CHAPTER XXXV

 

The Year 1120

Barfleur Harbor, Normandy – November 25

 

Nothing Berold had imagined could have prepared him for the moment when he first saw the White Ship. Sleek as a swan, and just as white, she was immense and magnificent, and he was going to sail on her maiden voyage. The young man was so excited he could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Sea monsters, leviathans, and all manner of fish had been carved into her keel above the water line. Brightly painted shields hung over the gunwales. Her prow spiraled up into the shape of a gilded lion, its golden forepaw gleaming in the sun.

The Lion of Justice, Berold thought. That is what they call King Henry.

The massive White Ship was at least three times the size of the other ships in the king’s fleet, easily one hundred twenty feet long with twenty-five oars on each side. She was a proud Norman vessel built in the style of the old Viking longboats, with a double-ended hull, a rounded bottom, and flared sides. The side rudder was lashed to the starboard side of her hull near the stern where a small rowboat was tied.

As enormous as she was, Berold knew the White Ship was light and buoyant, for he had heard she had been so skillfully designed she was unsinkable. With the wind in her sail and fifty men pulling on the oars, she would skim over the water more swiftly than anything ever made by man.

The king’s own banner, six lions the color of the sun against a field deep blue as the sky, streamed proudly from the towering mast above the vertically striped scarlet and yellow square sail. On each end of the deck stood a brightly colored tarpaulin tent topped with a gilded lion head.

The crescent-shaped harbor was a buzzing hive of activity, its granite quayside and streets crowded with noblemen who looked like strutting peacocks, and ladies dressed in shining silks, satins, and furs. The young butcher from Rouen looked down at his modest sheepskin cloak, which only a few days ago had been the finest garment he had ever seen. How shabby and simple he looked next to the landed gentry, who walked proudly up the gangplanks to board the royal ships, or climbed into small boats that would ferry them out to the fleet.

The people milling about the harbor were not all members of the elite class. Merchants and craftsmen mingled with sailors and the servants of the nobility. The docks were infested with peddlers, beggars, and pickpockets. Whores with pale faces and bright red lips haunted the busy taverns, swaying their hips seductively before the entrances to narrow garbage-strewn alleys where mangy dogs and scrawny cats scavenged for food. Even the modern city of Rouen could not compare with the sights and sounds of Barfleur on the Feast of Saint Catherine in the Year of Our Lord 1120.

The young butcher patted his purse, which nestled deep in the securely buttoned inside pocket of his sheepskin cloak, safe from pickpockets. He felt in his other hidden pocket the hard shape of the Saint Christopher statue that the hermit had given him for protection on his journey.

Berold led his donkey to the White Ship’s gangplank. A crewman shoved him aside as workmen rolled heavy barrels up onto the deck.

“I beg your pardon,” Berold said. “Can you assist me?”

The crewman looked the young man over, from the top of his sandy head, to the tip of his calfskin boots and back up again until he met Berold’s guileless blue eyes. Berold smiled, revealing a charming dimple in one cheek.

“State your business,” said the sailor. The man’s skin had absorbed so much sunlight it resembled Berold’s leather traveling cases, which were lashed securely onto the back of his donkey.

“I am to embark on the White Ship,” the young butcher replied.

The sailor’s laugh produced a throaty rasp that set off a coughing fit. He ejected a wad of spittle into the water.

“A provincial like you?” he said.

The man’s rotted teeth and fetid breath made Berold want to step back a pace, but he stood firm. Berold’s charming smile faded. He straightened his shoulders, making it clear that he was half a head taller than the crewman.

“I am no provincial, sir. I come from Rouen.” The butcher handed the sailor a document stamped with the king’s seal. “I am assigned to the train of Prince William Atheling, Duke of Normandy,” he said imperiously. “I have been directed to take passage on this ship.”

The sailor unrolled the parchment and studied it. He handed it back to Berold. “You will have to berth your ass four ships back. Move along.”

Berold led his donkey along the dock, counting the ships as he went until he came to the fourth vessel in line. He saw horses onboard and knew this must be the right boat. The beautiful steeds looked every bit as pompous as their noble owners. Two men struggled to push and pull a stallion up the gangplank. The hysterical animal whinnied as it reared up onto its hind legs, threatening to trample them, or at the very least toss them into the water.

The butcher’s donkey brayed, sat down stubbornly, and refused to budge.

“Do not worry,” Berold whispered in its ear. “Remember, an ass carried the Holy Family into Egypt. If an ass was good enough for them, you are good enough to ride with high and mighty thoroughbreds. Come, now, I beseech you,” he cajoled, “be a good donkey and get on the boat.” The beast rose and moved forward with no further protest.

Berold presented his letter of passage to the crewman, who directed him to board the animal and lash his trunks to the side of the deck. Berold tied the donkey next to a shining black stallion fully twice its size. The horse looked down at the smaller animal disdainfully. The donkey stared sullenly at the deck, blinking nervously when the horse snorted.

Berold unloaded his cases and secured them to the deck, hoping his precious new knives and his belongings would be safe. Then he filled his arms with hay that had been made available for the animals and set it down in front of his donkey, rubbing the beast’s back.

“There now, does that not feel better?” he said brightly.

The humble little donkey looked as out of place next to the stamping, high-strung horses as Berold was beginning to feel. He patted its head as it munched on the hay.

“Godspeed, my friend,” he said. “I shall see you on the other side.”

He waited his turn to go down the gangplank while men dragged and pushed another nervous horse onboard. Then the butcher made his way back along the quay to the White Ship.

Berold sat on the granite seawall watching the many masts swaying and bobbing on the rising tide in the Bay of the Seine. Sea birds circled the skies over the harbor, adding their cries to the cacophonous commotion on the wharf. The smell of salt water and fish flooded Berold’s senses, heightening his feeling of exhilaration. This was going to be the greatest adventure of his life. Over twenty ships would sail in the king’s fleet tonight, carrying cargo, passengers, and horses, but he would be sailing on the greatest ship of all.

Berold approached her gangplank again. This time the sailor waved him aboard. At last he stood upon her deck. She rocked gently in the water, like a cradle. Berold hastened to get out of the way of the crewmen and the other passengers, finding a spot near the rudder in the shadow of the small rowboat. It took him a few moments to regain equilibrium. Standing on a surface that rocked beneath his feet was an odd sensation. When he felt secure, Berold looked around. He counted between eighty and one hundred crewmen, including the fifty oarsmen, many of whom were exotic or foreign looking.

Berold watched men roll more barrels onboard. Print on the side of the barrels identified their contents as the king’s wine from Anjou’s famous vineyards, made from grapes that had been cultivated for a thousand years. His mouth watered. What luxury it would be if he could only taste the king’s wine, which was famous for its quality and immaculate balance. He counted dozens of casks and barrels being covered and secured under canvas in the center of the ship. Crewmen were now carrying a good many chests onboard, lashing them down the same way.

“That would be the king’s treasure, Mate.”

Berold looked up into the smiling face of an oarsman with a thick red braided beard, a mane of long bushy red hair, and ice blue eyes. A gold tooth caught the light of the sun, which was setting in a spectacular display of crimson, gold, and purple in the western sky. The butcher’s arms were strong from plying his trade, but Berold had never seen powerful arms like this man’s. The oarsman towered over him.

The giant held out a hand the size of a lion’s paw. “I be called Patrick.” His grin flashed gold.

Berold smiled and shook his hand. “I am Berold, from Rouen.”

“She’s some ship, eh, Lad?”

“I have never seen anything so magnificent.”

Patrick pointed to the brightly clad nobles milling around on the deck, laughing and chattering like so many exotic birds. “I wager no ship has ever carried such rich or famous cargo. Sure and that’s just the people.” He laughed heartily at his own joke.

“Which one is the prince?” Berold asked.

“Prince William has not come on board yet, but do ye see that tall man with the peacock feather in his cap and the blue velvet cloak? That be Prince Richard, his half brother, and the luscious lass in the pink satin and furs would be their sister, the Countess of Perche.”

“The Countess is so pretty,” Berold observed.

Patrick inclined his head toward another man. “See the chap who laughs like a mule? ‘Tis the son of the Holy Roman Emperor from Germany, if ye please. And there be Ralph the Red, the most celebrated captain in King Henry’s army. We be in the company of the world’s finest tonight, my friend. Knights, soldiers, the sisters, nieces, and wives of kings and earls are onboard this ship. Ye’ll never see the likes of most of the heirs to the great estates of England and Normandy all in one place again. Look there, coming aboard be the two sons of Ivo of Grandsmeil.”

“How do you know who everyone is?”

“Sure and in the four long years of fighting for Normandy, the king’s court has made this crossing often, and I been a rowin’ all them years. Ye get to know who everyone is after a wee bit. ‘Tis a brilliant, carefully crafted peace the king has made with Louis the Fat of France. I hear tell it be a dazzling bit of diplomacy. Aye, Lad, ‘tis a triumphant return home for the king and all these fine folks.”

“I cannot believe one ship can carry so many people.”

Patrick nodded. “Aye, Mate. Three hundred souls will cross the British Sea on the White Ship tonight.”

“Three hundred? You jest.”

“‘Tis true as me sainted mother’s smile. Counting the crew, the nobles, and their servants, we be three hundred in all, give or take a soul.”

A rugged looking man passed by them heading toward the stern. He had an air of authority about him. His clothes were well made but practical, his boots were made of finely crafted deerskin. His brown hair, pulled back in a single braid, was streaked with red from the sun, his skin tanned and weathered. He was clean-shaven with a handsome, intelligent face and a proud bearing.

“‘Tis our captain,” whispered Patrick. “That be Thomas Fitz Stephen, the man who designed and built this ship.”

So that is the genius, thought Berold.

A trumpet fanfare drew their attention to the wharf as William Atheling, Crown Prince of England and Duke of Normandy, came into view. He was a dark, striking young man, beardless and lean. He moved with the careless grace of one who knows no boundaries. He was followed by two other men, one tall and fair, the other dark like the prince but shorter, with an unkempt beard and longer hair. The dark man’s resemblance to the prince was unmistakable. The three wove unsteadily on their feet.

The crowd lining the dock stepped aside to let them pass, crying “Bon voyage,” and “Bon chance,” as the nobles nodded and waved graciously. They laughed boisterously as the passengers already onboard surrounded them, fawning and fussing over the prince. William kissed his sister affectionately on the cheek and draped his arm around her shoulder as he told a bawdy joke that made the company howl.

“Wine for everyone,” William shouted, “even the crew. We must celebrate this most auspicious occasion of the White Ship’s maiden voyage.”

He pushed back a section of canvas to uncover a cask of his father’s precious Anjou vintage wine, ordering a sailor to tap it. The crewman nervously looked toward Captain Fitz Stephen, who nodded his permission.

The crew shouted, “Long live Prince William!”

Patrick rubbed his hands together. “We be in luck tonight, my friend.”

Someone began to beat a drum, joined by a pipe and lute, filling the night with joyful music. A sailor jumped up onto the canvas-covered cargo, where he executed a vigorous jig, nimbly leaping from barrel to chest without missing a step. Some of the passengers clapped their hands in time with the music; others joined hands and danced in a circle around the cargo and the jigging sailor.

“Who are the two men with the crown prince?” Berold asked Patrick.

The giant replied, “The tall flaxen haired gentleman with the look of a Saxon be Count Stephen of Blois, cousin to the prince. The other be William’s older brother, Robert, Duke of Gloucester, the first born of King Henry’s many bastards.”

“They look very much alike,” Berold said.

“Aye. Sir Robert be very like his father the king in his ways. Smart and charming he be. They say Robert of Gloucester was after being a hero on the battlefield and one of the bravest knights in all of Christendom.”

“I imagine Prince William looks up to him then.”

Patrick frowned. “The Atheling looks up to no one and down on all.”

A nervous looking gray haired man appeared on the deck, beckoning to a crewman who was dragging another treasure chest on board.

“Be careful with that,” he cautioned. The crewman secured the chest on top of two others and lashed it down. “Where’s the canvas? Keep it dry now,” the old man insisted. “Be sure you cover it tightly.”

“That fussy old hen be Prince William’s tutor,” Patrick pointed out. “Othuel he be named, and kin to the prince. A wee man with a big brain, but the prince loves him well, if you get my meaning.” The red giant winked, and they both laughed. “Wait here, Mate, and I will get some wine.”

Berold liked Patrick. He had never met such a man before. The young butcher looked down at the water, lapping darkly against the keel in the twilight. He shivered, for with the approaching darkness the air was turning frosty. Berold supposed it was normal to be nervous since he had never been on a boat before. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the little wooden saint the hermit had given him.

“Oh, blessed Saint Christopher,” he whispered. “It is said that whoever looks on your face will be protected from death on that day. Bring me safely across the sea to the shores of England.”

Quickly, he shoved the statue back into his pocket as Patrick returned, handing him a flagon of wine.

“Here,” the big man said in his booming voice. “Have a bit of the grape to warm ye against the cold night air. Let us drink to the White Ship. May the wind be at her back.”

Berold’s broad dimpled smile lit up his face. He raised his flagon. “To the White Ship!”

The wine tasted like nectar. Just a few swallows made his body feel aglow.

“I wager ye never tasted anything so good,” said Patrick. “Sure and I have not. ‘Tis a libation fit for the angels theirselves.”

Berold agreed. “It is amazing.”

A shooting star flashed across the darkening sky, quickly followed by another.

“The sea both frightens and fascinates me, Patrick. It must be very exciting to be a sailor. Do you ever feel like you are tempting fate when you venture out on the water?”

“Aye, Lad,” said the giant. “A sailor’s life be hard and perilous, but I would have no other. I figured I could sit beside a turf fire and rot or I could sail across the sea and live the wild adventure my spirit craves. Which life would you choose?”

Berold shrugged his shoulders. “I never thought about it. I never thought I had a choice.”

“How do ye be making your way in the world, then, Lad?” Patrick asked.

“I am a butcher, like my father and his father, back through many generations. I never questioned my destiny in that regard.”

“Be ye happy in your work?”

Berold thought for a moment. “Yes. Yes I am. I worked hard to learn my trade, and now I have been chosen to be butcher to King Henry’s court, which is a very great honor. I take pride in my skill, so yes. I believe I am happy.”

“Well then,” Patrick said, “‘Tis all that matters. Meself would be miserable back in the old sod, farming rocks like my Da, so I ran away to sea. Never looked back and never regretted the running.”

Robert of Gloucester passed them carrying a jug and a flagon. Berold watched him approach the captain, who was checking the rudder. He offered the captain some wine, but the captain shook his head.

Sir Robert spoke. Berold could not hear his words, for the music was loud and people sang and danced upon the deck.

Captain Fitz Stephen looked toward the crowd on the wharf. He waved to someone, then turned and said something to the duke. Robert of Gloucester grinned as he poured some wine into the flagon, holding it out to Fitz Stephen, who took it in his hands and downed it in one draught.

Watching the Duke of Gloucester laugh and pat the captain on the back as he refilled the captain’s cup twice over, Berold could not help but notice how white and healthy the duke’s teeth looked. The man could bite into the toughest cut of meat and do it justice, he thought. His mother must have given him bones to teethe on. How fortunate men of privilege are to have such fine teeth.

The young butcher sipped his wine. He felt light headed. The knights and nobles all looked so handsome. He was certain he was in love with at least four of the pretty ladies.

As the king’s fleet raised anchor and prepared to sail, a handsome young couple boarded the White Ship.

“Do you know who they are?” Berold asked Patrick.

Patrick looked at the couple. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Aye, Mate. That be Richard, Earl of Chester, and his wife, Maud, she the sister of Stephen of Blois, cousin to the prince.”

“Stephen the Saxon’s sister?”

“The same. A flaxen-haired beauty she be too.”

The ship’s captain took a break from checking the rudder, the rising tide, and the stars overhead to watch the celebration with a broad smile on his face and a flagon of wine in his hand. Even the night sky seemed to join in the festivities, with its annual meteor shower. The sea swallowed every shooting star.

“Are we sailing, now, Patrick?” Berold asked.

Patrick shook his head. “Nay. We have not yet been given the word. Sure and there be Prince William cracking open another cask of wine. Give me your flagon, good Lad.”

“My head is spinning now!” Berold protested.

Patrick laughed. “There be no telling when common men like us will taste the likes of this wine again. Have you never heard the saying, ‘carpe diem’, Mate?”

“What is that?”

“It is a saying in the priests’ tongue. It means ‘seize the day.’ ‘Tis how every sailor embraces the adventure of life, and ‘tis the best way to live, good Lad.”

“You surprise me, Patrick.”

“Aye? And why would I be surprising the likes of you now?”

“I would not expect an oarsman to be a philosopher.”

“Well I be Irish.” Patrick laughed heartily. “And we all be philosophers and poets. Ah, but ye be forgetting that I be an oarsman by choice, not an ignorant slave. A man with half a brain, sharp eyes, and two good ears can listen to those with years of schooling and learn much if he keeps his own counsel. Now will ye be joining me in another draught of the king’s wine or not?”

Berold handed the Irishman his flagon. “Carpe diem!” he cried. His eyes brightened in anticipation of the adventure. He had never felt so alive, like all his nerve endings were tingling and his heart beating in time with the minstrel’s drum. Patrick was right. This was how to live.

“Aye, Mate,” Patrick said. “‘Tis a great honor for us to be among those aboard the White Ship’s maiden voyage. Sure and this night we sail into history.”