CHAPTER XXXII

 

The Year 1120 – the 24th Day of November

The White Ship

 

The tide lapping against the sides of the ship seemed to whisper his name, “Thomas, Thomas.” Was it the call of the sea he heard? Overhead a shower of shooting stars lit up the cold night. The lights of the town surrounded the dark crescent of the bay. Alone on deck, Thomas had given the crew a free night before they sailed. He heard his name called again, “Thomas!” then closer yet again, a woman’s voice. He peered over the side, barely making out the outline of a horse on the quay in the rising mist from the water. A woman in a dark hooded cloak dismounted and ran up the gangplank.

“Wandrille!” Thomas cried. “What are you doing here? Surely you did not travel alone in the night.”

Her quick laugh touched his heart. He opened his arms to her. “Oh, but my darling girl,” he said, “you must never be so foolhardy again.” He pushed back her hood, covering her hair and face with kisses, clutching her so hard to his breast that she had to push him away to catch her breath.

“I was quite safe, Thomas,” Wandrille said. “It was not so far to ride, and the roads are safe under the king’s peace. I had to come. I have to talk to you.”

Thomas put his arm around Wandrille, drawing her to his side. He waved his hand in front of him. “First let me show you my White Ship, the finest vessel in the history of the world,” he said proudly. “She carries fifty oarsmen. She can transport up to three hundred people, more than any ship ever built.”

“I have never seen anything like it,” Wandrille breathed. “But, Thomas, I must speak with you on a matter of some import.”

“Tomorrow,” Thomas said, as if he had not heard her, “all along the crescent of the quay curious onlookers will crowd the granite sea wall. The taverns are already full. Look over here. Have you ever seen so many fishing boats, barges, and masts swaying on the waters of the rising tide? Tomorrow the dock will fill with the curious, come to see the famous Mora and to see my ship, which dwarfs her. They come every day now, awed by the craft, commenting on the shapes of the sea creatures Martin carved into the keel above the water line and the majestic lion leaping from the prow.

“Why does the White Ship sit so low in the water?”

“A long boat has a rounded bottom and flared sides,” he explained, “which makes it light and buoyant. This is what enables a ship like this to sail in relatively shallow water. The design of these ships is what made it possible for the Vikings to sail on rivers and capture great cities like Paris and London, which are so far inland.”

“What is that little rowboat tied to the ship?” Wandrille asked.

“I call that a lifeboat. It is there in case something goes wrong.”

“Only one tiny boat for so many people?”

Thomas laughed. “It is simply a formality. Nothing will go wrong, my dear. Look at her lines, Wandrille. She can skim over the water swifter than a swallow. She can do fourteen knots easily with a light wind from behind and the oarsmen rowing hard. Such speed is unprecedented in the annals of the sea. The White Ship is so seaworthy that nothing can sink her.”

“You talk about the ship as if it is a woman.”

“To a sailor a ship is always like a woman.” Thomas smiled.

“I wish I could see her with the wind in her sail. I would like to sail to England with you, Thomas,” Wandrille said, “but alas I cannot. That is what I came to tell you.”

“No, you cannot sail with me this time, Wandrille, but we will be together forever and always come spring.” Thomas kissed her on the forehead affectionately. “Are you hungry after your journey?”

Wandrille nodded.

“Come on then, we shall sup in the tavern. You shall have my room tonight. It is clean and comfortable, and next to Martin’s room so you need have no fear for your safety. I will sleep aboard my ship.”

“I care little for comfort, Thomas, and I fear not for my safety. I have something to tell you.”

He kissed her hand. “But your hand is cold. Come on, it will be warmer inside and you can tell me there.”

Thomas led her across the wharf to the tavern. The fire in the massive fireplace warmed the candlelit room, which was filled with the buzzing voices of rowdy guests gathered around rough wooden tables. The air smelled enticingly of wood smoke, bubbling stew, cooked fish, and ale.

He led her to a quiet booth away from the noisy center tables. A tavern wench brought them plates full of hearty fish stew with a fresh loaf of bread and tankards of dark ale to wash it all down.

“Where is Martin?” Wandrille asked.

“He seemed weary from all the excitement,” Thomas said. “He retired early.”

Wandrille frowned. “Is he well, Thomas?”

“Yes, my dear. He said the crowds make him uncomfortable that is all. He said he needed rest.”

“I worry about Martin. Were he to become ill in public it would be humiliating for him. He tries to do the work of ten men, and the stress can bring on an attack.”

“I promise you, Wandrille, Martin is fine.”

A sailor played bawdy songs on his accordion to the delight of the company. A seafaring man jumped onto a table, dancing a high-spirited jig. The crowd clapped and sang along merrily.

Outside the night turned windy and gray. The tavern door flew open. A young man staggered in, his arms flung over the shoulders of a buxom street whore. The harlot practically dragged the unkempt youth toward the stairs.

“Wine, Innkeeper!” he cried, carelessly tossing an empty jug into the fire. “More wine!”

Suddenly, the young man stopped, staring at the table where Wandrille and Thomas sat. Wandrille looked up and saw him. She turned very pale. Thomas reached across the table to grasp her hand. “What is wrong?” he said.

Prince William leered at Wandrille. “Well,” he said, “Is this not a pretty sight to see? Such a happy couple.” He bowed to Thomas. “How fares your wife, Captain Fitz Stephen?” He laughed raucously.

Thomas ignored him.

“Come on, Yer Highness,” the whore said, her voice thick from drink. “Are we goin’ upstairs?”

The innkeeper hastened forward with a fresh jug of wine. He bowed as he handed it to the lad. “Your Royal Highness,” he said.

The prince took the jug and stumbled up the stairs with the tittering whore, who squealed when his hand slipped from her shoulder to grasp her well-rounded bottom.

“Methinks Prince William likes to overindulge in everything in life.” Thomas said.

“He was baiting you, Thomas.”

“He was drunk, my dear. Drunken insults carry no weight and merit no response.”

“Thomas,” Wandrille said. “What I have to tell you will not be easy for me. I have treasured our friendship all my life.”

Thomas smiled, reaching out for her hand. She drew back, looking down at her stew.

“Next spring when I return from England it will be to make you my wife,” he said. “Oh that it were spring now. You are so lovely in this light I wish I were not a man of honor.”

Wandrille shook her head. “No. No, Thomas. That can never be. I pray you, end the dream and let me be the only fool.” She looked into his eyes, her own brimming with tears. “I love you dearly, Thomas, but I know now that my love for you is for a friend. Not a husband.”

Thomas sat up straight, his face registering shock. “What are you saying? This is not the woman I danced with by the martyr’s well on Lammas Day. What has happened? Is there someone else?”

Wandrille nodded. “Someone I love with all my heart. I have always loved him and been so foolish I did not know how much until now.”

“So,” Thomas said softly. “That is the way of it. You have chosen Martin. Does he know?”

Wandrille shook her head. “No. I wanted to speak to you first. I owe you that. I am so sorry, my dearest Thomas. I would feel no blame towards you were you to end our friendship forever, though that would break my heart. I pray you can one day forgive me and not hate me for what I have done. I should never have promised you my hand. I should have known my own heart better.”

“I could never hate you, Wandrille, but I do hate what you have done. You have rent my soul in twain. I have loved you all my life and I shall love you till I die.” Thomas looked up at the smoky rafters with a heavy sigh. “So now I have lost both Alice and you. I return to the harsh winter of England alone. There is nothing left to me.”

Wandrille reached across the table and grasped his hand in hers. “You are wrong, Thomas. There is one you love more than Alice and more than me. There is the White Ship.”