Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [53]
It ended; and there was silence, and then a rattle of cautious, genuine approval; and Marguerite of France, her jewels running like light over her dress, rose and knelt by the ollave. ‘I pray you … play Palestrina for me. And sing me this.’ And she stayed, watching his hands, as the fastidious music was made, watching his face as he sang the words she had requested.
‘Si la noche se hace oscura,
y tan corto es el camino,
i cómo no venís, amore?…
Cómo no venís, amore?’
The stamp of her approval, the vivid attention on Henri’s face, the concentration on de Ripa’s, broached the brittle defences of pride, and opened the golden floodgates of fashion. During the poem, someone sighed. Towards the end, the Duchess de Guise pulled out her handkerchief. As it finished, a wave of sensitive acclamation engulfed the singer and, charmingly, other ladies surrounded him. He glanced at them thoughtfully, and roused the strings this time to gentle satire. The song was new, and it pleased them. He sang again, settings by Jannequin and Certon; Il n’est soing que quant on a fain; Belle Doette, Mout me desagree; and songs even older. He sang in Gaelic, sírechtach music; and drawn like the tides by the wordless drag of the pain, they wept this time and were proud of it. And later, he sang them songs which were spicy as well as romantic, and they laughed and cheered and joined in with the catch phrases. But he took no risks, yet.
They were all, or nearly all, his patrons. Condé, for dignity’s sake, was his loudest admirer. Marguerite of Savoy addressed him softly between songs, and Jean de Bourbon, sieur d’Enghien, thoughtfully fluttered his fan. The two senior de Guises smiled with tolerant approval. Did they know who Thady Boy was? Erskine thought it unlikely. The risks were too great.
Only two people reacted differently. Margaret Erskine sat in silence, as she had done the whole evening, her candid gaze on the ollave. Only when he sang, her face changed to something very like pain. And Brusquet, angered, had left.
Towards the end, when the circle about the singer overflowed, and people were moving freely, talking, singing and drinking wine, Sir George Douglas leaned confidentially on Thady Boy’s shoulder as he sat, head downbent, tuning the lute. ‘My dear man, how fortunate that your friend Abernaci was in charge of the elephants.’
The implication was obvious. The Bourbon beside him looked up. ‘You’re wrong this time, my Scots Machiavelli. Abernaci would never permit the big Ué to be fried—not for His Holiness himself.’ And Condé chimed in, yawning. ‘The scents must have been worse than usual. They ruined the poor creature’s skin. Let that be a lesson to you, my dear.’
It was the oldest woman there who took the point. Diane de Poitiers, Duchess de Valentinois, was not easily moved, but she was intensely curious about the newcomer; and had no intention of competing with the flattering circle on the floor. Neither Condé nor his absent friend the Vidame was a favourite of hers. She moved coolly to remove their protégé to rarer climes. ‘If the elephant was hurt,’ said Madame de Valentinois, ‘did M. Ballagh not suffer injury?’
Like a thunderclap, watching Lymond’s taut back, Erskine realized that she had hit on the truth; and further, that this was no part of the evening’s improvisations. His personal state, both spiritual and physical, was Lymond’s own affair; and injury, if he were injured, spelled nothing but inefficiency within his creed. Nervously, Erskine saw the idea spread among Thady’s admirers; heard