Lord Tristram’s Love Match by R.R. Vane
Chapter 7
Tristram frowned upon hearing Judith’s lovely voice call his name, knowing full well it was the first time she’d spoken it since he’d stormed into her castle. And he strived to harden his heart against her, because she’d brought him nothing but anguish and grief, and she didn’t care for him. Yet he failed. Because he recalled those nights they’d shared in the first days of their marriage, when there’d been no heated caresses between them but only talk. And he recalled he’d loved talking to her, not only because he would never have enough of hearing her voice, but because, once she’d let go of her shyness, Judith had shown him she really had a way with words.
Four years ago, 1170
Tristram had refrained from touching his wife in those first nights they’d spent together, because he’d thought to give her time to get accustomed to him, without pressing. He had also discovered he enjoyed the tantalizing feeling of having her within reach without being able to touch her. It was courtship. And he had become aware they perhaps both needed to enjoy this chaste courtship until they moved on to heated caresses. They had plenty of time, and a life ahead together. Once Judith became more at ease in his presence, he reasoned she would ask for his ardent touch herself, and there really was nothing to be gained by rushing things unduly.
“Why is it you never speak English to me?” he asked her lazily one night, as they were lying chastely in their bed together. “In truth, I’m more accustomed to speaking English than Norman, and I know you are not Norman, but Occitan from your mother’s side, just like our queen. However, your father is English.”
Judith had laughed, that rich, melodious laughter he’d come to love.
“Fine. I shall speak English to you then,” she said, and her voice was teasing.
Then she did speak to him in a language he barely recognized. It certainly sounded like English, but he was able to understand only some words of it.
“What kind of English is this?” he muttered in puzzlement.
“My English,” she said in a voice full of laughter. “The English of the North. It’s different from yours. Didn’t you know?”
Tristram had never travelled North, but he recalled people said Northerners’ speech was rough and different from that of the South or Midlands. To him, Judith’s English didn’t sound rough at all though, but strangely musical in its own way.
“Oh, just keep talking! I have a keen ear and I think I’ll soon be able to follow more of what you say,” he urged, smiling in the dark.
“Oh really? Would you be able to follow a story in verse if I tell you one?” Judith asked in Norman, but then reverted to Northern English to tell him the tale of the owl and the nightingale.
Tristram could not follow everything she was saying. He nevertheless soon became absorbed in the versed tale, where a grim owl perched on a bough argued with a vain nightingale. Some words of it sounded strange and he had trouble keeping up with the rhythm of her speech, but he made himself listen closely. He’d never heard the tale before, but he soon came to understand that most of its intricate verses were due to Judith’s own cleverness. Judith may be shy, but now she was quite at ease in his company and she could revel in her passion for words. He found himself loving her English verse just as much as he loved her Occitan songs, even if it was still somewhat hard for him to follow what she was saying.
“So who did you like best, the owl or the nightingale?” Judith asked in Norman with a smile in her voice when she was done with her tale.
“I liked best the wren which comes to make peace between these two birds,” Tristram countered with a smile of his own.
“The wren is wise,” Judith conceded. “Yet whom would you choose as the victor of the debate, the useful owl or the beautiful nightingale?”
“Is there a choice? Both have their uses!” Tristram retorted, knowing Judith was not really asking him a question, but only liked to engage him in a debate not unlike the one in the tale she’d just told him.
She was quite clever, he’d come to see, even cleverer than he’d thought at first, but modest about her own wit and very seldom displaying it in front of others. And her gift for words far surpassed his own. She was already a troubadour, able to weave songs more wondrous than Queen Eleanor’s most lauded poets. He’d once attempted to tell her she should bring her lute to Court and entertain more people with her songs, yet she was still shy in other people’s presence, and Tristram had not pressed. For now Judith seemed happy not to share her songs with many people, and he had come to understand that making them was far more valuable to her than sharing them with others. It was wondrous and strange that a woman so quiet in other people’s presence had such a way with words when there was just the two of them. And he felt the most fortunate of men, this woman was now his wife.
Soon they began to play a game of rhymes in Norman, and in this language Tristram could hold his own against Judith, although he had to admit she was still better than him at it. When they were done, he thought of bestowing a kiss upon her lips, but he felt strangely shy himself of it. Was it as his mother had told him? That he was already coming to love Judith? Or was it that he’d indeed fallen in love with her just the first time he’d chanced to hear her mermaid-like voice?
“Tell me of Redmore,” he soon urged her, because he would never have enough of hearing her warm voice, and she loved best to talk of her childhood home.
Soon Judith’s compelling voice began to tell him of Redmore.
“Some people may find it stark, and the warmth of the South is not to be found there. The hills are green in spring, but russet in autumn. The cliffs are further ahead and they are treacherous at times. It’s often windy, but this is how I like it – the wind ruffling my hair when it’s unbound. And in summer, the heather moorland is a wonder to behold – all purple, but there’s dark blue bilberries mingling within. I do not think such colours are to be found in many places in this world, although to Mother they seem dreary – she misses her warm home in Aquitaine, where colours are bright and the sky is always azure.”
Tristram had already learnt Judith was very fond of her mother, and she worried over the lady’s frail health. And soon Judith would go back home to see to the ailing Lady Fenice. Tristram thought upon this with regret because he would have loved to keep his new bride by his side in London, yet he understood she was impatient to know her mother was well. He hadn’t had the heart to tell her nay when she’d told him she needed to go back to Redmore so soon after their marriage. They’d spent but two brief weeks together, and Tristram supposed it would have been better to already share their bodies as they would be parted for some months.
He fell asleep with a suppressed sigh and a smile, telling himself it would be best to let Judith bring herself to ask for his caress. He had come to see she got tense and flustered whenever he attempted to touch her more ardently. And he resolved she might have let go of her shyness in their talk, but that she still needed to lose her maidenly fear of being touched by him. No matter, he told himself before drifting into sleep. He could see only too well Judith was already coming to care for him and soon her fear would melt. Once she was back from Redmore they would become husband and wife in truth.
