The day had changed so drastically-like a weathercock in a storm. The morning, with its dread and worry, to this, this …
With a stab of feeling, his thoughts went to Renzi. He wished he knew what was happening in Guildford.
But he had his duties, and he turned to the chancellor of the exchequer with the wittiest quip he could find.
It had been just four days. In a blaze of honour, pageantry and the ancient rites of chivalry, he’d become a man of unassailable consequence in the world. He would never again fear any social occasion and could expect deference and respect wherever in life he found himself.
Kydd fought down a jet of elation as he looked about him. Here he was, in attendance at the Court of St James by right, at a levee in company with statesmen and dukes, diplomats and ambassadors, admirals and generals as the King moved about the throng on the highest affairs of state.
He’d never forget the actual moment when King George had, in company with his fellow captains in the Throne Room of this very palace, granted the accolade, dubbing him knight with a tap on each shoulder from the Sword of State and bestowing the riband and star he now wore.
And that had not been the end of the pomp and ceremony. The accolade had been a private occasion between his sovereign and himself; the public expression had been the installation. It was all now a blur of images. Richly dressed in the order’s crimson mantle, lined with white and fastened with gold tassels, its great star on his left, sword and spurs, black velvet cap with a plume of white feathers. The knights moving in solemn procession to Westminster Abbey, two by two in their regalia, with awed crowds on either side. Met by Bath King of Arms, with tabard collar and escutcheon, then ushered into the beautiful fan-vaulted splendour of the Henry VII chapel and gravely welcomed by the Great Master of the Order. Passing within, the walls overhung with crests and banners of great antiquity, helms and achievements in stern display. At the bidding of the Gentleman Usher of the Scarlet Rod, taking his place in the knights’ stalls. There before him the stall plates of others who had preceded him: Clive, Rodney, Howe … and Horatio Nelson.
In solemn splendour he had been inducted, from the hands of the King receiving his knightly honours: an enamelled badge of crowns suspended from a glittering gold collar of interlinked crowns and knots.
The hallowed proceedings held the weight of history. In ages past knights would have spent the night before their ennobling in vigil, then were ceremonially bathed and purified, but since the time of the first King George much of the medieval pomp had been discarded; although on the statutes there was still the requirement of a new knight that he provide and support four men-at-arms to serve in Great Britain whenever called upon. Not to be taken too literally, he had been hastily assured.
Kydd had joined the pantheon of heroes who had been honoured thus by their country, their fame assured in perpetuity. He was entitled, as Nelson was, to a coat-of-arms, his crest and heraldic banner, which would be laid up here on his passing and would be blazoned on the side of his carriage to tell all the world that he had been touched by greatness.
Now, at this august levee, he tried not to be too obvious as he snatched another glimpse of the resplendence of his knightly honours as he bowed and greeted in a haze of unreality.
“Well, Sir Thomas, pray tell, how does it move you, your illustrious translation?”
It was the first lord of the Admiralty, Grenville, smiling broadly.
“Why, sir, it is the most wonderful thing,” Kydd said sincerely. “As I do hold to my heart.”
The smile slipped a little. “As you should, of course. You deserve well of your country and may rejoice in your honouring.”
Was that a tinge of envy?
Yes! There was no sash and star, no collar and badge-even the first lord of the Admiralty had not attained the heights of chivalry that Kydd had.
It set the seal on his happiness. All he wanted to do now was to fly to his family and lay his triumph before them … and sink into blessed rest until it had all been digested.
It seemed to Kydd that it had not stopped raining since he had left Guildford in a very different mood. Now there was no possible danger to his continued sea career: the Admiralty would never risk the wrath of the public by failing to employ a frigate captain of such fame. Where could it all end?
At the Angel, he’d had to hire a pony and trap for his baggage was so great, but his heart was full as he tapped on the door.
“Son! Welcome back, m’ dear. Let’s get you out o’ them wet clothes. Emily-here, girl!”
He allowed himself to be fussed over, hugging his news to him.
“How long will ye be staying this time, a-tall?” Mrs Kydd asked casually.
“Until the Admiralty sees fit to send me orders. There is a war on, Ma.”
“Goodness gracious-is this all your baggage arriving, Thomas?” she said, with a frown at the carter’s knock.
“I need to keep a few things safe. My room is still … ?”
“O’ course it is, son! As long as y’ want it, you bein’ unmarried an’ all.”
“Is that you, Thomas?” Cecilia said in delight, coming into the room. “My, you are wet.”
“Cec,” Kydd demanded immediately. “Has Renzi talked to you at all?”
“Nicholas? Well, no, he called a few days ago but I was out, and then he found he had business to do and I haven’t seen him since.”
“That black-hearted scoundrel!” Kydd spluttered. “I knew he’d skulk off if I left him.”
“Thomas, what do you mean? He said he’d return shortly,” she said frowning.
“Never mind! Just keep a weather eye open for the shyster.”
But nothing could spoil the swelling happiness he felt. Should he tell them now or save it for when he’d changed? He knew he couldn’t keep it to himself indefinitely so he compromised. “I’m just going off to shift out o’ these wet togs-don’t go away, anybody. I’ve a surprise for you all …”
In his room he opened the big leather trunk-and there it was, not a crazed fantasy but a reality, and his by right. The glittering splendour of the accoutrements of a knight of the realm.
He stripped, towelling vigorously, then began to dress. There was an aged full-length mirror in the corner with a crack across its middle. He inspected himself in all his finery. The crimson mantle with its gold tassels, the star and riband, white leather shoes, spurs of gold and, of course, his sword. The cap with its flare of feathers he couldn’t wear in the low-ceilinged room so he carried it carefully as he stepped out.
He paused outside the little drawing room and settled the cap firmly on, then flung the doors wide.
“Lawks a-mercy!” squealed Mrs Kydd. “Whatever are you doin’ in them clothes, Thomas? Take ’em off afore someone sees you!”
Cecilia’s eyes widened in dawning comprehension. “T-Tom, is it that you’re … you’re a … ?”
“Ma, Cecilia,” he said proudly, “meet … Sir Thomas Kydd, Knight o’ the Most Honourable Order of the Bath.”
“You are!” his sister breathed, her eyes shining. “You really are!”
“Aye, sis. Just these two days. By the hand of His Majesty himself, as I’m a hero of Curacao.” He chuckled. “And this is my gold medal-he gave it me when we had tea together. That’s with Queen Charlotte as well, o’ course.”
“Tea! With the King!”
“Oh, Tom dear, I wish ye wouldn’t scare us so,” Mrs Kydd said faintly, having had to sit suddenly. “Now, you’re not flamming us, are you?”
“No, Ma. If you don’t believe me, you can read about it in the London Gazette, like all the world does.”
Cecilia took in his full court dress in awe. “Then you’ve been to the investiture?” she whispered. “At Westminster Abbey, and all? I nearly went to one with the marquess but he wanted us to remain outside for the procession. Did you … ?”
“I did, Cec! In the abbey among all that tackle from long ago. It’s where Nelson himself got his knighting and you can still see his stall plate with the common sailor on his crest.”