Old Mars

WILLIAM KIDD KNELT UPON THE COLD STONE FLOOR IN THE complete blackness of the Condemned Hold in Newgate Prison. Heavy iron shackles lay loose upon wrists and ankles grown far thinner than when they’d first been fitted, the skin torn and scabrous from too-long acquaintance with the cold, rough metal. Chains rattled as he shifted into a somewhat less uncomfortable position.

All of these were familiar, and could be ignored. But the commotion in the hall beyond his locked door was new, and a terrible distraction. No doubt some of the other prisoners were celebrating the imminent demise of their most famous neighbor.

“Keep quiet out there!” he cried, or tried to. “Leave a condemned man to make peace with his Lord!”

There was no possibility that the revelers could have heard Kidd. His Dundee brogue, once powerful enough to carry across a hundred yards of open ocean in the midst of a gale, was now reduced to little more than a whisper. Yet, almost at once, the babble of voices dropped away to nothing.

A moment later came the rattle of keys in the lock.

This too was unexpected. For anyone at all to enter Kidd’s cell was a rarity, by order of the Admiralty Board and the House of Commons. A visit in the middle of the night was unprecedented. And on the very eve of his execution …

Kidd levered himself up into a sitting posture, chains clanking as he settled back on his haunches. Weary from months of imprisonment, despondent from years of rejection, disappointment, and defeat, he could think of no reason for such an untimely visit other than more bad news. Perhaps the House had decided to advance his execution to the small hours of the morning for some political reason. Or perhaps they intended to shave his head, or perform some other indignity, before marching him to the gibbet. He’d long given up any thought of comprehending the constant fickle changes of Parliamentary whim.

Whatever the news, Kidd meant to take it as a man should. Exerting himself to his utmost, he strained to rise to his feet. But he had barely struggled up to one knee when the door clashed open.

The dim, flickering light of torches blinded him. He tried and failed to raise an arm to shield his eyes. But before he could do so, two burly keepers entered and pinned his arms behind him. New irons clasped him at elbow and wrist, tight and hard and cold, and new chains ran clattering down to the ringbolts fixed in the stone floor. The guards forced Kidd to his knees, and in a moment he was trussed immovably in place. A hand gripped the back of his head, forcing his gaze to the floor. Was he to be beheaded here in his cell?

“P-prisoner secured, m’lord.” The voice belonged to one of the prison’s harshest and most brutal wardens. What could reduce this man to stammering servility?

“Leave us.” A cold, brusque voice, one used to immediate compliance. It had an accent Kidd couldn’t place. Dutch?

“M’lord?”

“Leave us. Alone.”

The warden gulped audibly. “Yes, m’lord,” he whispered.

The hand released Kidd’s head and two sets of feet shuffled out of the cell. A moment later, the door creaked closed, shutting more quietly than Kidd would have thought possible.

A single torch remained, and the sound of one man breathing.

Kidd raised his head.

The stranger was tall, over six feet, and the dark cloak that covered him from head to toe could not disguise his imperious bearing. He held an embroidered handkerchief to his nose, no doubt soaked in vinegar to combat the prison’s stench.

“To what do I owe the privilege, m’lord?” Kidd rasped, masking his terror with ironic courtesy.

The man pushed back his hood. “Surely an investor can pay a visit to his client?”

For a moment, Kidd failed to recognize the face, with its proud black eyes and its hard, humped beak of a nose. Then he gasped and ducked his head. Though they’d never before met in person, he’d seen that face in profile on a thousand coins. “Your Majesty,” he whispered, though cold anger burned beneath his ribs.

William III, King of England and Ireland, also William II of Scotland, placed the vinegar-soaked cloth again beneath his nose. “My time here is short,” he said, his voice muffled. “Even men as deeply stupid as my beloved advisers cannot be counted upon to miss my absence for long. So I must come directly to the point.” He drew the cloth aside, his dark eyes fixing Kidd’s. “I am here to offer you a pardon.”

At first, Kidd could form no reply. Surely this was only a dream? Or a cruel jape, intended only to deepen his suffering? Hope warred with anger and disbelief in his breast. “Your Majesty?” he managed.

“You heard me,” the king snapped. “I will spare your filthy, piratical neck from the noose my Parliament has woven for you from your own ill-considered words.”

Kidd matched the king’s level stare. “I but spoke the truth.”