Pasha

CHAPTER 1

IT WAS AS IF THE HANDSOME FRIGATE knew that she and her two-hundred-odd company were going home. After leaving the Caribbean she had quickly picked up a reliable westerly and now hitched up her skirt and flew, overtaking the broad Atlantic waves one by one in an eager swooping that had even old hands moving cautiously about the deck.

Channel fever was aboard and it gripped every soul. Soon after the chaos and drama of Trafalgar, HMS L’Aurore had been sent to join an expedition to wrest Cape Town from the Dutch. Success there had not been matched by the following ill-starred attempt at the South American colonies of Spain, and after capturing the capital, Buenos Aires, they had been forced to an ignominious surrender. Their later few months of service in the Caribbean had been abruptly terminated in an Admiralty summons to return to England. No doubt her captain was wanted at the vengeful court-martial to follow. But at last the handsome frigate and her crew were homeward bound.

Standing braced on the quarterdeck, Captain Thomas Kydd tried to take pleasure in the seething onrush of his fine command but he couldn’t shake a feeling of foreboding.

A snatch of song floated aft. The men were in good heart. They had served nobly in all three actions and could rely on liberty and prize-money to spend while L’Aurore received overdue attentions from the dockyard. Her captain, however, could only look forward to-

“How now, old horse! Do I see you the only one aboard downcast at the prospect of England?”

His old friend and confidential secretary, Nicholas Renzi, had come on deck to join him. They’d shared countless adventures since they’d met as common seamen so long ago and had no secrets between them.

“England? Why, not at all-it’s rather what’s lying in wait there that troubles me.”

“The court-martial.”

“Quite. We gave it our best against the Spanish but lost. And our leader to be crucified for quitting station-if we’d prevailed it would have been overlooked, but the Admiralty will never forgive us now.” Kydd gave a bitter smile. “There’s above half a dozen captains who’ll bear witness that I was in league with the commodore. It’s beyond believing that they’ll stop at only a single one to pay.”

“Possibly. But L’Aurore has done valiantly since, which should ease their lordships’ wrath a trifle.”

“You think so? They won’t yet have learned of our putting down the sugar-trade threat, and while we did stoutly at Curacao, who’s ever heard of the island, let alone Marie Galante? No, m’ friend, after Trafalgar the country expects nothing less than victory, every time!”

“It might not be as bad as-”

“Don’t top it the comforter, Nicholas. I’ll take it, whatever comes. It’s … it’s just that it would grieve me beyond telling should I lose L’Aurore.”

“That would put us both in a pickle, I’m persuaded,” Renzi said. “For at this particular time I’m obliged to say there are no shining prospects in store for me at all. I’ll not hide that I’m disappointed my novel was not received more warmly. It did seem to me a sprightly little volume, but the public’s taste is never to be commanded.”

“Well, I thought it a rattling good yarn, Nicholas! Are you sure?”

“It’s been over a year and I’ve heard not a thing.” Renzi’s head dropped. It was no use pining, though: he had to accept he was clearly not destined to be a novelist.

“But there’s one thing you can look forward to.”

“Oh?”

“Nicholas, sometimes you try the patience of a saint! You seem to have forgotten your promise!”

“My … ?”

“Yes, your promise that when we touched port in England,” he ground out, “you would that day post to Guildford and lay your heart before Cecilia.”

Nothing would please Kydd more than to see the long attachment between his sister and his particular friend brought to a satisfactory conclusion.

“Yes, of course,” Renzi said awkwardly. “I’d not forgotten. But …”

“Yes?” Kydd said, his voice rising.

“Well, in the absence of prospects, I rather thought-”

“Nicholas, dear fellow,” he barked, “if you’re not on a Guildford coach within one hour of our casting lines ashore I’ll ask Mr Clinton for a file of marines who will personally escort you there. Am I being clear enough?”

It was the age-old excitement of landfall. A screamed hail from the volunteer masthead lookout, whose height-of-eye was more than that of the legitimate watch-keeper in the fore-top, sent pulses racing. The man would later claim his reward from the tots of his shipmates.

The pace of their homecoming quickened: now England would be in sight constantly, the well-known seamarks passing in succession until they reached the great anchorage at Portsmouth-Spithead.

The Needles, white and stark against the winter grey, were Kydd’s reminder that within hours all would be made clear. The order that had reached out to him in the Caribbean would have been followed by another, now waiting in the port admiral’s office. Relieved of his command pending court-martial? Open arrest?

Gulping, he realised that these last few sea-miles might very well be the last he would make under the ensign he had served since his youth.

Rounding Bembridge Point would bring Spithead into view and, if the fleet was in, he must make his report to the admiral afloat. If they were at sea, it would be to the port admiral in the dockyard. Gun salutes, of course, would be needed in either case.

The deck was crowded with men gazing at the passing shoreline, some thoughtful and silent, others babbling excitedly and laughing. It seemed the entire crew was on deck.

“Mr Oakley!” Kydd threw at the boatswain. “Is this a pleasure cruise? Get those men to work this instant!”

L’Aurore had long since been willingly prettified to satisfaction but she was a king’s ship and had her standards. And he knew the real reason for his outburst and was sorry for it. Would the crew remember him fondly or … ?

The point soon yielded its view of the fleet anchorage-but four ships only and bare of any admiral’s flag. Thus it would be the port admiral to whom he would make his number.

Her distinguishing pennants snapping at the mizzen halyards in an impeccable show, L’Aurore rounded to and her anchor plunged into the grey-green water.

Everyone knew what must follow but Kydd told them nevertheless. “I shall report and return with orders, Mr Gilbey. No guardo tricks from the men while I’m gone or there’ll be no liberty for any. Secure from sea and I want to see a good harbour stow. Carry on, please.”

With a tight stomach he boarded his barge, taking his place in the sternsheets and determined not to show any hint of anxiety.

“Bear off,” he growled at his coxswain, Poulden.

The boat’s crew seemed to sense the tension and concentrated on their strokes even as they passed close by the raucous jollity of Portsmouth Point.

Reaching the familiar jetty oars were tossed in a faultless display and the boat glided in.

“Lay off, Poulden,” Kydd ordered, and stepped on to English soil for the first time in what had seemed so long. It had been nearly two years.

There was no point in delaying: he turned and strode briskly up the stone steps. At the top, unease gripped him as he saw a line of armed marines ahead.

Orders screamed out, muskets clashed, and an officer began marching smartly across.

“Captain Kydd. Sah!”

“I am he.”

“Sah!”

The port admiral, accompanied by his flag-lieutenant and other officers, appeared from behind the rigid line of red coats. “Kydd, old fellow! Welcome to England! How are you?”

He held out his hand. “We’ve been expecting you this age.”

The flag-lieutenant stood to one side in open admiration.

“Sah!”

“Oh, do inspect Cullin’s guard, there’s a good chap.”

There was nothing for it, and with a senior admiral at his side, Kydd did the honours, pacing down the line of marines wearing an expression of being suitably impressed, stopping with a word to one or two. At the end there was a flourish of swords and the party was released to go to the admiral’s reception room.

“Sherry?”

A sense of unreality was creeping in: had they mistaken him for someone else? “Sir. I thank you for your welcome, very pleasing to me. But might I enquire why … ?”

A small frown creased the port admiral’s forehead. “Do you think me a shab not to recognise a hero of the hour? Let me tell you, sir, since Boney set off his bombshell the public have sore need of same!”

“Hero?” Kydd said weakly.

“The papers have been in a frenzy for weeks. Curacao-as dashing an exploit as any in our history! Throwing a few frigates against the might of a Dutchy naval base, sailing right into their harbour in the teeth of moored ships, forts and armies. Then every last captain takes boat, waves his sword amain and storms ashore to carry the day! How can it not thrill the hearts of the entire nation?”

“Well, it was a furious enough occasion, I’ll grant you, but-”

“Nonsense! A smart action-and deserving of your prize-money,” he added, with a touch of envy.

“Sir.” Kydd paused. “Are there orders for L’Aurore at all?”

The port admiral turned to his flag-lieutenant.

“Yes, sir. I’ll get them instanter.”

He was back but not with a pack of detailed orders, just one, folded and sealed with the Admiralty cipher. Kydd signed for it, with only the slightest tremor to his hand.

“Do excuse me, sir,” he said, as he stepped aside to read.

It was short, almost to the point of rudeness. He was to place his ship under the temporary command of the port admiral forthwith pending refit while he should lose no time in presenting himself in person to the first lord of the Admiralty.

His heart bumped. There was a world of difference between a public hero and a naval delinquent and, without doubt, this was going to be the true reckoning.

“I’m to report to the first lord without delay. Do pardon me if I take my leave, sir. L’Aurore is to come under your flag until further orders-Lieutenant Gilbey, my premier, will be in command.”

“You know the routine, Mr Gilbey. I’m … not sure of future events but ship goes to harbour routine, full liberty to both watches. Don’t be too harsh on ’em.” His first lieutenant touched his hat and left.

Renzi watched his friend gravely. “In truth, it doesn’t appear you’re to expect a welcome from their lordships.”

“That’s my concern. Get your gear together-we leave in an hour.”

“You want me to-”

“I’m posting to London. You’re coming with me as far as Guildford, Nicholas.”

“You have my promise,” Renzi said, in an injured tone.

“Yes. And I have you for a shy cove. You’ll do the deed or I’ll know why!”

There was little conversation in the swaying, rattling coach. A cold winter rain beat at the windows and the countryside blurred into anonymity.

Past the little town of Petersfield, Renzi said stiffly, “There’s nothing I can bring to mind that makes my matter the easier to say.”

“Fire away nevertheless, Nicholas.”

“It’s that … should Cecilia accept me … then, to be brutally frank, I have very little means to support her as a wife, as I keep telling you. Is it morally right then to-”

“If she agrees to marry you, I shall settle something on you both-tell her it’s your prize-money portion, if you like.”

“That’s very hard to accept, Tom, but nobly offered.”

“You’ll take it for her sake, Nicholas.”

“Very well.”

“And none of your tricks o’ logic. No telling me you’ll marry her right enough, but the wedding day’s only to be when you find the time.”

They continued on in companionable silence. Some time later Hindhead appeared out of the driving rain. Renzi turned to Kydd and said, in a low voice, “Whatever is ahead for us both I know not-but the friendship in my heart I will value for all of time.”

The whip cracked over the tired horses as they toiled up the steep hill in Guildford Town. The Angel posting-house was halfway up and the coach swung through the arch. The driver cursed as he descended, tearing off his dripping cloak and keeping out of the way of the ostlers.

Renzi turned to his friend. “You’ll … ?”

“No, Nicholas. I have to get to the Admiralty without a moment lost. I don’t want to disturb my folks only to be off again. After they change horses I’ll be away. Now, you’re going through with-”

“You have my solemn word on it.”

“Then …”

“I wish you well, dear friend. It’s my prayer you’ll still be in possession of a ship at the end of it.”

“I never took you for the praying sort, Nicholas, but thank you. And I do wish you every happiness, you and Cecilia both.”

They clasped hands, then parted.

Renzi turned and left the Angel, crossing the road and taking the short cut through the Tunsgate to the Kydd naval school.

His mind raced-even now it was not too late to slink away, avoid the issue entirely, for there was every chance that Cecilia had given up on him, had married another. Or perhaps she was out somewhere in the far reaches of the world with her employer, that diplomat of mysterious assignments, the Marquess of Bloomsbury.

Or she might be at home.

Hammering at him was one overriding question: was it right to propose marriage dependent on a settlement from his friend? A delicate ethical dilemma: on the one hand there was every moral imperative to decline to pursue his suit but on the other he had given his word to Kydd.

He looked up from the rain that drove in his face and found that he was close to the school. He must make up his mind quickly. So much hung on-

A hand touched his arm. Startled, he swung around to see the rosy face of Emily, the Kydds’ maid.

“It is! Mr Renzi, as I stand!” she blurted, with a broad smile. “Come t’ visit. Right welcome you are too, sir.”

“Do let me assist, my dear,” he said, taking the basket of vegetables she was carrying.

“Why, thank you, sir. They’ll be main pleased t’ see you, what with no news about Mr Thomas and such. Have you had tidings a-tall?”

There could be no retreating now and he let her prattle wash over him until they reached the door.

Unexpectedly, a calm settled. He would go through with it: he would formally propose to Miss Cecilia Kydd.

“Why, Mr Renzi!” Mrs Kydd cried. “Do come in out o’ that rain. I’m so pleased to see you-have you any word o’ young Thomas?” she added anxiously.

“He’s hale and hearty, Mrs Kydd, let me assure you. He’s important business in London but desires me to convey to you his filial devoirs and promises to visit at the earliest opportunity.”

“You’re so wet, Mr Renzi. Emily, run and get a towel for Mr Renzi-quickly now!”

“Who’s that, Fanny?” quavered a voice from within.

“Why, Mr Renzi, Walter, that’s who,” she replied.

“Come into the parlour, Mr Renzi. Sit y’self down while we find you something to warm the cockles.” She ushered him into the small front room, so well known from times before.

“You are in good health, Mrs Kydd?”

“So-so. I always gets chilblains in this blashy weather, but never you mind.”

“And Cecilia?” he asked carefully.

“Oh? Yes, she’s fine. Now do tell us where you’ve gone to these last-bless my soul, it must be coming on for two years now.”

“A long story, and I’d much rather it were Thomas in the telling.” He paused, “Might I enquire, what does Cecilia these days?”

“Poor lamb. She had a fine position, as y’ know, with the marquess an’ lady, but now they can’t travel so she’s been let go with an encomium. Spends her days about the house moping-she should get out and find herself a man, if y’ pardon my speaking so direct.”

“Is she here? I’d like to pay my respects.”

“She was. Gone out to see a friend-she’ll be back soon, I’ll not wonder.”

Renzi’s heart skipped a beat.

“Emily!” Mrs Kydd called in exasperation. “Where’s that posset? Mr Renzi here is a-dyin’ from the cold an’ wet. I’ll give you a hand.”

She bustled out, leaving Renzi alone.

He looked about: was there anything that spoke of Cecilia’s presence, that was hers? He was now about to face the one who had captured his heart, and a sudden wave of emotion engulfed him. He loved the woman: he adored her, was hopelessly lost to her. And he would propose, go on bended knee-but what if she turned him down?

Desolation clamped in. Refusal was a very real chance: this was a hard world where marriages were largely contracted on the basis of income expectations and a lady would be considered a fool to marry beneath her station. Even were Cecilia still to bear him an affection, she had her future to consider and …

A lump rose in his throat. It wouldn’t be long and he would know her answer-and if it was unfavourable, his heart would surely be broken.

In a frenzy of apprehension he looked again to see if there was anything of her in the room. She must spend hours here, sitting-needlework? Not Cecilia, her mind was too active. What did other young ladies do in her circumstances? Drawing? Piano? There was neither here. He knew so little of her at home …

What was that, peeping out from under the cushion? A book, shoved under in haste to conceal it, almost certainly what she’d been reading.

Guiltily Renzi pulled it out. It was a novel of sorts, the cover gold-embossed with a romantic manly figure standing atop a rock. He felt a tinge of disappointment that it was a work of fiction she was reading rather than an improving classical tome. He flicked the pages to see what had attracted her to it, some with dark Gothic pictures, the text closely spaced.

He picked a paragraph at random and began reading-he had seen those very words before. They were his own, damn it!

Nearly dropping the book, he flicked hastily to the title page. Portrait of an Adventurer by Il Giramondo. The peregrinations of a gentleman rogue who loses his soul to dissipation and finds it again in far wandering.

He feverishly searched for the publisher’s name: yes, it was John Murray.

The implications slammed in on him. He was a published author! And therefore he had an income!

He choked back a sob, undone by the sudden reversal of Fate.

Then a cooler voice intervened. To tell Cecilia that he had an income as an author would be to reveal that he must necessarily be this wastrel. How could he?

Thinking furiously, he realised he must go immediately to John Murray to ensure his identity was kept secret.

Yes! It was what he must do-but he knew nothing of authors and royalties. Supposing the amount was a pittance only?

Standing about would solve nothing. Only action!

“Oh, Mrs Kydd?”

She came in, hurriedly wiping her hands on a cloth. “Mr Renzi?”

“I’m devastated to find I forgot to attend to an urgent matter. I must deal with it-I pray you tell Cecilia that I called and that I will return. A day or two at the most.”

“Mr Renzi!” Mrs Kydd said, shocked. “You’re not going out in all that rain again? It’s cold and-”

“I must, dear lady. I’ll take my leave now, if I may.”

The rain continued relentlessly as the coach ground and clattered over the cobbles towards the London road at the top of the hill. Kydd hunkered down, glowering under the press of dark thoughts that crowded in. As each rose in his consciousness, he met it with a savage riposte: there was nothing he could do about it now so he must let events take their course. A logic that would undoubtedly have met with Renzi’s approval-if he had still been by his side.

Renzi, a friend of times past. Those long-ago years tugged at him with their elemental simplicity, their careless vitality. Now his bosom friend was to be wed, settle down, have his being on the land, no more to wander. They would meet again, of course: he would be married to Kydd’s sister and she would keep in touch. But at this point their lives had irrevocably diverged.

In a pall of depression and aching from the ride, Kydd morosely sat through the final miles into the capital, grey and bleak in rain-swept gloom. He directed the driver to his accustomed lodgings at the White Hart in Charles Street and answered the vacuous civilities of the innkeeper with monosyllables. Tomorrow he would learn his fate.

Kydd hadn’t slept well. He dressed slowly, defiantly hanging on to the fact that to the world he was still Captain Kydd, commander of His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore, and dared any to say otherwise.

His orders had been to present himself immediately at the Admiralty and it would only tell against him if he did not, so at nine precisely he was deposited outside the grim facade of the home of their lordships. He knew the way: the Captains’ Room was in its accustomed crowded squalor; the usual supplicants for a ship, petitioners and those summoned to explain themselves.

He handed his card to the clerk. “To see the first lord per orders,” he muttered, and found a seat among the others. Curious at a new face, several tried to start a conversation but were discouraged by Kydd’s expression.

The minutes turned to an hour. It was here in this very room that he’d found out he’d been made post. That was in the days of the granite-faced sailor Earl St Vincent. Now the office of first lord of the Admiralty was occupied by a civilian, Grenville, younger brother of the prime minister. It had been he who had summoned him so peremptorily.

Then why was he waiting? He hailed the clerk. “Captain Kydd. As I told you, I’ve orders from the first lord that demand my immediate presenting in person. Why have you not acted?”

He knew the reason: it was the custom to grease the palm of the man to ensure an early appointment. But this was different: he was not a supplicant. He had been ordered to attend, and woe betide a lowly clerk who thought to delay him.

“Orders? From Mr Grenville?”

“Yes,” Kydd said heavily.

“Very well,” he responded, with a sniff. “I’ll inform him of your presence.”

“Thank you,” Kydd replied, trying to keep back the sarcasm.

He settled in his chair in a black mood. If he was not ushered into the presence within the hour he’d make damn sure that-

At the top of the steps a genial aristocratic-faced man burst into view. “Ah! Captain Kydd! So pleased you could come.” It was the first lord himself.

Naval officers shot to their feet, confused and deferential. Several bowed low.

He hurried down the steps and came to greet Kydd with outstretched hand. “We’ve been expecting you this age. So good of you to, ahem, ‘clap on all canvas’ to be with us.”

Shaking Kydd’s hand vigorously, he ushered him up the steps in the shocked silence.

In the hallowed office Grenville threw at his assistant, “Not to be disturbed,” and sat Kydd down.

“Now, what can I offer in refreshment? Sherry? No, too early, of course. So sorry to keep you waiting-that villainous clerk will hear from me, you can be assured of it.”

“Sir-you wished me here at the earliest … ?” Kydd began.

If this was the preamble to disciplinary proceedings he was at a loss to know where it was leading.

“Yes, yes! You’re the last of the Curacao captains come to town. And now we’re all complete. My, I’ve never known the public to be in such a taking! Raving about your gallantry and so forth. It’s done the government no end of good, coming as it does in these dog days after Trafalgar.”

Kydd smiled tightly. So the whims of popular opinion had decided they were heroes not of the ordinary sort. If they only knew it had been an attempt to uncover a deeper plot against British interests in the Caribbean that had, in fact, failed in its object.

“Pardon me, sir. Am I to understand that this is why I’ve been recalled?”

Grenville blinked. “Why, if I had not, the people would have howled for my head.”

“Ah. Sir, I had thought it was possibly in connection with the forthcoming court-martial of Commodore Popham,” he said carefully, shifting in his seat.

“Oh, that. Not at all, dear fellow. I can’t see it happening for a good while yet. In any case, as I read it, the merchantry love him because he opened up the river Plate trade to our goods as can’t find a market after Boney’s decree, and would never stand to see him pilloried. And it’s nothing to do with you, a Curacao idol.”

As it sank in, the tension slowly drained from Kydd.

“The Curacao captains-there’s to be a public procession or some such?” If there was, this was an odd reason to recall a valuable frigate and her crew from across the ocean.

“Naturally. And-well, you’re going to have to move speedily, I’m persuaded. The occasion is set for very soon-we didn’t know when you’d arrive.”

“Move speedily, sir?”

“Yes. Know that your recall was never my doing. My dear Kydd, it came from the palace-His Majesty wishes in person cordially to felicitate the principals in the affair. By his royal command I’m to direct you to attend on him the instant you land.”

“The King!” Kydd stuttered.

“Indeed. In view of the imminence of arrangements I would have thought it not too precipitate to seek an audience this very afternoon. Does this suit?”

He gulped. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Very well, I’ll set it in train. His Nibs’s business will be concluded by three, so shall we say four? I’ll send my carriage-to Windsor is tiresome in this weather.”

“That’s very kind in you, sir.”

“Oh, and you’ll find it more convenient should you choose to return here afterwards, you still in full fig and such. There’s a reception to be hosted by the prime minister for the heroes of the hour but it shouldn’t go on too long, he having pressing business in the Commons.”

It had happened! It was every naval officer’s ardent desire to gain distinction, to rise above the common herd-to gain notice from on high. And there was no greater such in the land than the King of England. He had arrived-it was breathtaking! It was marvellous!

Kydd took extreme care with his full dress uniform, the snowy neck-cloth and fine linen shirt that he had thought would last be worn before a hostile Board of Admiralty. His sword was in impeccable order, the scabbard rubbed with horn and blacking to a lustrous gleam by his loyal valet, Tysoe, his gold lace glittering after careful application of potato juice, and his court shoes in a discreet shimmer of polish and gold buckle.

In a fever of tension and exhilaration, it seemed for ever before there was an excited knock at the door. It was a near-swooning innkeeper who wrung his hands in emotion.

“Y-your carriage is-is here, Captain,” he stammered.

When he reached the door he saw the reason for the man’s excitement-it was the first lord of the Admiralty’s personal carriage: spacious, gleaming black with scarlet and gold trim, his cipher blazoned on the side, built for the express purpose of public display of the occupant. Four white horses and two footmen in blue and gold-and in front matching black steeds of an escort of four of the King’s Troop, with sabre and cuirass, looking stolidly to the front with a further two bringing up the rear.

A liveried footman was standing at attention by the coach steps, the other perched aloof behind.

A crowd quickly gathered, thrilled to be so close to what must be a very important personage, and as Kydd appeared, there was a ripple of excitement and muffled cheers. He doffed his cocked hat to them and couldn’t resist calling loudly to the innkeeper, “I’m off to attend on His Majesty, my man-I shall not be dining tonight.”

It brought gratifying gasps and chatter as he allowed himself to be handed up, to sit in lonely splendour as the resplendent sergeant on the lead horse barked orders to set them smartly on their way.

Fortunately, although the sky was dull and grey, the rain was holding off. The cavalcade had no difficulty with the notorious London traffic and they bowled along westwards at a steady clip, the massed clatter of hoofs drawing admiring attention as people stopped to gape. Kydd kept a stony expression, looking only to the front, ignoring cheers and catcalls from urchins but deigning to lift his hat to gentlemen who troubled to remove theirs as he passed.

The King’s residence, Windsor Castle, hove into view, all stern battlements and round towers, and Kydd’s heart thumped. In a twist of irony he remembered it was not the first time he had been directly addressed by his sovereign. That had been long ago when he was a young seaman in Artemis, a man-of-war the same size as L’Aurore in which he had fought in the first big frigate action of the Revolutionary War. He recalled a kindly face, bemused blue eyes and a comment about Surrey Cross sheep. Would he … ?

In a practised show they swung about to clatter in through the ancient archways, proceeding to the solemn entrance the other side of the vast courtyard. Kydd glimpsed the mast above the great round tower. It did not fly the Union flag of Great Britain: instead the lions and leopards of the Royal Standard of King George III floated there imperiously. The sovereign was at home.

As Kydd rose to alight, he looked around. It was so unreal, so impossible, that this day Tom Kydd of Guildford was about to be received by the monarch that his vision dissolved into a series of dazed impressions.

Here he was, standing in a castle first occupied by William the Conqueror after 1066, and witness to the stately panoply of the centuries since that was England’s past-and which he had first learned about in dame school. If crabby Miss Bowling could only see him now …

An equerry and royal footmen in blue and gold edged with red emerged to greet him. It seemed he was expected, and that His Majesty had expressed a desire that he should be presented at once.

He was ushered inside to a quiet magnificence, passing through majestic rooms hung with vast ancestral portraits, then across a hall of blinding splendour before reaching the state apartments, set about with lordly bewigged footmen.

An elderly gentleman of infinite dignity was waiting before high closed doors. The equerry murmured Kydd’s name to him and he was introduced to the lord chamberlain.

A quiet briefing was given: Kydd should bow as he was introduced but a short bow rather than the elaborate affair fashionable in drawing rooms. He should not speak until spoken to and he should remain standing until bidden otherwise. This being an informal audience without others present, full expressions of fealty were not to be expected and, indeed, His Majesty was known for his kindness and interest in meeting his subjects.

With his cocked hat firmly under his arm, stiffly at attention, Kydd took a deep breath and nodded.

The lord chamberlain smiled encouragingly and knocked discreetly. The door was opened wide from the inside and Kydd nervously followed him into the Presence.

Oblivious to the subdued grandeur of the room, Kydd had eyes for one thing only.

George III, by the Grace of God, King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, sat at a table spread with a silver tea service, his queen standing next to him, a lady-in-waiting behind.

“Your Majesty, may I present Captain Thomas Kydd of the Royal Navy?”

Kydd bowed jerkily, his heart in his mouth.

“Thank you, Dartmouth. Well, now, Kydd, and you’ll be relishing a dash of peace and quiet after your mortal perils in Curacoa, hey?”

He became aware of a heavy face but kindly eyes, albeit rheumy and filmed.

“Your Majesty, to return to this realm is a pleasure indeed.”

It would probably not be done to tell a king that his pronunciation of Curacao was somewhat awry.

“As it should be, young man.” The King harrumphed. “It’s our pleasure to take a dish of tea at this hour and we’re not minded to alter our custom. Do join us, will you? Charlotte, my dear …”

Kydd had a moment of panic-should he sweep his coat-tails elegantly behind as he sat or keep his sword from twisting under him? But, of course, unlike those of army officers, a naval sword hung loosely, the better to sit in boats, and he concentrated on a flourish with the tails. The sword obediently conformed and in relief he accepted an elegant, tiny porcelain cup from the Queen, who smiled winningly at him.

“So, Kydd. The Hollanders were all before you and the battle not yet won. What did you say to your men that they followed you into the cannon’s fury? Tell away, young fellow!”

Kydd’s mind froze as he tried desperately to remember exactly what he had shouted in those mad moments as he’d thrown himself and his crew against the forts. Then he realised that exactitude was not what was being asked and he replied gravely, “Sire, I remember it as, ‘Come, my lads, to the fore and the day is ours!’”

“Ah! A true son of the sea speaks! Would that we had more of your ilk, Kydd!”

There was then nothing for it but to deliver a detailed account of the action, the obvious interest and enthusiasm of the King easing his fears.

“Capital! In the best traditions of the Navy, of Nelson himself, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Kydd flushed, overwhelmed at such praise from his sovereign.

“Now you’ll want to be on your way, we fancy,” the King said, rising. Kydd scrambled to his feet.

“But before you go, if we might detain you a little longer …”

On cue a court official entered noiselessly, bearing something on a satin cushion.

The King lifted a glittering object on a white and blue riband from it and turned to Kydd. “Captain, in the name of England we bestow upon you this, in distinction of the valour you displayed upon the field of Curacoa.”

Kydd knelt and bent his head, feeling it pass over his neck, then rose, overcome.

“We wish you good fortune, Captain, and God preserve you until next we meet.”

“I do thank you for the great honour you have done me, Your Majesty,” Kydd managed, with a bow.

Dazed by events, Kydd descended from the carriage at the back of the Admiralty. He had taken tea with the King of England and now wore his honour. He looked down on it yet again: a pure gold medal on a riband as put there by the hands of His Majesty. It nobly bore a representation of Victory placing a wreath upon the head of Britannia, standing proudly on the prow of a ship with her shield and spear.

It was beyond imagining-what more could life bring?

He was met by an unctuous flag-captain, who ushered him into a room where the reception was well under way, the candlelight glittering on gold lace and stars-and dramatic with the splash of colour in sashes and uniform.

“Sir, may I present Captain Kydd of L’Aurore frigate?”

The prime minister smiled with every evidence of delight. “Glad you could make it, old fellow. Wouldn’t be the same without we had all the heroes of Curacao.”

“My honour entirely, sir.”

“We’ll talk presently, I’m sure. Do find yourself some refreshment.”

Kydd turned to see a familiar face beaming at him. It was Captain Brisbane, whom he’d last seen in the Caribbean near hidden in the smoke of guns.

“What ho, Kydd! We’d just about given up on you.”

“Ah, Charles, we were detained by the little matter of relieving the French of yet another island.”

“Stout chap, always knew we’d find you where the action was thickest. My, what a fuss they’re making over us. You’d think we’d sent Boney himself to Hades.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “We never did get to lay those privateers by the tail. Did you hear if … ?”

“We found ’em on Marie Galante and collared the lot,” Kydd answered. “Couldn’t say much about it for fear of scarifying the planters.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. So you’re only just arrived? Not heard the news?”

“Orders to report here without losing a moment, no reason given.”

Brisbane frowned. “That’s not the way to treat a hero of Curacao.” He brightened. “Look, I know what we’ll do-over here.”

They threaded through the throng until they reached the back of the room. Copies of the Gazette were stacked neatly on a small table under a mirror. Brisbane took one. “Nip in there for a minute and read all about why you’re here,” he said, gesturing at a side room.

Kydd did so and soon found a dignified headline announcing the capture of Curacao.

He read avidly-it was a fair account, detailing all the acts of individual courage and dash shown that day. He went pink with pleasure to see his own part lauded in measured, stately prose, his name there in print to be read by any in the kingdom.

He moved on to the last paragraphs, which detailed the honours and rewards of the actions.

A naval gold medal was to be awarded to every captain, His Majesty insistent that he present the honour himself.

Then in a cold wash of shock he saw his name-right there, in a list of those … to be further honoured with a … knighthood. These several captains to be elevated to the style and dignity of a Knight of the Bath. The investiture at St James’s Palace … installation into the Order … Thursday next at Westminster Abbey.

His hand trembled as he gripped the paper and his eyes misted with emotion. He was very soon to be … Sir Thomas Kydd, KB, knight of the realm.

Honours and fame were now indisputably his.

In a trance he entered the main room again, carefully placing the paper back where he had found it.

Brisbane gave a soft smile. “Now you can see how you’ve been cutting it so fine. The accolade-where you get your step to knight from the King-there, your sea gear is more to be expected. But your installation into an order of chivalry, you have to be in the right rig for that or they won’t have you. Clap on all sail-I’ll give you the address of the court costumier fellow.”

Kydd took in some of the others in the room. Over there was Lydiard of Anson, whom he hadn’t seen since the frightful drama of a chase together in the depths of a hurricane; Bolton of Fisgard, out of his depth, stuttering at a half-deaf statesman … He could have hugged them all.

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.”

This time it was she who had to sit, looking up at him with a hero-worship that was agreeably gratifying for an older brother.

“You’re famous, then,” she said, in hushed tones. “Mama, Thomas is a hero. He’s going to be talked about and-and …”

She stopped, at a loss to put into words that now there was a Kydd who would tread an inconceivably larger stage.