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“Then how did this come to be?”
Tristram closed his eyes, tiredly.
“Treachery, for certain. There were many people who wanted a stronghold like Redmore to stand against Henry in the war with his sons and his wife. It no longer matters though. None of this matters anymore. You’re still foresworn. You broke your vow to me. Can you deny that?”
“No, I cannot deny it,” Judith said quietly.
“Why?” he suddenly asked, now staring away from her. “I’ve spent months wondering! Why, Judith?”
Judith opened her mouth to speak, but at this time she grasped that what she would say might anger him further. Yet speak the truth she must now, no matter the cost. However, Tristram perceived her hesitation and he laughed savagely.
“Oh, maybe you do not even recall! Perchance you did it on a mere whim. Because it seems this is how you govern your life. On whims. Or perchance you did not wish for a courteous, gentle husband. You wished for a different kind of man. One who will chastise you at every turn when you do not mind him. So I suppose this is why now you look upon me with such sweetness. Well then, my lady, now you have him!” he called out with a mocking smile on his lips, pointing at his chest.
The next words he uttered were spoken in a tone seeping with even more bitterness. “You have been well bedded and well chastised, so I suppose I am a weakling no more.”
And Judith now recalled what Lord FitzRolf had told him of the cruel taunts Tristram had received in his childhood, and of how he’d overcome them. She saw now how hurt he must have been by the scorn he’d received just because he’d treated her gently. At the time she’d foolishly believed he was just toying with her, but now she saw only too well Tristram was truly honourable. And he’d behaved honourably to her, although he must still love another.
“Husband,” she called out in a soothing voice, reaching to touch his shoulder.
He flinched away from her, and looking more closely upon him, Judith noticed he was wearing a strange garment below his tunic. When she gazed even more upon it, she came to understand, with widened eyes, that it was a hair shirt. It was a garment of penance which overzealous men of the Church wore sometimes. Thomas Becket had worn one, because he was overly pious. However, she’d never known Tristram to be overly pious. Rather, he scorned those who displayed too much fervour, just as he’d scorned Thomas Becket. Yet a hair shirt was sometimes worn by lay people in penance for their sins.
“A hair shirt,” Judith said, shaking her head and knowing that this thing must already chafe upon his skin. “Why are you wearing this?”
“I wear it for my penance every Friday,” Tristram retorted tersely.
“Penance? What for?” Judith asked in sheer anguish.
“Oh, wouldn’t you want to know,” he said with a mirthless laugh as he began to draw away from her.
Judith called after him, but he didn’t heed her, and she remained staring after him. The letter she’d shown him lay discarded on the floor, and she picked it up. She dressed with care, aware that, after yesterday’s chastisement, all eyes would be on her. At morning Mass, she strived to keep her eyes downcast, now understanding that Tristram’s cousin still kept close watch of her. Her bottom still felt sore, but she understood the salve Tristram had applied had lessened the sting so it was bearable and not too much of a discomfort. She thought of his own discomfort at wearing the hair shirt, and spied his pale, tight face. He wouldn’t look at her at all, and after Mass, he went away without sparing anybody a single glance.
Judith stared after him, with a sigh, yet she strode purposefully to Isidore, because at this time there was a question she needed to ask him.
“A word,” she said.
He stared at her with cold, disdainful eyes.
“A bold woman you still are. You seek to speak to me? What for?” he said.
Sir Bertran was approaching and it seemed his gaze held worry for Judith in its depths. He stood behind her, in a protective stance, and Judith felt grateful for his care.
“Here. Read this. It is the letter I received more than a year ago. I thought the annulment of my marriage had been granted,” she uttered glancing at Isidore levelly.
Isidore scowled, but he reluctantly perused the letter she was extending towards him. His scowl deepened when he looked at the seal.
“And when was this delivered?” he asked.
“I told you. Eighteen months ago already, by a messenger in a monk’s garb.”
Lord FitzRolf took hold of the letter, looking even more closely upon the seal.
“It does look like the Bishop of Canterbury’s seal. Yet it cannot be!”
Isidore heaved a sigh.
“It’s plain the letter is forged. The seal resembles the bishop’s seal quite closely. It is not the same seal though. And what does that prove? You are still married to my cousin, though, for the life of me, I cannot understand why he would want to keep as his wife a woman such as yourself,” he tossed out at her in sheer scorn.
“Oh, it proves something though,” Lord Bertran countered. “That Lady Judith did not mean to stand against her lawful husband when she rallied herself to Eleanor’s cause. So she is not guilty of what she’s been accused! Though she received chastisement for it.”
