Lady Defiant (Ladies)

When I was fair and young, and favor gracèd me,
Of many was I sought, their mistress for to be.
—Elizabeth I      
 
 
Northern England
December 1564
 
Since young noblemen had always gazed through her as if she were a window, Oriel couldn’t stomach them looking at her as they would a fat rabbit now that she was an heiress. She had spent the last eight of her twenty years as an orphan cast into the lair of two aunts and dependent upon their mercy. Aunts were one of God’s plagues.
 
In order to avoid the plague, on this bright and icy morn on the last day of December, Oriel had taken refuge with Great-uncle Thomas in his closet where he kept his papers, books, myriad clocks, and other instruments. Oriel had burst in upon him, out of breath from running as usual, and caught him directing the hanging of his newest picture, a portrait of Queen Anne Boleyn.
 
She smiled at him when he glanced at her over his shoulder. He sighed, for he always knew when she was hiding.
 
“Little chick,” he said, “how many times have I admonished you not to gallop about? Such unseemly haste little befits your dignity and degree.”
 
“Aunt Livia searches for me,” she said as she wandered over to examine a model of a printing press. She picked it up, feeling its weight in her hands. “Uncle, why do you suppose things fall down instead of up?”
 
Sir Thomas waved his serving man out of the room while he straightened the portrait. “Is this a new riddle?”
 
“No. I just bethought me of the question.”
 
“You’re always thinking of unanswerable questions. You won’t find a worthy husband if you’re too clever.”
 
Oriel glanced at the likeness of Anne Boleyn. “She was clever—a great wit, so you say—and she married King Henry VIII.”
 
“And got her head cut off.”
 
Sir Thomas subsided into his chair, groaning as his body met the cushions. His great age was a marvel to Oriel, for he had seen more than sixty-one years. Walking-stick thin, his skin almost transparent, his hands shook, yet he could still set quill to paper and produce a fine Italian script. He had taught her Greek and Latin in her girlhood, and given her solace when Aunt Livia cuffed her for answering back or Aunt Faith had made fun of her wildly curling hair and its auburn hue.
 
“God’s toes, Uncle, I won’t get my head cut off.”
 
From the ground floor came the sound of a bellow honed by years of shouting at hapless grooms on the hunting field.
 
Sir Thomas lifted his brow at her. “Get your ears boxed, more like.”
 
“She wants to put me in a farthingale and stomacher.” Oriel wrinkled her nose and looked down at the scandalously plain and comfortable wool gown she wore. “And she wants me to put on a damask gown, so I told Nell to give out that I’d gone riding. I think another suitor comes today, but I’m not certain. Uncle, I hate suitors.”
 
From the floor beside his chair Thomas picked up his journal, a book bound in leather and decorated with gilded oak leaves. “You must be patient. Some girls come into their beauty late. The young men won’t ignore you forever.”
 
Oriel looked down at her hands. She was twisting her interlocked fingers. “Did you—” She gathered her courage. “Did you know that I’m twenty and no one has ever tried to kiss me? I think there’s something wrong with me.”
 
Uncle Thomas held out his hand, and she went to him. He took her hand and patted it. “It must be quite terrible to fear being unwanted.”
 
Oriel nodded, but found she couldn’t reply.
 
“I think you’re pretty.”
 
“You do?”
 
“Upon my soul I do.”
 
“Even if I don’t wear brocades and silks?”
 
“Even without the brocades and silks, but you could do with some new gowns,” Thomas said. “Look at that one. It binds your chest, girl.”
 
Oriel knew how to avoid chastisement. “Tell me about your new picture. You knew Queen Anne long ago, didn’t you?”
 
“Yes.” Thomas rested his head on the back of his chair and gazed at the portrait. “You can’t tell from the portrait, but she was all wildness and courage, was Anne Boleyn. And our good Queen Bess takes after her. It was her wit and fey courage that captured old King Harry’s heart.”
 
Thomas sighed and glanced at Oriel. He seemed about to speak, but didn’t. After a short silence, he continued.
 
“He never captured hers, though. It had been taken, and Henry Percy had it always, may God rest his soul.”
 
“How so?” Oriel asked. This was a story she’d never heard.
 
“I forget. Have I told you about that Italian fellow, da Vinci?”
 
“Ohhh—ri—el!”
 
“God’s toes, she’s coming.”
 
Oriel bounded for the door, threw a kiss to Uncle Thomas, and scurried through his chamber, the withdrawing chamber, and a short passage, then down a side stair. Hugging herself, she scampered along the frost-ridden lawn beside the east wing of Richmond Hall, through the gardens and back into the house.
 
She crept into the Old Hall and stood at the base of the main stairs looking up. Aunt Livia’s stiff skirts disappeared above her, so she tiptoed after the woman, her own skirts lifted to her ankles. Stealing into her own chamber on the third floor, she snatched up her new cloak lined with squirrel fur and dashed back downstairs. As she went she could hear Livia’s booming voice in her great-uncle’s closet. Someday Livia would have a fit from her own choler.
 
Aunt Livia wanted her to don a farthingale and a gown as stiff as cold leather. Oriel couldn’t remember why, at the moment, but Livia’s reasons never made sense anyway. Proud of her stealth, Oriel hurried to the stables. She must go riding so that Nell wouldn’t be caught in a lie.
 
She returned an hour later. Having galloped the last few leagues, she was flushed and damp with sweat when she entered Richmond Hall once more. Livia was waiting for her. Oriel paused upon seeing her aunt, then gripped the carved stone newel post. Livia descended upon her from the first landing. A tall woman, she had the bulk of one of her hunting horses, and a habit of flaring her nostrils like one of them, as well. Though Oriel matched her in height, she did not in weight. Once she would have shrunk away from Livia in anticipation of a slap. No longer. Oriel lifted her chin and her shoulders and met Livia’s gaze.
 
Livia came to rest on the last stair and swore at her. A fleshy hand twitched, and Oriel glanced at it, knowing how much damage that beringed fist could do. Then she stared at Livia. The woman swore again and put her hand behind her back.
 
“You strain all courtesy, girl. Would God I had the chastening of you still.”
 
“No doubt.”
 
“None of your clever retorts,” Livia said. “Have you forgotten that Lord Fitzstephen comes this day with his son? A match with his heir is above you, but Lord Andrew knew your father and has asked to meet you for some passing strange reason of his own.”
 
“Not so wondrous, Aunt. I’m an heiress now, or has your memory failed you? Grandfather saw to the matter.”
 
“You’re the one with the unfit memory. Why, your Aunt Faith and I took you in—”
 
“Who did you say was coming?”
 
Livia vented a storm of a sigh. “How haps it that you remember French, Italian, Latin, and Greek, but fail to remember the names of your suitors? Yesterday you even forgot to come down for supper.”
 
“It’s another suitor,” Oriel said with a long-suffering sigh.
 
Each visit from an eligible man increased her suffering. Grandfather had been dead only a few months, but Aunt Livia and Aunt Faith couldn’t wait to rid themselves of her. To their chagrin, Grandfather had left part of his fortune to Oriel—several caskets stuffed with jewels collected over the whole of his lifetime. Livia, as the wife of his eldest son, had expected to get most of them. Faith, the widow of the middle son, had wanted them all. Oriel, the only child of the youngest son, shouldn’t have received a thing, and they begrudged her even the dust on top of the caskets.
 
She was a living reminder of riches lost, and they wanted her gone. Thus she had been forced to entertain the suit of every likely man in the county. For Oriel, the business was an ordeal. Never a great beauty, left with but a poor inheritance by her parents at their death, she’d spent most of her time at Richmond Hall studying with her great-uncle or riding.
 
Aunt Faith’s daughters Agnes and Amy were too young to provide companionship, while their sisters Jane and Joan harbored a spiteful resentment toward Oriel. Why this was so remained unclear, except that Jane and Joan were as plain as their names and bore spite toward anyone even the slightest bit more presentable than themselves. Livia’s sons were much older, except for Leslie, and even he was away much of the time.
 
“My lady!” The steward came bustling toward them, his chains of office clinking as he moved. “My lady, Lord Fitzstephen and his son are here.”
 
“God’s mercy.” Livia shoved Oriel up several steps. “Get you gone until I send for you. And put on a suitable gown, you addled goose.”
 
Oriel bolted upstairs, but stopped on the landing of the third floor and looked over the rail. The stair took right angles several times, and as she looked down to the bottom floor, she saw the swirling edge of a black cloak and heard the scrape of a sword sheath and ching of spurs.
 
She heard a voice. The voice of a man, a young man. Low, soft, and vibrant with tension, it caught her attention, trapped it, tugged at it. Hardly aware of her actions, she reversed her steps, following the voice as it floated up to the second floor and then faded toward the great chamber. Oriel darted after it, hovering on the landing, her upper body bent toward the sound.
 
What was it that drew her? She listened, and heard the voice respond to her aunt. There was something different about this voice, something beyond the lure of its deep, quiet tones. Ah. An accent.
 
This young man spoke with an accent. Slight though it was, it gave the voice a distinct character. The r’s blurred, and sometimes the vowels stretched out. A French accent. How did the son of a border lord come to have even the barest of French accents? Aunt Livia had spoken to her of the visitors, but she hadn’t listened.