EPILOGUE
The Year 1120
Winchester, England
Three days after the tragedy, Berold the butcher carried the news to King Henry at Winchester that the White Ship had not put into Portsmouth or any other port. His sons and daughter were not on their way home. They would not be coming home.
When the king learned of the death of the three hundred, he fell senseless to the ground like a dead man. Never afterwards was he seen to smile.
Bodies, which had been carried along the coast by the tide, washed up on the beaches of Normandy for months after the wreck of the White Ship. Many more were never found.
The majority of his subjects loved Henry and pitied his heartbreak. But there were those who said the tragedy was God’s punishment for the sins of the king, and that he had reaped the whirlwind he had sown through the bad blood between himself and his brothers. Others claimed the king was paying for the sin of having so many concubines and illegitimate offspring. But by and large these were considered mean-spirited criticisms of a broken man.
The sinking of the White Ship seriously impaired the stability of the Norman dynasty. That single disaster shaped much of Henry the First’s political activity in the years that followed.
King Henry the First remarried, taking as his bride the Pope’s niece, but he was never able to produce another male heir to the throne. This left his daughter, the Empress Maude, as his only legitimate child. The king made his nobles take an oath of fealty to Maude that she would rule as queen upon his death, and they would recognize her as his heir.
When Maude’s husband the Holy Roman Emperor, died, Henry brought her back to England. He married her to Geoffrey, the son of the Count of Anjou, of the line of Plantagenets. Geoffrey’s older sister, Marie, was the widow of Crown Prince William Atheling.
Maude and Geoffrey had three sons, and so Henry, having sworn his barons to their oath that Maude would rule upon his death, felt secure that his line of succession to the throne was secure.
* * *
When told of her husband’s death, Countess Mathilde Isabel D’Anjou, who preferred to be called Marie, cried bitterly.
“For all his faults,” she said, “I loved my valiant Lord William.”
The Countess entered a convent.
* * *
The Year 1121
Springtime
Wandrille waved to the villagers as she passed the half-timbered thatched-roof cottages. The spring sun was warm on her back, the breeze fragrant with promise. Tall black and white storks stood on one leg in their rooftop nests among the irises. The apple trees wore their finest pink blossoms.
Wandrille followed the path into the forest, its floor carpeted with bluebells and late-blooming daffodils. The rays of the afternoon sun poured down through the trees. She felt happy to be alive.
Around the bend the hermit’s tree came into view, with its whimsical high stone towers and acorn roofs. Dom Christopher sat at the base of the ancient oak on his three-legged stool whittling away at a new saint. At his feet lay a small brown cat with oversized ears.
Wandrille waved. “Good morrow, Dom Christopher,” she called. “I see your cat grows stout and lazy.”
“She is growing old, like me,” the monk said. “Gertrude and I understand one another. We are content to sit in the shade and listen to the birds sing.”
When she reached his side, Wandrille kissed the monk’s bald spot, causing his face to turn red. “You are the only one I know who treats an animal like a human. No wonder she is so contented.”
Dom Christopher patted the bench next to him. “Come, bide awhile with me.” He picked up a jug and filled a cup with wine, holding it out to her.
Wandrille sat on the bench, pulled the scarf from her head, and shook her curls free. She took the cup gratefully, sipped from it, and sighed.
“Ah, that is just what I needed. Thank you, Dom Christopher. Is this not the most beautiful day you have ever seen?”
“What news do you bring from the village?” he asked.
“There are lots of new lambs and calves. And there are two new babies, a boy and a girl. The new healer has arrived from Spain, and he is making quite an impression on the village maidens. He is quite handsome and charming. I wager he will have himself a wife before Lammas Day.”
Dom Christopher nodded. “That seems fitting. And your lady mother? What kind of impression has he made on her?”
“Oh, she speaks very highly of his skills. He is like a tonic. Mother says a kindred spirit is always well met. They compare healing methods, and Mother is delighted. You know how she prides herself on being a modern woman.”
The monk laughed. “And what about you? How are you?”
Wandrille looked surprised. “Me? I am fine as always. Why? Do I look ill?”
The monk laughed. “You look lovely, dear. And how is Sir Martin?”
“Martin has never been better.”
“You are good for him,” he said. “And judging by how you glow, he is good for you as well. So have you told him yet?”
“I am sure I do not know what you mean. Told him what?”
He smiled. “I have a gift for you,” the hermit said.
She brightened. “A gift? Why?”
“Do I need a reason to give my favorite lady a present?”
“Really, Dom Christopher, there are times when you do not behave like a priest.”
He laughed. “Bide a moment, dear girl.”
Dom Christopher disappeared around the broad base of the ancient tree. He returned with the gift in his arms. When she saw what he carried, the young woman gasped.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Well it is not a watering trough for horses.”
Wandrille knelt down, running her hand along the beautifully carved cradle, decorated with images of forest animals, birds, and flowers. On the headboard was carved a lovely guardian angel with open wings.
“How did you know? I have not told anyone. I have only just been sure myself.”
“Sweet girl,” Dom Christopher said. “Who knows you best? Who taught you to read and write, and even to walk? Would you not think I might know you are with child even before you do? I have seen it in those pretty green eyes and the gentle curves of your body that were not there before.”
Wandrille embraced him affectionately.
He cleared his throat. “Well now. If you love me so much the least you can do is feed me dinner. I shall carry this cradle home for you. Come now, Wandrille, let us go and tell your husband Martin that he is about to become a father.”
Wandrille’s face lit up like a warm summer’s day.
“What shall you call the child if it be a son?” the monk asked.
Wandrille replied without hesitation. “Thomas.”
* * *
The Year 1135
St. Denis, France – The Calends of December
King Henry the First of England, last of the Saxon kings, the son of William the Conqueror, died from eating too many lampreys. His body was brought back to England and buried at Reading Abbey. Henry’s reign lasted thirty-five years, during which time the Scholar-King established peace and justice in his realm. A new civilization, a cultural, creative renaissance began to emerge.
It was with Henry the First that the history of England truly began, for the story was no longer one of Norman conquerors or Anglo Saxon kings, but of the emergence of a new people blending both legacies.
Kneeling beside the king as he lay dying, the Archbishop of Rouen’s prayer was, “God give him the peace he loved.”
* * *
With all of Henry’s accomplishments, one thing had not changed. In spite of their promise to him, the barons and nobles were not ready or willing to accept a woman as the ruler of England and Normandy. The king’s bastard son, Robert, Duke of Gloucester, was successful through his political machinations in securing the support of the nobles and barons to sanction his cousin Stephen’s claim to the throne.
It was easy for Henry’s favorite nephew, Stephen of Blois, to seize the treasury at Winchester and the crown of England from its rightful queen, Maude.
Shortly after assuming the throne, King Stephen broke the faith of his covenant with Robert of Gloucester. He tried to have the fox assassinated. When the Duke of Gloucester learned of the new king’s betrayal he threw his glove into Maude’s court and supported her fight to claim her birthright. Robert led Maude’s army against their cousin, King Stephen, and so the tapestry of peace Henry had worked so hard to establish was unraveled. England was thrown into anarchy and a terrible civil war which lasted twenty years.
King Stephen went down in history as one of the worst kings to ever sit on the British throne. In the nineteen years of his reign, the people of England suffered more than ever before. Never were worst cruelties committed on earth than in wretched England then, especially against the church and her priests. It was said that during Stephen’s dark reign Christ and the angels slept.
In the end, Stephen and Maude came to an uneasy truce. Her son Henry, sired by Geoffrey of Anjou, succeeded Stephen to became King Henry the Second, the first of a long and famous line of Plantagenet rulers.
* * *
The Year 1156 – Fontevrault Abbey – Maine et Loire, France
An old nun, bent nearly in half with age, wrapped a warm shawl around the shoulders of the ailing abbess who sat before the fire.
“Do you need me to help you retire, Reverend Mother?” she asked.
“No, Genevieve,” the Abbess replied. “Only help me to my writing table. I would write before I sleep.”
“You work too hard. You will make yourself ill with so little sleep, Mother.”
The Abbess laughed until she coughed. The old nun gave her a sip of warm hibiscus tea to soothe her throat.
“I am already ill, Genevieve, as you well know. But there is so much left to do. Do not grieve for what must be, my dear. It will be a happy day when the angels carry me to the arms of Christ. Begrudge me not my one joy in life. Soon I will join the saints in heaven, and there will be plenty of time for sleep then.”
Sister Genevieve crossed herself. “Pray, do not say such things, Mother. What would the abbey do without your wise guidance? You are truly like a mother to all of us here.”
The Abbess smiled. “Ah, such is the irony of life that God has given me more children to care for than I ever could have birthed. Truly I could not love a child of my own womb any better than I love the daughters the good Lord has placed in my care these many years.”
Sister Genevieve nodded. “It is strange the paths our lives have taken.”
The Abbess patted her hand affectionately. “No one could have asked for a better friend in this world than you have been to me, dear Genevieve.”
The Abbess sat down at her writing table. “These old bones are stiff and sore,” she sighed. “But what is this?”
She counted six pairs of new waxen tablets made of the finest wood trimmed in ivory with the thinnest coating of fine wax, and a dozen ivory poyntels for writing rough copies. There were fully five-dozen sheepskin parchments and as many calfskin vellums, the vellums in a variety of lovely colors. Next to them were lined up at least two-dozen new quills of goose feathers, swan feathers, and crow feathers, and a dozen full inkhorns.
“How lovely!” the Abbess exclaimed.
Sister Genevieve put another log on the fire and stoked the flames. “King Henry the Second has shown his generosity to us again, Mother. He is so good to us. He has also filled our abbey’s larder with barrels of smoked meats and fish from the sea so we will not hunger in the coming winter, and casks of vintage red Anjou wine to make our blood rich and strong.”
The Abbess smiled. “Oh, I see. How kind of my dear nephew Henry to send me these writing tools. He is thoughtful like his grandfather. I will send him my blessings first thing in the morning. How I used to love bouncing our king’s father, Geoffrey, on my knee. Do you remember, Genevieve, how I loved those babies? My little brothers and sister were the dearest things in the world to me.”
Genevieve nodded. “I remember.”
The Abbess patted her lady-in-waiting’s hand. “You know me better than anyone in the world, Genevieve. I believe my nephew as king, with all his faults, has done much to heal the damage of Stephen’s terrible reign. He will be a better ruler than my Lord William, had he lived, would have been. But would you ever have thought a Plantagenet would wear the crown, Genevieve?”
Sister Genevieve laughed, shaking her head. “I could never have imagined the twists of fate our lives took, Mother. Do you ever regret not becoming queen?”
The Abbess said softly, “I used to think that when I became queen, then I would be free, then I would be happy. How young I was. I had yet to learn that freedom has nothing to do with circumstance and everything to do with one’s perception of life. When you have purpose, when you surrender to God’s will and let it flow through you, that is when you are free.”
Sister Genevieve tucked her lady’s shawl warmly around her shoulders. “It was long ago. We were all so young then.”
The Abbess nodded. “Yes. But I have not forgotten. I have not forgotten the many women who must be living lives of lonely desperation, who are like I once was.”
Her eyes glowed bright in the candlelight. “Thank you, Sister. I would be alone now. Dominus vobiscum. The Lord be with you this night. Sleep well.”
Sister Genevieve bowed. “Et cum spiritu tuo,” she said softly. “And with thy spirit, Mother.” Quietly, she exited the Abbess’ chamber.
The Abbess leafed through a stack of parchments on which were written the lays of the trouveres. She read aloud the dedication she had written for her volume of lays.
“In your honor noble King, whose might and courtesy make the world ring. All joys run from you or to you whose heart is the root of every virtue. For you these lays I undertook. In my heart I always meant to offer you this, my present.”
The old nun wiped away a tear. “You were a kinder father to me than my own, dear Henry,” she sighed. “Your wedding gift to me was the sweetest gift I ever received in all my life.”
The Abbess of Fontevrault Abbey, once Countess of Anjou, granddaughter of the Queen of France, and wife of the Crown Prince of England, reached for an old dog-eared and worn book with its beautifully illuminated gilded letters and pictures. Fondly, she opened to the first page, anchoring the book open with a stone taken from the garden of a castle in Caen and another from Anjou. She smoothed a fresh parchment with her cracked dry hands, picked up a goose quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.
“My name is Marie and I am from France. It may be that many writers will claim my work as their own, but I want no one else to attribute it to himself. He who lets himself fall into oblivion does a poor job. For the love of my Lord William the most valiant of this realm, I undertook to write this book. I pray that almighty God will allow me to attend to such work through which I may commend my soul to Him.”
And so Marie of France began to translate Aesop’s Fables from English into French. She became the first known woman writer in the history of France.
* * *
It is said that each November when the new moon waxes into the thinnest crescent and the yearly Taurid meteor shower shoots the last of its fireballs across the night sky, a ghostly white ship sails into the ancient harbor of Barfleur, France, and the soft song of the oarsmen mingled with the echoes of many lost voices calls to those on land.
If you happen to be wandering along the granite crescent of the quayside and you listen very closely, you can hear the words of their song, like a whisper carried landward by the tide.
“Nay never ask this week fair lord,
Where they are gone nor yet this year,
Save with this much for an overword,
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?”
end