CHAPTER XXXIV

 

The Year 1120

Barfleur, Normandy – The Feast of Saint Catherine – November 25

 

Crowds swarmed like bees along Barfleur’s busy quayside. Every inch of Barfleur harbor’s sweeping crescent buzzed with humanity. The air was charged with a palpable exhilarating energy. More than twenty masts belonging to the ships in the king’s fleet swayed and bobbed in the waters of the bay.

Grooms struggled to board horses onto the boats that would carry them across the British Sea, pulling and pushing the nervous beasts from behind to coax the terrified creatures to board the rocking vessels. The horses’ nervous whinnying drowned out the cries of the sea birds circling overhead, diving for fish or bits of food dropped along the quay.

People had traveled far to watch the show, making a holiday of it. Candles burned in every one of Barfleur’s charming gray and pink granite buildings. The inns and taverns were full. All day the wharf had been like a festive holiday fair. Numerous boats ferried passengers out to the waiting ships in the fleet. Spectators in fishing boats waved to them, calling out, “Bon voyage!”

A trumpet fanfare announced the arrival of King Henry the First. When his subjects saw him they cheered, shouting, “Long live the king!” They waved their hats and scarves, pushing and shoving to get a glimpse of his august person as he embarked on the very ship his father had sailed to England in when he made his conquest, the famous Mora.

King Henry smiled, waving graciously to the crowds while his nervous guards dressed in chain mail and helmets scanned the throngs for any sign of danger to their liege and lord. But the king and his train were quite safe. The wars were over, Normandy secure under his rule, and at long last his realm was at peace. Henry had achieved a dazzling diplomatic triumph. The people loved him.

Nobles dressed in all the colors of the rainbow, their silks and satins shimmering in the setting sun, their luxurious furs blowing in the salty breeze, clambered into small boats to be ferried out to ships, or climbed up the gangplank to take their place on the White Ship. Among her passengers were knights, nobles, ladies, the sons of kings, and heirs to the great estates of England and Normandy. Their servants had all boarded earlier in the day to secure their belongings and arrange for their comfort on the trip.

The White Ship shone like a beacon, sleek and graceful as a swan in the water. Bright tents stood on each end of her deck to protect her elite passengers from cold or bad weather. The fading sun shone brilliantly on the gilded lion heads atop the tent frames. The Saint Martin’s summer day had been so fair and lovely, it seemed unlikely anyone would need the shelter of the tents this night.

People noted that the calm, unseasonably warm weather was a good omen for the crossing. November could be so changeable. It was a blessing there were no freezing winds or snow to mar the occasion, no autumn storm to delay the sailing. Saint Catherine’s Day marked the beginning of the season of Advent, and the travelers were anxious to get home in time for Christmas.

The crowd pushed and shoved to see the ship, awestruck by her size and beauty. The king’s new banner, six golden lions against a field as blue as the sky, flew from the top of the White Ship’s gigantic mast. Shields painted with bright colors and symbols hung over each gunwale.

Crewmen rolled countless barrels and carried casks on their shoulders up the gangplank. More than one thief on the wharf eyed the king’s treasure hungrily as chest after chest was loaded onboard, stowed with the barrels in the center of the ship, where the cargo was covered with canvas, lashed down, and heavily guarded. Not even the most daring robber would be foolish enough to risk his head in an attempt to steal the king’s fortune.

This was a day perfectly suited to petty pickpockets and beggars. After a night of entertaining soldiers, knights, and nobles, the purses of the red-lipped whores who plied their trade along the wharf were bulging with silver.

In the quayside tavern called The White Dolphin, Prince William and his train celebrated with rounds of ale and wine, caught up in the excitement of the occasion. Othuel, the prince’s beloved tutor, was by his side, catering to his every whim. Othuel looked like a fat Cornish hen in his feathered hat and fine clothes.

The tavern crowd sang bawdy songs, drinking copiously as the sun slipped below the rim of the earth and the shadows of night crept across the docks, swallowing the scarlet light that poured through the windows until there was only darkness. The firelight threw shadows on the walls, the songs grew bawdier, the crowd merrier and louder.

Robert of Gloucester patted his half-brother on the shoulder in an attempt to wrest his attention away from the wenches fighting one another for his kiss.

“William!” he shouted.

The prince had his hand inside a giggling wench’s bodice and his lips on her neck. He looked at Robert, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and an over abundance of wine. The whore boldly grabbed his crotch, and he moaned.

“Have mercy, I beg you! Even I can only take so much. You have all drained me dry. Be off with you now. My brother wishes to speak to me.”

He belched loudly, shrugging his shoulders at the frown on Othuel’s face and the look of hurt and disapproval in the older man’s eyes.

Pouting prettily, the tavern wench obliged. She winked and blew a kiss to Stephen of Blois as she crossed the room to sit on the lap of the corpulent son of the Holy Roman Emperor, teasing him with a tantalizing view of her ample cleavage. She grabbed his tankard, filled her mouth with ale, and kissed him deeply. The German prince turned quite scarlet as the harlot took his hand and led him, glazed-eyed and stumbling, up the stairs to one of the private rooms.

Stephen laughed. “That wench never runs out of energy does she? I wager she makes a good living. Was I imagining things, or did she grace all three of our beds last night?”

“Who was counting?” Robert of Gloucester said.

“She was,” Stephen retorted. “She is still counting every shilling in her fat purse.”

“More wine!” William called. “A round for the house.”

A deafening cheer went up. Someone cried, “Long live the Duke of Normandy!”

The prince turned his attention to Robert. “Well?” he said curiously.

“I would like to propose a wager, brother.” Robert grinned like a fox.

William’s eyes lit up. “How I do love to gamble. What kind of wager do you have in mind?”

Robert examined his fingernails critically. “A race. I say put the White Ship to the test, William. See if she really is faster than the famous Mora.”

William laughed. “Of course she is. She is the greatest ship afloat, and just as I am younger and fleeter than our father, she is faster than the creaky old boat the king sails on. I’ll bet it even leaks. Do you want to add that to our wager?”

Robert shook his head. “That will not be necessary. A test of speed should suffice.”

William looked thoughtful. “Do I have my facts straight when I say the White Ship was built by the son of the man who built the Mora?”

Robert nodded. “Indeed. Which would make the race an intriguing one, do you not agree?”

William’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes. One generation pitted against another. How delightful. And what stakes do you propose?”

Stephen of Blois watched his cousins quietly as he sipped his wine. Nervously, he studied Othuel’s face, but the prince’s tutor showed no sign of suspicion. He appeared disinterested in the conversation. The old hen seemed more concerned with studying the condition of his fingernails.

Robert shrugged his shoulders. “I shall put up two of my prize Arabian horses and three greyhounds against an equal share of yours.”

Stephen held his breath. The prince’s greatest treasures were his horses and hounds.

William held out his hand. “You have a deal. Let us shake on it.”

Robert extended his hand, suddenly drawing it back with a frown. “Hold now, for I am having second thoughts.”

William waved away the flaxen haired wench whose tongue crawled into his ear like an insect. She laughed stridently and sashayed across the room in search of another, more willing ear.

William grinned. “This was your idea, brother, you cannot have any second thoughts, just because you know you are certain to lose the wager. I would never risk giving up Arabians and good hunting dogs if I were not sure of the outcome.”

Stephen of Blois sipped his wine and leaned his chin on his hand watching the fox at work. The goose of a prince did not stand a chance when pitted against Robert’s cleverness.

Robert absentmindedly ran his fingers along the pheasant feather in his hat. “Well it really would not be a fair race, would it? After all, the White Ship is so much bigger than the king’s, and it has fully fifty oars.” He shook his head. “No, it was a bad idea. That ship has a very unfair advantage over the rest of the fleet.”

“Then we shall even the odds, Robert,” said the prince. “I want your horses and hounds.”

The fox leaned forward and said, “And just how would you do that, William? How would you even the odds?”

“I shall give the rest of my father’s fleet a head start. They can sail a full three, no, four hours ahead of my ship, and I shall still beat them across the British Sea. I shall be waiting on the beach when my father’s ship lands. You can just kiss those Arabians and greyhounds goodbye, brother dear.”

Stephen began to sweat. He removed his hat, not wanting to get it dirty. He was fastidious to a fault when it came to his wardrobe. Stephen wondered how Robert could be so cool. So far all was going just as his cousin had planned.

Robert had told him that to sail at low tide would be dangerous. If the prince gave the fleet such a head start, he would lose the high tide. Stephen knew Robert was also betting that the arrogant prince would order the captain to take a shortcut past the dangerous rocks off the coast of Barfleur in order to save time.

Stephen thought he would give anything to be as clever as his cousin, who was playing this game as adeptly as he played fox and geese. You just could not beat Robert when it came to strategy. Stephen imagined how the crown would feel sitting on his head one day.

Robert had thought of everything. He had even come up with a way for Steven and himself to leave the White Ship without arousing suspicion.

If Robert was right, the White Ship would never reach the shores of England. If he was wrong, nothing would be lost except some horses and a few hounds. There was nothing to lose, and a crown to gain.

“Well,” Robert said to the Prince thoughtfully, “a head start would be good, but it would still be easy for the White Ship to beat the king’s vessel with all those oars and that immense sail. I have seen the arms on those oarsmen.” He laughed. “No. I do not think I will make the wager after all.”

Stephen held his breath. The plan depended on William taking the bait.

William’s half-brother and sister, Richard, and Mathilde, Countess of Perche, crossed the room to their table. Mathilde leaned over to kiss William affectionately on the cheek. His smile for her was genuine.

“How lovely you look, dear sister,” he said. “Is that a new gown?”

She twirled prettily, her bright pink satin gown gleaming in the candlelight.

“I had it made especially for the occasion, Will. Wait until you see the matching cloak, lined and trimmed with gray fox.”

William kissed her hand. “Well, it is so becoming, you put every other woman to shame, dear. But where is Robron? Is he not sailing with us?”

“You know my husband. Count Robron is sailing with his horse.”

They all laughed heartily.

“My husband would never trust the safety of that animal to anyone but himself. He said the poor beast would be frightened without him there.”

William moved over, patting the seat beside him. “Come, join us.”

No, Stephen thought. They must not. They will ruin everything. His heart beat like a Celtic drum, and he could barely draw a breath.

Robert coolly kept his own counsel.

Richard shook his head. “I beg your leave, William. Several of us cannot wait to board the White Ship. We are going on ahead.”

“Save us a space,” Robert called, making them all laugh.

The crown prince emptied his flagon and called for more wine. His tutor jumped to provide it. William swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Now about that wager,” Robert said casually, waving goodbye to his half-brother and sister as they left the tavern with a group of nobles in their wake.

William laughed. “My ship can beat the king’s ship even with a drunken crew,” he bragged, punctuating his statement with a hearty belch.

Stephen exhaled. The hook was in the prince’s mouth. Robert was brilliant.

Robert flashed a toothy smile. “Prove it,” he said. “Here is my hand on it. The king’s ship gets a three or four-hour lead, and the White Ship sails with a drunken crew. That is the wager. Two prize Arabian horses and three purebred greyhounds go to the winner.”

William grasped Robert’s hand, shaking enthusiastically. “Done!” he cried. “Well, if we are to get the crew drunk, we had better make haste.”

He stood up unsteadily. “Good Othuel, pay the innkeeper. Come, my friends,” he called, “let us take this party to the ship.”