Sir William was not sure exactly how many nobles there were in England at the present time. There were a dozen earls or so, he thought, a few viscounts, and probably more barons than any other degree of nobility, perhaps thirty or more. There were people at court, he said, who paid far more attention to that sort of thing than he did. Her Majesty, for one, would have more knowledge at her fingertips, as would her ministers and any of the heralds, for among their varied functions was the granting of coats of arms to gentlemen and the preservation of all records of England’s noble families.
The heralds took their duties very seriously, Sir William had explained. Organized into a college, they were under the authority of the Earl Marshal, who was a court official. The three senior heralds held the tides of Garter King at Arms, Clarenceaux King at Arms, and Norry King at Arms. Below them were the heralds of York, Somerset, Lancaster, Richmond, Chester, and Windsor, with four pursuivants below them bearing the colorful titles of Rouge Dragon, Blue Mantle, Portcullis, and Rouge Croix. And while Her Majesty might conceivably lose track of a noble or two, Sir William said, especially if he were not in regular attendance at her court, it was unthinkable that a herald should do so, for one of their most important duties was to examine the claims of anyone, including foreign visitors, who claimed to be of noble or gentle birth. Regretably, there were no heralds handy, and with the royal court away from London, a bold imposter might easily believe that he could pass himself off as a nobleman and get away with it, at least for a while.
Young Braithwaite seemed modest to a fault, a quality which had initially impressed Middleton quite favorably, but that now made him suspicious. Braithwaite’s apparent reticence in discussing his family had at first seemed like modest self-effacement, but now, given what Smythe had overheard from the two mysterious plotters, it could readily be perceived as guile. Moreover, there was something rather rakish about young Andrew Braithwaite, despite his outward display of manners. He was approximately the same age as Smythe, chestnut-haired, blue-eyed, clean-shaven and handsome in a rugged, provincial sort of way, but there was something in his manner that Smythe did not quite care for. He had a way of strutting when he walked, a sort of loose-hipped, rolling swagger that did not quite seem to match his seeming outward modesty. It was a small thing, perhaps, but it rubbed Smythe the wrong way.
The elder Braithwaite was not in attendance, which might have cast some doubt on the younger Braithwaite as a suspect, for the plan that Smythe had overheard involved one of the two men posing as the father. However, as Worley had pointed out, knowing that someone had overheard them, even if they did not know precisely who it was, could easily have brought about a change in the two scoundrels’ plans. If they knew that someone might expect a nobleman and his son to be imposters, then it was possible that they might have decided to withhold the father, so to speak, and just advance the son, thus hoping to confuse anyone looking for a father and a son, while keeping the other man in reserve, standing by to perform whatever unsavory task might be required of him. That made sense to Smythe, therefore he did not dismiss the strutting Andrew Braithwaite out of hand. Nor did he miss the fact that Blanche very much seemed to enjoy the attention he was paying to her. But then, at the same time, she seemed more than willing to encourage the attentions of the chevalier Phillipe Dubois, as well.
Here, thought Smythe, was a different kettle of fish entirely, and he did not much care for how it smelled. One of the things he had discovered about the upper classes since coming to the city was that artifice was something that they often elevated to an art. They went to extraordinary lengths and expense to out-peacock one another, and an exaggerated sense of flamboyance-or at least so it seemed to Smythe, with his plain, country sensibilities-was usually the order of the day not only in fashion, but also in behavior. In this respect, Dubois excelled even in this company. True, the young Frenchman was not required, on this occasion, to compete with the more socially prominent and consequently more fashionably adept courtiers who were away from London with Her Majesty, but Worley had observed in passing, after only a brief glimpse of him, that Phillipe Dubois would have doubtless held his own with them, as well.
If Andrew Braithwaite could be considered handsome, Smythe thought, then Phillipe Dubois was very nearly beautiful to the point of femininity. Smythe had never before seen anyone quite like him. He could not have been very much older than twenty or so, but it was somewhat difficult to tell, for Dubois painted his face and wore a beauty mark, and his curled hair was so long that it hung almost to his waist. He clearly lavished a great deal of attention upon it and Smythe noticed not a few women gazing at his dark tresses with undisguised envy. Nor was envy the only emotion that Dubois seemed to engender in many of the ladies present.
He was tall, well-formed, and graceful to the point of being langorous. His slightest gesture seemed elegant, studied and deliberate, and his demeanor was the very epitome of cultured charm, which this French Huguenot supporter of Henry of Navarre wielded most adroitly and disarmingly.
Smythe had detested him on sight, in no small part because earlier he had observed Dubois walking with Elizabeth upon his arm, and Elizabeth seemed rather taken with him. It seemed unlikely, however, that this effete fop could be one of the plotters whom he had overheard, for those men both had English accents, and while Dubois spoke excellent English, his accent was unquestionably French. Nevertheless, Dubois had arrived together with his father, a French aristocrat who smiled at everyone, yet spoke to no one because, according to his son, he had gone completely deaf from some injury sustained upon the battlefield.
Then there was Hughe Camden of Pendennis, who had arrived at the estate with his father, Sir Richard. Smythe was not quite sure what to think of Sir Richard and his son. He supposed they could have been the men that he had overheard, although he could not say for certain. The white-bearded Sir Richard seemed rather aloof and close-mouthed, and acted as if he disdained the company that he was keeping. His short, curdy polite, yet somewhat irritable replies to any comments or questions that were addressed to him discouraged conversation. The general impression was that Sir Richard Camden was a solitary gentleman of leisure, and no one was quite certain what he had done to merit a knighthood. Knights, said Worley, who spoke as one, were even harder to keep track of than barons, earls and viscounts. Indeed, there was concern among some of the nobility that the rank of knight was being diminished by the recent increase in the ranks of knighthood.
“In the old days,” Sir William had said, “a mere merchant shipbuilder such as I would never have been knighted. But as I have done much to increase the royal coffers, so hath Her Majesty seen fit to increase my honor through my rank. ‘Twas a generous offer, and one that I could scarcely refuse, you understand. But at the same time, neither did I campaign for it, as so many others have, and continue to do, often successfully. Why, if one were to throw a stone at some annoying dog in London these days, one would be just as liable to miss and strike a knight. So then, Sir Richard Camden may indeed be entitled to wear spurs, for all I know. And then again, he just as well may not be. For my part, I do not know him from Adam. He and his son, therefore, must remain suspect, at least until I can find out more about them.”
For the present, it seemed somewhat easier to learn something of the younger Camden. Hughe was a slightly built, studious-looking young man in his mid-twenties, with a neatly-trimmed beard and moustache, and a thick shock of dark and curly hair that came just to his shoulders. He seemed as self-effacing in his dress as did Andrew Braithwaite in his manner, affecting somber hues of black and brown in his simple, unadorned doublet, breeches and hose with a plain, though well-made shoulder cloak. He was a student of the law, an inner barrister at the Inns of Court, and had a great fondness for poetry, which he had been observed to write in a fine Chancery hand well worthy of a scrivener. He seemed an amiable and pleasant enough fellow, and Middleton said he had applied for and been given a small stipend as Blanche’s tutor in poetry and literature while they were at their home in London. He seemed clearly smitten with her and she, in turn, seemed not averse to his company, but at the same time, Smythe had the distinct impression that there were few males between the ages of eighteen and eighty to whose company Blanche Middleton might actually be averse.