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“You see then,” Judith said in a level voice, searching Isidore’s eyes. “I did not stand against my husband. Henry and the Church should learn of it. I have not betrayed my lord!”
FitzRolf inclined his head in grave acknowledgement, but Isidore shrugged, casting both her and the lord a look of sheer venom. He did not deign to speak to Judith though, but only addressed FitzRolf, “She might have forged the letter herself!”
“You truly think so?” Lord FitzRolf said, cocking an eyebrow.
Isidore looked plainly uncomfortable under the lord’s steady stare.
“It’s of no matter now. She’s already been chastised, as all wilful wives should be from time to time. And far too mildly, I am certain,” he growled, yet he began to draw away from them.
“May I keep this?” Lord Bertran asked with a preoccupied look on his face as he gazed upon the parchment. “I will show it to Henry!”
Judith nodded, handing it to him. She’d held on to it for far too long, and now the letter looked simply hateful. It was a reminder of the wretched way in which she’d acted towards Tristram. And Tristram…
“Sir Bertran, why does my husband wear a hair shirt today?” she asked in anguish.
Lord FitzRolf cast her an unfathomable look.
“You’ll have to ask him that yourself, my lady.”
Chapter 19
The bells had been still for some time and Sunday Mass was over. Tristram told himself he should feel relieved as he accompanied his cousin out of the village church. His cousin had insisted upon spending his last day in the village to see upon the spiritual welfare of its inhabitants. It seemed plain Isidore was now mad with both religious zeal and scorching ambition, and Tristram felt sheer relief that the churchman would be soon gone from Redmore.
Upon going out of the church, he chanced upon a woman from the village whom he was already acquainted with. He’d spoken to her some time ago. She was the village midwife, but she was skilled in all kinds of herb remedies. Tristram had asked her for a salve to soothe the skin. The scars left by the whip he’d had to bear a few weeks ago had mostly healed. Yet he had known he would have to observe the further penance the Church had decreed upon him every Friday until Lent, and he’d asked the midwife in advance for something soothing. Two nights ago he’d used much of the salve on Judith’s sore bottom. And he needed more of it for his own back.
“Well met, Nell Tyler,” he called to the woman who now curtsied in front of him.
He spoke to her of what he wished for, promising her to pay even more coin than he had last time, because, by the way Judith had held herself this morning, it seemed the salve was indeed soothing.
“Oh, so you’ve already used up the one I gave you not so long ago?” Nell Tyler asked with arched eyebrows.
“Not all of it, yet some,” Tristram conceded.
“And what might you have used it on? Your lady wife’s sore bottom from the birching you gave her?” Nell asked pointedly.
Tristram heaved a sigh, because it seemed the servants’ gossip had already spread through the village, and everyone had gotten wind of their lady’s chastisement.
“Aye, it is as you say. And what of it?” he said with a shrug, striving to look unconcerned.
Nell Tyler was a bold, plain-spoken woman, he’d perceived that ever since they’d first met. Yet he found himself liking her, in spite of her boldness to him.
“As long as you’re not harsh again and you’re a kind, loving husband, I suppose I can aid you with what you seek,” Nell Tyler said, narrowing her eyes at him.
She now looked closely upon him, and at the way he held himself.
“Though I can see it is not for your wife that you seek the salve. I know the look of a man who’s still suffering from the harm of the whip. You were flogged, and not so long ago. Does your back still pain you?”
Tristram widened his eyes at her, because he’d not told this woman what he needed the salve for and it seemed uncanny she should know this just by merely looking at him. Nell Tyler smiled faintly.
“It’s just a gift for healing. It runs in my family, yet...”
She cast a sharp glance over his shoulder. Tristram himself looked over his shoulder and now saw Isidore approaching them.
“Don’t tell that one! He’s evil,” Nell Tyler said, but she spoke the words loud and not softly.
She drew away from them, and Tristram felt thankful Isidore could not understand the English of the North. Unlike Tristram, Isidore barely spoke English at all. He’d always refused to learn what he called a coarse language, although most of Tristram’s large family used English among themselves in their household.
“What did she say?” his cousin asked in Norman, staring hard after Nell Tyler.
