Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean (читать книги полностью без сокращений .txt) 📗
“He has the voice of an angel!” declared Flem.
“If he is as good as you say, we might ask him to stay with us after his master goes back.”
“Does Your Majesty think he would?”
“It would entirely depend on what position he holds under his master. If it is a humble one, he may be glad of the opportunity to serve me; and I doubt his master would refuse to spare him.”
“Madam,” said Seton, “I heard him sing yesterday, and I have never heard the like.”
“We will have him brought here to my apartments. He shall sing for us. What is his name?”
“That I do not know,” said Flem.
Mary turned to the others, but none knew his name.
Seton suddenly remembered. “I fancy I have heard him called Signor David by his fellows.”
“Then we will send for Signor David. Flem dear, send a page.”
The Queen had her lute brought to her, and the five ladies were discussing the music they would sing and play, when Signor David appeared.
He was a Piedmontese, short of stature and by no means handsome, but his graceful manners were pleasing; he bowed with charm, displaying a lively awareness of the honor done to him, while accepting it without awkwardness.
“Signor David,” said the Queen, “we have heard that you possess a good voice. Is that true?”
“If Your Majesty would wish to judge of it, your humble servant will feel himself greatly honored.”
“I will hear it. But first tell me—what is your position in the suite of my lord de Moretta?”
“A humble secretary, Your Majesty.”
“Now, Signor David, sing for us here and now.”
She played the lute and rarely had she looked more charming than she did at that moment, sitting there in her chair without ceremony, her delicate fingers plucking at the strings, her eyes shining, not only with her love of music, but because she was about to do this poor secretary a kindness.
And as he sang to her playing, his glorious voice filled the apartment and brought tears to their eyes; it was a voice of charm and feeling as well as power, and they could not hear it and remain unmoved.
When the song ended, the Queen said with emotion: “Signor David, that was perfect.”
“I am delighted that my poor voice has given Your Majesty pleasure.”
“I would have you join my choir.”
“I have no words to express my delight.”
“But,” went on the Queen, “when you leave with your master, we shall find my choir will be so much the poorer that I may wish you had never joined it!”
He looked distressed.
“Unless,” said Mary impulsively, “you wished to remain in my service when your master goes.”
His answer was to fall on his knees. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Service… service,” he stammered, “to the most beautiful lady in the world!”
She laughed. “Do not forget you will be choosing this land of harsh winters in exchange for your sunny Italy.”
“Madame,” he replied, “if I may serve you, that would be sun enough for me.”
How different were the manners of these foreigners, she mused, from those of blunt Scotsmen! She liked the little man with the large and glowing eyes.
“Then if your master is willing, when he leaves Scotland you may exchange his service for mine. What is your name—your full name? We know you only as Signor David.”
“It is David Rizzio, Madame. Your Majesty’s most humble and devoted servant henceforth.”
IT WAS Christmas time and the wind howled up the Canongate; it buffeted the walls of Holyrood, and the Queen had great logs burning in the fireplaces throughout the palace. To her great regret, most of the French retinue which had accompanied her to Scotland had now returned to France, and of her immediate circle only Elboeuf remained.
There was trouble in the streets, and at the root of that trouble were the lusty Bothwell and the deranged Arran.
Bothwell did not forget that it was due to Arran that he had been dismissed from the Court. Such a slight to a Border warrior could not be allowed to pass. Arran, and the whole Hamilton clan, never missed an opportunity of maligning Bothwell and had spread far and wide the scandal concerning him and Anna Throndsen—the poor Danish girl, they called her—whom he had seduced, made a mother and lured from her home merely to become one of those women with whom he chose to amuse himself as the fancy took him.
Arran—a declared Puritan and ardent follower of Knox—was not, Both-well had discovered, in a position to throw stones. Accordingly Bothwell devised a plot for exposing the Hamilton heir in the sort of scandal with which he had conspired to smear Bothwell.
Bothwell had two congenial companions. One of these was the Marquis d’Elboeuf, always ready for a carousal to enliven the Scottish atmosphere, and Lord John Stuart, Mary’s baseborn brother, who admired the Hepburn more than any man he knew and was ready to follow him in any rashness. Bothwell cultivated Mary’s brother for two reasons—one because the young man could do him so much good at Court, and the other because he hoped he would marry his sister, Janet Hepburn, a redheaded girl as lusty—or almost—as her brother, and who had been involved in more than one scandal and had already been lavishly generous with her favors to Lord John.
The followers of Bothwell and Lord John swaggered about the streets of Edinburgh, picking quarrels with the followers of the Hamiltons. But that was not enough for Bothwell’s purpose.
“What a merry thing it would be,” he cried, “if we could catch Airan flagrante delicto. Then we should hear what his friend John Knox had to say to that!”
Elboeuf was overcome with mirth at the prospect. Lord John wanted to know how they could do it without delay.
“’Tis simple,” explained Bothwell. “Often of a night he visits a certain woman. What if we broke into the house where they stay, catch him in the act, and drive him naked into the night? Imagine the Puritan heir of the Hamiltons, running through the streets without his clothes on a cold night because he has been forced to leave them in the bedchamber of his mistress!”
“Who is his mistress?” asked Lord John.
“There we are fortunate,” explained Bothwell. “She is the daughter-in-law of old Cuthbert Ramsay who was my grandmother’s fourth husband, and lives in his house.”
“Old Cuthbert is no friend to you.”
“No, but in the guise of mummers we should find easy entry into his house.”
“’Tis a capital plan!” cried Elboeuf. “And what of the poor deserted lady? I could weep for her—her lover snatched from her! Will she not be desolate?”
“We’ll not leave her desolate!” laughed Bothwell. “She will find us three adequate compensation for the loss of that poor half-wit. It would seem our game with Arran would be but half finished if we did not console the lady after dismissing the lover.”
So it was agreed.
The night was bitterly cold as the three conspirators swaggered down to St. Mary’s Wynd, wherein stood the house of Cuthbert Ramsay. They were dressed as Christmas revelers and masks covered the faces of all three, who were well known as the most profligate men in Scotland.
They found the door of the house locked against them; Bothwell was infuriated because, knowing the customs of Ramsay’s house, he realized that there must have been warning of their coming.
“Open the door!” he shouted. He could see the dim lights through some of the windows, but no sound came from behind the door. Bothwell’s great shoulders had soon crashed it open and, with the help of his two friends, he forced an entry into the house.
Seeing a shivering girl trying to hide herself, Bothwell seized her and demanded to be shown the apartments of Mistress Alison Craig with all speed. The girl, too terrified to do aught else, ran up the staircase with the three men in pursuit. She pointed to a door and fled.
