Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [52]
‘It depends on the music,’ said Thady Boy with the gentlest gravity.
Beside the King, Catherine, Queen of France, had made leisurely study of him, her nimble mind and blanched cultures weighing his answers. She now spoke, her voice muted. ‘You dislike the King’s lutenist?’ The consort, she was aware, had been unspeakable.
‘I should be proud to have trained him,’ said the ollave.
She sat back and a little drift of comment ran along the table, with a laugh. The King was smiling. ‘You think you could do as well?’
‘It is my profession.’
‘As well as elephant riding and juggling?’
‘These are my field sports.’
Without looking round, the King snapped his fingers. Lord d’Aubigny, blank and deferential, stepped forward. ‘Fetch Alberto quickly.’ To Thady Boy Ballagh, the King spoke slyly. ‘We have heard the buffoon; show us the bard, Master Ballagh. Play for us, sing, perform as well as M. de Ripa, and you shall have a full purse to take back to Ireland tomorrow.’
Slowly Thady Boy shook his black head. ‘Money, now, that is not the price of a song. The reward we would ask, O’LiamRoe and myself, is leave to enjoy a little longer the wonders and delights of your country, and to atone for the innocent mistake which led the Prince of Barrow, to his sorrow, into such misfortune the other day.’
There was a silence. ‘I cannot,’ said the King at last. ‘I cannot under any circumstances have your master here at Court.’
‘The O’LiamRoe,’ said Thady Boy delicately, ‘is not accustomed to Court life. He asks only to remain and study the grand country it is.’
The King hesitated. De Ripa had come in, looking startled, and carrying his lute. Further along the table, the Dowager of Scotland chatted softly to her neighbour, ignoring the little audience. The Constable of France, excusing himself, rose and bending over the King’s chair, murmured in his ear.
Henri turned, collected the unspoken agreement of his Queen, and said pleasantly to the Irishman, ‘If these are the only conditions under which you will play, then we must of course agree. But we wish it understood that we propose passing the winter at Blois, and that none but the finest in each profession accompany us there. The lute is my own instrument. Her grace the Queen, my lady sister, and my sweet sister of Scotland besides M. de Ripa and myself will judge you.’ Somewhere under the white and silver, there was an amiable spirit. ‘In Ireland, the standards for such things may be different. Do not be disappointed. You will not leave the poorer,’ said Henri of France.
The bundle of wattle and daub which was Thady Boy Ballagh straightened up. His gaze wandered past the King to the Queen Mother, to Erskine, to Margaret, to Jenny Fleming, to Lord d’Aubigny behind them, and down the long tables to Condé and the Princess, d’Enghien and St. André—all the bored, chattering faces. Then he turned and, bowing elaborately, accepted the challenge.
In the softly lit hall the command was passed; the noise died. Heavy with food and wine, warm and weakened with laughter, and laden with visiting dreams of the night hours ahead, the predatory and feckless flower of France lay wreathed in its velvets, and the Bodyguard, in sparkling white, stood silent behind.
There was a low chair for the player, and a stool for his foot. Thady Boy took the satiny, pear-sliced lute from the Italian and smiled at him; the dark eyes were inimical for a moment longer, then smiled back. Drowned in the coloured darks of the floor, Thady Boy sat with the frail waxlight over his head, bearded stubble and obesity sunk in the darkness. From his right hand came a hardly heard brushing of sound; then he spoke in his skilful, velvety Irish-French.
‘To the ladies of France, who win music and love as their birthright. To the ladies of France, the tale of the King of Kerry’s daughter whose greenan was thatched with eagles’ wings, and their breasts made her pillow.’
For years he had commanded men and knew the trick of controlling and throwing out tone. He knew others too. His fingers