come to the Church of San Salvatore and it would take Iron William Kidd.

  ~ Chapter 3 ~

  OUT OF THE FIRE AND INTO HOT WATER

  Republic of Florence

  The inferno co
nsumed every part of the church not made of stone. Sections of the roof fell away, bombarding the floor with explosive tiles, and the furnace-hot air was so thick every breath was a labour.

  Kidd strained to free his leg, but the ironwood beam refused to budge. Though they were few, he counted his blessings. The remains of several pews were evidence of what would have happened to his leg had he born the full brunt of the rafter’s fall. He took the clapper, wincing as he wedged it under the beam. He drew a deep breath and pushed, the blood pulsing through his temples with the exertion. The rafter finally lifted enough to set him free.

  He summoned the resolve to stand up, cautiously testing his leg before he allowed it to take weight. It was sore, but so was most of his body after the fight with Hamilton Rush. His hands had come off worst. They hurt. More than one bone was undoubtedly broken.

  Another section of the roof collapsed. There was no time for bandages or rest. He hooked a stiff thumb under his shirt to cover his face, catching the appalling smell of burnt flesh as he did so.

  Through watering eyes, he saw that the wall where the high-arched doors had once stood was now reduced to rubble. Not even a mountain goat would brave the treacherous debris, let alone a man with maimed hands. He had to find another way out, but every part of the church was ablaze. He mopped his face on his sleeve and looked around the nave. An ornate stained-glass window stood above the altar, offering a possible way out. Hungry flames spilled upwards around it, adding emphasis to its subject: The Last Judgement.

  Loosened stones clattered as they fell, warning of the imminent collapse of the roof, and with it, any possibility of escape. There was nothing for it. Kidd kicked a burning pew into the base of the altar, backtracked down the aisle as far as he dared, and sucked in a deep breath. He sprinted and leapt—right foot on the pew—pushing upwards—left boot onto the altar—and punched through the leaded glass with his forearms wrapped around his skull.

  He sailed through in a shower of coloured glass, and into the dry afternoon air. As he hit the ground, he tucked his shoulder into his body, rolled and come to his feet at a jog. After twenty strides his legs gave out, demanding a moment of rest. As he lay panting, the soothing kiss of cool grass against his charred flesh almost made him forget Hamilton Rush and Philip’s ring.

  The respite was short lived. He’d barely caught his breath when he heard the bellow of an angry mob. He raised his head and caught sight of a crowd of villagers emerging over the top of the knoll. He pushed the earth away from his body despite the painful protests from his arms and legs. The mob was not equipped with buckets of water from the well to fight the fire. They were armed with pitchforks and scythes. They had come to find the man responsible for the fire to exact some rough justice upon him.

  “There he is,” yelled one, pointing a finger at Kidd, “caught red-handed doing the devil’s work. Let’s string him up!”

  “Careful!” shouted another, restraining the first. “He’s a cold-blooded killer to boot.”

  Kidd’s reputation preceded him in certain circles, but not amongst the working classes of rural Florence. Their foreknowledge suggested Hamilton Rush. He looked them in the eye. Negotiation was pointless. The Church of San Salvatore billowed with smoke and they had made their judgement. There would be blood.

  Kidd counted seven farmers all together. There wasn’t a warrior amongst them, but each man was strong from daily physical labour and their tools looked sharp. It would be a brutal fight even if he were fighting fit and adequately armed. He turned and fled, bounding through the long grass towards a dry-stone wall circling the boundary of the church’s grounds. His hands were beyond the ordeal of vaulting the structure, so he jumped upwards and over, and hoped for the best.

  The bank sloped away on the other side and he landed poorly. His ankle twisted painfully and he fell, sliding head first towards a cliff edge. He reached out to grasp some foliage to slow his momentum, but the act was futile. Then he was in open air, the wind whistling past his face. He felt as free as a bird before his body crashed down upon the earth and finally surrendered. He briefly tasted dirt and blood in his mouth before passing out.

  * * *

  It was deep into the night when Kidd came to his senses. He groaned, each breath rattling his bones all the way to his boots. He dared not move until he was sure he could do so without sending throbbing jolts through his body.

  He slowly unwrapped himself from his resting place. Fortunately, it was no coffin. He was tangled around a stout shrub a dozen feet up the bank. The bush had saved his life twice—once from the fall—and again from being found by the mob.

  His hands hurt the most. In the light of the full moon he saw they were now horribly blistered and swollen. He would need the ministrations of a skilled physician or would face the prospect of having both hands amputated at the wrists. The idea of spending the rest of his life with two hooks screwed into the ends of his arms was unthinkable. Without his hands, his livelihood was gone. He might as well be dead.

  His only comfort was that Hamilton Rush hadn’t escaped unscathed from their encounter either. It was no surprise to find Rush at the heart of the plot to undermine the Spanish Prince. Philip had been deeply humiliated when the Spanish envoy to Portugal arrived without the ring and dowry intended for his future bride; the coach surreptitiously looted from under their noses. His directive was brief. “Find out who is responsible so that we may have his head.”

  For now though, Kidd needed to be as far from Castellina as he could before the sun rose, as he would find no safe haven for many miles. He disentangled himself from the bush and crawled down the bank on his elbows like a crab. When he reached the bottom he looked back up the hill. What remained of the church was still in flames, illuminating the hills with a ghostly orange glow.

  He tucked his mangled hands under his arms and headed for the northern road out of town, keeping to dark recesses beyond the moon’s silver light to avoid the evening watch.

  Dawn broke across the horizon several hours later and filled the world with colour once more. As the day drew on, the severity of Kidd’s injuries began to tell. Desperate for water, he drank face first from a muddy puddle. He knew the water might make him sick, but lack of it held more severe consequences. He paused only to check the condition of his hands. They had worsened and seized up like the claws of a dead bird.

  He stumbled along well into the afternoon, ducking into the scrub every time he spied a wayfarer, or heard hoof-beats in the distance. It was foolhardy to expect help from a stranger. The open road was a dangerous place, but Kidd had no need of a disguise. His clothes were caked with dirt and soot, and he readily blended with the mud.

  The few edible weeds he recognised as being safe to eat made for a poor meal, and more so because of his inability to pick the leaves. At twilight he passed a farm house and caught the scent of freshly baked bread on the breeze. The smell drove him wild and he was overcome with the desire to rush to the door and beg for food. After a dozen steps, common sense prevailed. There was no telling what kind of hospitality he would receive at such an hour, more than likely a pitchfork in the ribs. He pressed on into the night with a grumbling stomach. When he could go no further, he hid in dense thicket and slept fitfully, dreaming endlessly of his laborious journey.

  In waking moments, he tried to calculate the number of miles remaining till he reached Florence. Although the journey felt impossible in his current condition, Kidd knew he would find sanctuary and medicine there, from Vllen Dytz. Vllen lived on a palazzo near the outskirts of Florence and was a close friend of Kidd’s father, Robert. Kidd estimated it was at least forty miles more to hike, and now more than ever, he wished his father was with him again to guide him on the journey.

  The memory of Robert still reminded Kidd of himself as a boy, looking up with admiration at the strong, brave man who answered only to the King of England. From a young age, Kidd wanted nothing more than to follow his father into the King’s Secret Service. His father was a g
reat teacher, and blessed with a long and illustrious career. Few secret servants lived for more than three decades unless they were particularly adept at their craft. Robert was one of those men.

  They had spent many nights alone in the wilderness. Robert would tell stories of his adventures by the campfire. On one particular night, Robert had warned his son of the perils and burdens that went with keeping the King’s secrets. “There are only two ways you can retire from the King’s service,” he had said, “by dying an old man with pursed lips, or by having your head boiled and set on a spike.” He tousled Kidd’s thick red locks, let out a hearty laugh and said, “But there’s no place I’d rather be than in the service of my King.” Kidd grabbed his father’s hand so he could admire his signet ring glistening in the firelight, the token of his trade. It bore their family crest alongside a lion and a unicorn lightly etched into the gold.

  Robert had visited Vllen often throughout his career. He would return home with amusing stories about the Bavarian’s exploits, bizarre inventions, or his ever-growing collection of peculiar relics. At the age of twelve, as a reward for becoming a man, Robert took Kidd on a journey to visit Vllen. It soon became an annual pilgrimage, an opportunity for Robert to rest, and for Kidd to master the skills he would need to enter the King’s service.