The Outrageous Oriel

By Sally Watson

The year is 1641, and England lurches toward civil war. King Charles I claims Divine Right to rule autocratically, so Parliament vengefully arrests his friend Lord Strafford. While the trial goes on, while Queen Henrietta plots with the court poets to seize the Tower of London, while Princess Mary rebels against wedding the Prince of Orange, while London riots, Lord Heath brings his daughter Oriel to court and directs her to make the Princess amenable to the marriage.

Oriel, elfin, judgmental, willful and offensively candid (as her friend and neighbor Evan tells her) declines to obey. ("I don't know if she'll be happy!") She finds Court offensive-as they find her. Having alienated the queen and poets by pointing out that their plots are foolish, and the courtiers (including her promised husband) by scorning their hypocrisy, she makes friends with the commoners in the courtyard below: servants, thieves, artisans and whores, who call themselves Yardbirds.

The crises of Strafford's conviction and the royal wedding coincide with the kidnapping of Oriel for reasons of combined politics and vengeance. King, queen and courtiers shrug: the outrageous Oriel is no loss. It's the Yardbirds and Evan who unite to find and rescue her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 27, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595844227

Sally Watson

Born in Seattle, graduated from Reed College. First book (Highland Rebel: Holt, 1954) was followed by twenty more. Moved to England in 1964. When her books went OP, Sally took up judo and cats. Returned in 1987 to Santa Rosa, found her old books selling for obscene prices on Internet. Image Cascade has now republished seven of them.

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The Outrageous Oriel

Copyright © 2006 by Sally Watson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN-13: 978-0-595-40038-6 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-84422-7 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-40038-8 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-84422-7 (ebk)

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

HISTORICAL NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

GLOSSARY

There are those who give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space. Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

Khalil Gibran

This is for my dear friend Constance Swinton, who is numbered among these rare few.

Acknowledgements

Special acknowledgements to my old judo friends in England: Ivy and Len Armitage Gill and Stuart Freeman for letting me give them roles among the Yardbirds; and especially to Gill for heroic research on Whitehall Palace.

PROLOGUE

It was 1641, and England was crankily drifting toward civil war. This was for several reasons. To start, way back in 1519 Martin Luther had drawn up his famous 95 theses against the Pope, thus starting what was soon to be called Reformism, to be called Reformism or, later, Protestantism.

Then, in about 1536, a certain high-handed Henry VIII combined religion and politics by divorcing himself from the Pope over a little matter of his divorce from his first wife, and made himself head of the English church, thus (quite unintentionally) encouraging a religious split in England—very much helped by the next two monarchs. Henry’s son Edward VI arrested people for being Catholics, his daughter Mary (Bloody Mary) burned them for not being Catholic—which caused England to adore his next daughter, Queen Elizabeth—and also to fear and hate Catholicism. (On the whole, the common people tended to be Protestant; the nobility, Catholic or Church of England (which translated itself to catholic-without-the-Pope.)

And then, in 1625, along came the incredible King Charles I, who could hardly have done more to alienate Protestants in particular and England in general. He told the feisty independent English that he had the Divine Right of Kings: that God gave him the right to rule as he pleased, ignoring Parliament, law and all the rights England had managed to establish for the common people through the last 600 years. Moreover he had married a very pushy French princess—Catholic, of course—who caused England to fear the worst, not without some cause.

Now it was well and truly a religious/political power struggle! The Royalists derided Protestants as as ‘Puritans’ (which was embraced as a compliment) or ‘Roundheads’ (because the men wore their hair austerely short below the ears as opposed to the Royalists who wore theirs in long curls over their shoulders). The Roundheads scornfully called Royalists ‘Cavaliers’ (which was also taken as a compliment.) And King Charles and his papist wife were both simply brilliant at doing the worst possible thing on every occasion.

Parliament—particularly the House of Commons—felt that His Majesty needed a lesson. And since one could hardly seize the king and imprison or behead him (well, not for another eight years, anyway), his Minister the Earl of Strafford, would do nicely as a shot across his bow. So they arrested Strafford, and put him in the Tower of London to await trial.

And it is here that the story begins. More or less.

CHAPTER 1

SWEET REASON

Well, dear, said Lady Heath reasonably, I do think she takes after both our mothers a little, you know.

Her husband, who knew no such thing nor wished to, was shocked. His wife’s mother was a wilful woman who criticized kings to their faces; his own, a venom-tongued tyrant. Lord Heath at once donned the judical expression he had learned first at Oxford and then at King Charles’ Court in London.

Fustian! Oriel has never to my knowledge lost her temper or haranged anyone or told kings they were idiots or commanded instant obedience—unless it was since the midday meal today? He looked severely at Lady Elizabeth, who was concentrating as severely at the tapestry of Moses she was working on. (She always did so when her husband was being Judicial. It was the only way she ever expressed disagreement with him.) Well, has she?

No, dear, she agreed, studying the carved oaken cradle in which the baby Moses was floating on the Nile.

I’m relieved to hear it.

His voice carried clearly through the tall casement, open to the pale March sun. The wide gardens of Gracewood Hall stretched pleasantly along one of the sheltered valleys nestled around Hazelmere. Coltsfood and winter heliotrope glowed, and rooks were mobbing an unfortunate heron who was merely trying to nest in Butterwedge Pond. And the subject of the discussion, slim and elfin, looking in her full long skirts rather like an inverted azure tulip, paused to eavesdrop shamelessly. Oriel had no scruples about such things: her ethics were her own; her goal, autonomy, and her weapons anything she could manage. Eavesdropping, for a start. After that, her considerable wit, and sweet reason.

Above all, sweet reason.

Inside the nearest casements, her younger sister Cecily, crocus-yellow gown disastrous against her pale-honey hair, sat unnoticed on the window seat, behind half-closed curtains, demurely embroidering. She was also engaged in eavesdropping. So was her young maid Loyal, outside the casement. Beyond, just visible through a gap in the carnation curtains that concealed the window seat, their parents talked. Or, rather, their father talked.

"Oriel is a maiden fully controlled by reason. All of my children are. They never give way to passion, and the girls are never froward. I took care of that."

He had, in fact, never taken any part in his children’s upbringing—and he had entirely missed the point. They did not give way to passion because they found it unnecessary. Oriel found sweet imperiousness quite adequate. As for being fro-ward, her candor was as shattering as her Madam Grandmama’s, merely never abusive. Since he was away at Court so much, Lord Heath had never realized this. Cecily gravely stabbed her needle into the heart of the fantastical crewelwork flower she was embroidering. Loyal, looking like an impudent squirrel, flicked a wicked glance at Oriel, who grinned. Dear Father, always so sure and majestic—and so frequently mistaken.

In short, said Lord Heath, warming to his theme, none of my daughters is in the least like your mother. Or mine, either. He didn’t quite flinch. All of them, he stated with total conviction, are soft and docile and malleable and— He groped. —and submissive. Pliant as water, he finished triumphantly.

This was, in a way, true. His wife might have pointed out that water, though pliant, tends not to be submissive. She did not. Across the walled garden three grayhounds and a small cat celebrated the first warmish day of spring with a romp in the herb bed. (The cat was getting the best of it; the herbs, the worst.) Oriel leaned her head against the open casement window. She was lovely and tiny, with dark-honey hair shining irridescent against her blue gown—and she winced when she looked at Cecily. Mother should never have permitted that gown, even for every-day! (Like her father, Oriel was judgemental: a Capricorn: the mountain goat who races to the top of the mountain, looks down in scorn and says ‘Well, I’m here; what’s the matter with the rest of you?’) Oriel was in addition, analytic. Still, what Sessy wore mattered little, for no one ever noticed anything but her incredible eyes and extraordinary lashes.

My daughters all take after you, Elizabeth, Father was saying, relieved to remember it. His wife was beautifully docile.

Indeed, dear; very likely. Mother selected violet thread for the old-fashioned stomacher and wide overskirts of Pharaoh’s Daughter, tucked up to reveal a kirtle of hyacinth. Oriel, always considerate of other people’s eavesdropping, moved silently on to the next casement, also open to the tentative warmth, letting Cecily and Loyal remain hidden.

Father, reassured, now became quietly masterful. "Well, what is it with Oriel, then? God’s eyebrows, you’ll never persuade me she’s unreasonable."

Oriel leaned her tiny body against the low window—just the right height for her elbows—and regarded him affectionately. His back was half-turned. His hair, curling over his shoulders, was the fine light brown that little Lark had inherited, with a silvery sheen in sunlight. (Lord Heath’s was now rather more silver than brown.) His full knee-breeches were fastened with gold tassels over blue silken hose; the full sleeves of his lemon doublet were slashed to show a fine cambric shirt, his rich lace collar reached from shoulders to jaw, and his beard was small and pointed like the king’s. He was one of the finest Courtiers in London, and adviser to King Charles, and he did his family the honor of dressing as well at home.

Dear Father, Oriel said in her low musical voice, affection in every word, you know I would never be unreasonable! It was true. There were better ways of getting one’s own way—provided one could control one’s unruly tongue.

Well? Lord Heath turned, fixed an uneasy gaze on Oriel, who curtseyed respectfully and leaned on the sill again. Finding no hint in her face of either his mother or mother-in-law, he relaxed a trifle. What is it you want of me, then, daughter?

Oriel looked over at her mother, who was still earnestly engrossed in Moses. She smiled at her father. It was a particularly enchanting smile, which crinkled the outer corners of her eyes and the bridge of her short straight nose. She was beautiful and knew it. Her face was a delicate oval, her eyes large and crystal blue, her lashes long, her lips delightfully curved and her teeth small and even and very white. (Few attached importance to the dark level eyebrows—which was, perhaps, a mistake.)

Indeed, I don’t want anything of you, Father! She curtseyed again, determined for once to be as artless as Cecily. How could I? You’re so kind, you give me everything I could possibly desire. He was softened now, and vulnerable. It seemed almost a pity. Howsomever, with her future happiness at stake—"Tis what I don’t want, Father."

Oh? That seemed safe enough. He relaxed a bit more. Elizabeth was being foolish: he never had any trouble understanding his children. His wife decorously stabbed her needle into the heart of Pharoah’s daughter. Cecily, still unseen, stabbed hers into the heart of the improbable flower. Loyal grinned again. (Lord Heath supposed her to be docile, too. She was not.)

"What I don’t wish, dear Father, said Oriel, tranquil and reasonable, is to marry Philip Chudleigh."

Oh. Lord Heath started to nod—and belatedly heard what she had said. A lesser man would have spluttered. He merely took a deep breath, swallowed two or three words not fit for female company, and fixed her with his mother’s own blue stare: the one that inevitably quelled presumption. What? he said.

But Oriel also had his mother’s blue stare. I wish not—

I heard you! he said, unreasonable. It was not quite a roar. What do you mean, you don’t wish to marry Chudleigh? What have you against him?

Oriel leaned in at the window and rested her soft chin on her hand. It was a chin that deceitfully showed no signs of obstinacy. Her hair was a glittering golden glory containing many colors, and her eyes were limpid. In truth, Father, nothing. How could I? I’ve never even seen him.

Of course you haven’t seen him; how should you? ‘Tis for your parents to arrange these things. We’ve waited overlong to betroth you, perhaps: you’re already sixteen. Philip is a fine man, handsome and wealthy and only twenty-seven. And third in line to an earldom.

He heard himself sounding like his mother, who had decided on this betrothal. Though far away in Oxford, she nevertheless filled the room with her invisible presence.

Why isn’t he married, then? asked Oriel, temporarily sidetracked by her eternal thirst for knowledge.

He was. His wife died. This was normal enough. People died quite often.

How? she persisted.

Oh— He controlled impatience. Was she fearful lest a husband might harm her? Nothing unusual in it, Oriel; he’s a kind man. Just childbirth. Her first child, and it died too: so you’ll have no stepchildren to worry about, and your own first son will be heir.

No one said anything for a moment. Lady Heath concentrated on the violet stomacher, eyes on her needle. Oriel looked at it, too. Lord Heath considered his own words. Had they been less reassuring than he had intended? But ‘twas indeed quite common to die in childbirth, for mothers and for babes, as well: all knew that: ‘twas the punishment women suffered for Mother Eve’s sin. But fathers suffered, too: half his own babes had died—and three of them sons! Perhaps Oriel feared this?

But, she said.

Fathers did not lower themselves to persuasion with a daughter, but he did so, because he was proud of her. She was his oldest child, his favorite daughter, the one whom he had named for his college at Oxford, and beautiful as filigree. You have fine br— No, it was not true: she did not have fine broad hips. She was built like his mother: tiny, slight, narrow as a quill pen. My mother bore nine children— She had also lost six of them. Best stay away from that subject. He’s a splendid man, daughter; and— He stopped before adding that he was a good catch: his formidable mother had said that; and to tell truth, third-in-line to an earldom was not a particularly good catch.

Oriel’s eyes were looking reflective. —but I do not wish to marry him, she said as if he had not spoken.

Lord Heath’s chest swelled. He was master of his own household, was he not? He glanced at his wife, engrossed on the tapestry. Was this what she had meant? But Oriel was—Elizabeth was not—Something tried to dawn on him. He refused to permit it. He looked at this fragile slip of a child he had sired, all soft lips and lucent eyes, and became masterful.

You cannot decide such things, child: ‘tis not seemly. Not in this modern year of 1641, when females were again recognized by most men as being the Weaker Vessels. Seventy years ago, back in Queen Bess’s time, women had tended to get above themselves, failing to understand that their souls and minds as well as their bodies were inferior. Many men maintained that women had no souls at all, but Lord Heath, being broad-minded, did not credit this. Flawed souls, true, but souls. Still—The imperious Queen Bess had certainly had a baneful effect on the species. Both his own mother and that of his wife grew up in the old queen’s time, before old James came to the throne, and look at the result! His daughters would never be like their grandmothers if he could help it! He put down another twinge of uneasiness and addressed Oriel directly.

How could a young maiden possibly hold a sensible opinion on marriage—or indeed, on anything? ‘Tis not in your natures: God created the female mind to accept the wisdom of men. Can you understand that, poppet? He smiled at her.

She smiled back, lovely as a rose, implacable as a leech. But I do not wish to marry him.

God’s eyebrows, was she like her grandmothers, after all? Or did she simply not understand? He had no idea how to handle such sweetly implacable intransigence. He looked at her mother, who was now engrossed in the hyacinth kirtle.

Elizabeth!

Elizabeth looked up, gentle and placid. I think she does not want to marry Philip Chudleigh, dear.

He did not roar. He did feel like it. Yes, she has managed to establish this point. Can you explain to her the facts of life, nature and God?

Hazel eyes returned to the tapestry. I make great doubt of it, dear. I’m only a female myself, and not at all up to such intricacies of thought. That’s why I mentioned it to you. Her face trusted him to be an omniscient male. Oriel’s face trusted him not to make her unhappy. It was not fair.

Child, you cannot set your little mind against the older and wiser. She still smiled endearingly. His voice rose just a trifle. Well, then, what would you? Had you met Philip and taken him in dislike, we might think again. As it is— He made an unthinkable concession. Would you like to meet him? He might for a need visit Gracewood...

Oriel smiled adorably, still sweetly reasonable. "But, Father, I could never wish to marry him."

This time Lord Heath did roar. God’s pantofles, wench! How could you possibly know that?

Because, said Oriel simply, I do not wish to marry at all.

Although she was temporarily reluctant to sit down, it had not been a severe beating. Still, she was not really used to them, for in an age when children were regularly whipped for the good of their characters, Lord Heath’s children usually managed to avoid it—even