Lord Tristram’s Love Match by R.R. Vane

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.

“Nothing of any matter,” Tristram replied tersely.

“She has the look of a witch,” Isidore now muttered.

And Tristram felt the blood rise within his temples, and that same sickening feeling which had seized him whenever he’d caught his cousin glancing upon Judith. Nell Tyler was right. His cousin was sheer evil.

“She’s none of your concern. Nor is my wife. Not any longer. I want you gone at first light!” he said, laying stress on every word.

Isidore cast him a long look which held vexation mixed with wonder.

“I never understood why you let yourself be flogged for a woman who spurned you. He must be mad, I thought. Or perchance she is a witch – a northern witch, just like the one we saw!”

In but an instant, Tristram’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. He held his cousin’s gaze, meaning him to see the menace in his eyes.

“You think all women are witches. I wonder why you hate them so? Nevertheless, it’s no longer my concern. I warn you! You are to go from Redmore and never set eyes on Judith or this village ever again!”

Isidore bristled.

“You’re threatening me? Your own cousin? A man of the Church?”

“I am,” Tristram said in a resolute voice, still holding his cousin’s gaze.

Isidore soon lowered his eyes, yet before he did so, Tristram perceived the gleam of fear which now shone there.

“You’re lost! Your soul is lost. You’ve doomed yourself already,” Isidore snarled, but his voice sounded trembling and defeated.

“You are the one who’s lost. And I shall pray every day never to set eyes on you again,” Tristram countered.

When their horses had been fetched, they rode to Redmore in utter silence. Come evening, Isidore went to the chapel for his prayers, while Tristram joined Bertran for a cup of wine in the Hall. His friend would accompany Isidore to report to King Henry on how things had gone at Redmore. And FitzRolf certainly meant to share with his king the forged letter Judith had shown them. Tristram supposed he should feel relieved his wife’s treachery had not been such as he’d thought, yet he did not. He felt forlorn and hollow.

“Still sleeping in the Hall on a pallet?” Bertran asked Tristram with a cocked eyebrow.

Tristram only nodded.

“She turned you away from her bed, huh? Still angry over the spanking you bestowed?” Bertran went on.

“Nay. I now choose not to share her bed,” Tristram said pointedly.

Bertran smirked.

“You are a fool!”

Tristram sighed deeply and cast his friend a reluctant smile.

“Over her, aye. Always!”

“But have you ever told her you love her?”

Tristram closed his eyes in full bitterness.

“Yes. Years ago. She spurned me.”

“But it’s not spurn I see in her eyes whenever she looks upon you. It’s plain to everyone that she…”

Bertran closed his mouth shut, not finishing what he’d meant to say, and muttering instead, “A blind man would see it, yet, plainly, not you.”

Tristram looked at his friend in sheer wonder.

“What?”

“Never mind. I expect you’ll understand it for yourself soon enough,” Bertran said with a smile, and patted Tristram on the back.

“Careful! It’s still tender from the accursed hair shirt,” Tristram cautioned his friend with a scowl.

“You’ve had worse and you survived,” Bertran countered callously, adding another pat to his friend’s back, yet lighter than the first.

“Bastard,” Tristram hissed between his teeth, but smiling faintly as he did so.

“Weakling,” his friend countered with a good-natured grin.