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“I have been ailing. I will get stronger though, and we will be able to leave this accursed place!”
Judith said nothing at first. For many years she’d thought her mother was suffering in her body. But in the last year she had come to finally understand it was not her mother’s body that was ailing. A year ago, Judith had prevailed upon her mother to have one of the greatest physicians in the land call upon her – a man reputed to have studied the art of healing in the Holy Land. And the healer had told the truth of it to Judith. There was no affliction of the body which plagued the lady Fenice. She was just heart-broken and forlorn.
“I do not think this place is accursed,” she decided to tell her mother gently, as she was pouring her a goblet of watered wine. “It has always been my home. And you’ve not received news of your kin there in many years. Besides, our people are here and we have a duty to them.”
Her mother scoffed.
“Not my people. Just Englishmen.”
“I call myself an Englishwoman,” Judith countered in the same gentle voice as she’d employed before.
She had already expected her mother wouldn’t understand, but she hoped the lady Fenice would become reconciled with the way things were. Tristram might hate Judith now and might want to exact his revenge upon her, but he had his own honour, and he would never harm or mistreat her mother. Lady Fenice would be safe here – safer and happier than in a convent. As for Aquitaine, Judith doubted her mother would indeed ever be able to make the journey, no matter how hard she wished for it.
Her mother’s harsh laughter took her by surprise. Lady Fenice had always been gentle and soft-spoken, and it seemed strange that today she was behaving so unlike herself. But Judith decided the castle’s surrender had increased her mother’s distress.
“It’s clear you have no wish to get away. My poor daughter, you lust for the fiend! I always knew it,” her mother said with that peculiar, harsh laughter.
Lustwas not a word Judith ever recalled her mother to have used. She blushed, lowering her eyes. Nevertheless Lady Fenice was right. Her mother knew her well. Judith attempted to conjure up guilt for her own weakness, and she recalled, with flushed cheeks, the brazen, heated coupling she and Tristram had shared last night. She should feel guilty for her ignoble enjoyment of all of it, and even guiltier for the shameful way she’d felt this morning as she’d lain defenceless across her husband’s lap. Yet she simply found she couldn’t feel guilty.
“All will be well, Mother. We’ve not been driven from our home,” she said, now belatedly recalling the letter she’d once received from the bishop’s chancery which had stated her marriage to Tristram had been annulled.
In the turmoil of events which had unfolded, she’d not had the time to think upon it. But now as she was able to do so, she shook her head in sheer puzzlement. How could a chancery clerk have erred so grievously?
She recalled the day she’d received the letter, and how she’d told herself she should be happy her marriage to a man who didn’t and couldn’t ever care for her was done and over with. And how she’d strived to put Tristram away from her mind. She’d failed though – miserably. His face and voice had forever haunted her dreams. And now they were together again. Judith attempted to tell herself she should look upon this only with bitterness. Yet it was not only bitterness she conjured up whenever she thought of Tristram.
Chapter 5
Tristram’s temples were pounding hard this morning, although, in truth, he’d drunk no more than half a cup of wine last night. It seemed though as if he was recovering from a heavy bout of drinking. He swore under his breath. Certainly, he’d been drunk on his wife’s charms, although he’d promised himself to be distant and cold. His friend, Bertran FitzRolf cast him a searching glance as they were lightly sparring with staves, as was their usual practice in the morning.
“All’s well?” FitzRolf asked, and Tristram contented himself to shrug as he glimpsed his cousin approaching them with a pinched look on his gaunt face. Isidore didn’t bid them a good morrow.
“I saw your wife walking about this morn, guiding the servants and seeing to her people. I told her to wear a modest headdress!” he called out with a scowl.
Tristram raised his eyebrows, setting his staff aside. Judith had covered her hair as of this morning, as was required of all married women. So why was Isidore scoffing?
“That thing! That vile thing they call abarbette!” Isidore ranted. “Just as that lewd Eleanor used to wear at Court. That’s not headcover! It’s a disgrace!”
Judith had now indeed covered her hair, but like most noble married women of Tristram’s acquaintance, it was not her habit to wear a heavy wimple which covered her neck and hid all her glorious hair. Tristram recalled that in the first days of their marriage she’d worn a filet and a dainty embroidered veil, and upon this morning she’d had upon her that item they called abarbette, which Queen Eleanor had brought with her from the South of France. It had a band under the chin, but was designed in such a way as to leave part of the crown of a woman’s hair uncovered. Tristram recalled prelates had chided the Queen over this, but many women at Court had adopted the fashion. He did not particularly care for this item, or for any kind of headdress, because he loved to see Judith’s black hair uncovered. Nevertheless it was not what custom decreed, and Isidore was here, watching like a hawk over them.
“My lady has indeed covered her hair, just as you asked, hasn’t she?” Tristram said, attempting to sound unconcerned.
A younger son, destined from infancy for the Church, Tristram’s cousin Isidore spent most of his time in prayer and fasting, and mortifying his flesh. Isidore de Brunne was thought a pious man, even more pious than Thomas Becket, people whispered. And Henry seemed to hold him in as much esteem as he’d held Becket once. Unlike Becket however, Isidore was no commoner. Their family was of high birth. And Tristram knew his cousin would use that to his advantage and secure a high rank for himself in the Church.
“Your woman does not look at all humbled, though you vowed to make her repent,” his cousin said pointedly, and Tristram stifled a sigh.
“She is my wife, and I mean to see to her chastisement,” he countered, casting a hard stare at Isidore whose scowl deepened.
“You made a vow. It seems though she has you ensorcelled. A haughty woman, this wife of yours. Although I recall you once claimed her ways were mild and shy.”
“I’ve already chastened her this morning. And I plan to chasten her again, just as I vowed. And you shall soon see she will learn true repentance for her deeds,” Tristram said wearily.
“Aye, repentance not only for her defiance of her liege lord and of her lord husband, but also for the insult she’s brought upon our noble house!”
Tristram’s cousin still chafed upon the way in which Judith had sought to annul her marriage to a De Brunne, and thought it his duty to avenge their family’s honour.
“I’ve punished her and will not tarry to do so again. I am upholding my oath. What more do you want of me?” Tristram called out sharply.
His cousin shook his head in full bitterness.
