The White Ship

by Nicholas Salaman

  All the love that a letter can contain before it runs over and spoils the ink.

  Your true

  J

  So! She was coming back and I could live truly again instead of shadow-playing.

  Before she returned, however, the castle was busy with the drolleries and shudders of All Hallows Eve when the spooks rise from their graves and haunt the living – very much in the guise of Bertold the Bastard who, wrapped in a sheet, made the little girls shriek with fearful giggles and shiver in their beds so that old Catrine, their nurse, became quite incandescent with reproach. I had to repeat the performance for Alice and the ladies. Alice had managed to obtain some of the better wine, kept for the Comtesse, and we all had much laughter playing games of forfeit including Kiss the Spook. I became aware that I was half in love with Alice, but there was no question either of my mentioning it or of my love for Juliana being in any way diminished.

  Can one be in love with two women? That unreliable guide Catullus says that it is more than possible.

  Next day, the Chaplain with the roving eye officiated at a Mass for All Saints, and I prayed to God for direction without any great sense that I would receive it, or that I even deserved his help.

  XXIII

  Six days later, Juliana returned. I had waited for this moment like a man dying of thirst in a wilderness, and it seemed that she felt the same for she took me without further ado to her wardrobe room and gave me all that I had dreamt of in her absence and more. When we had finished making love, we lay on the bed smelling of each other and perfumed with cinnamon, citron, verbena, orris root, southernwood, lavender, cloves, galangale, saffron, grains of paradise, attar of roses, bitter almond, dried orange peel, and the honeyed fruit of the strawberry tree …

  ‘Let us lock the door, barricade ourselves in, and stay here always,’ I said to her.

  ‘That would be perfectly lovely,’ she replied, ‘though we might grow hungry. Spices are meant to provide flavour not nourishment.’

  ‘Is that what we are to each other, do you think? Flavour not nourishment?’

  ‘Very good flavour,’ she smiled.

  Stupidly, I took umbrage.

  ‘You are not simply my food,’ I told her. ‘You are the air I breathe and the water that gives me life. I am sorry that I do not provide the same for you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Bertold,’ she said. ‘You know what you are for me, but I must have other considerations. You do not have children. My daughters are rooted in my life and I in theirs. My father is another such. They do not take me away from you; they co-exist. You, they, all of you are nourishment. I give myself entirely to you as a lover, but as a mother and a daughter I belong to others.’

  My silly anger subsided.

  ‘Of course, you are right,’ I said.

  ‘And it is because of these others that we cannot lock ourselves away. These are dangerous times, Bertold. My days with my father have taught me just how dangerous. We may yet be caught up in something – a web, a plot, a trap, an accident even – born of these evil days, which undoes us all.’

  ‘I will protect you and the girls in all events,’ I said. ‘Or I shall die in the attempt.’

  ‘I know you will, my Latiner. But let us hope that it does not come to that.’

  I was unsettled by her forebodings, for I trusted her judgment, but I was young and still believed in the triumph of good in the tournament against evil.

  XXIV

  Juliana had more communications from her father now following her visit. Not a man who trusted many, he found it helpful to unburden to his daughter. Messengers appeared and delivered sealed letters which Eustace, when he was around, deeply resented. He felt they should have come to him – and of course he yearned to use their contents in his machinations against the Duke. But Henry took great care that his communications were handed only to Juliana, no one else, and that they were destroyed once read.

  Juliana told me that, despite having solved his immediate domestic crisis, her father was now under pressure as never before from his enemies at large. I tried to meet her every day after the little girls’ lessons, and when despatches arrived, she would discuss their contents with me. When you hear about political affairs from the protagonist’s own daughter, they take on a much more immediate dimension, and I was caught up in these matters of state, almost as if the problems were my own.

  The great council at Rouen had been a key strategy of her father’s. He had invited the Archbishop of Rouen, four Norman bishops and a number of the principal abbots of the dukedom as well as Thurstan, Archbishop of York, who had been a long-term thorn in his side but was on occasion a useful ally. Also at this convocation was the papal legate, Cardinal Cuno, whose presence was something of a surprise. He was invited by Henry, although he was not always popular with the Duke, to lend greater weight to his efforts to secure calm and tranquility in Normandy. The Church was of course a central pillar in Henry’s hold on the dukedom – and had been from the first. Any kind of message of peace would be in Cuno’s best interest as well as Normandy’s. Alas for Henry, it did not work out like that. From the very first day of the council, Juliana told me, things went terribly wrong.

  Audoin, Bishop of Évreux, did not come to the council because his see was under sustained attack from – guess who? – Amaury de Montfort. The constable of the castle, a crony of de Montforts, held the view that Amaury was the victim of injustice and had been unfairly cheated of his inheritance. He came out in sympathy with Amaury and was promptly joined by other adjacent lords. Embarrassingly for Henry, the whole area was soon up in arms. The armed garrison of the castle proceeded to sack the town, a fairly standard though nonetheless melancholy event for the townsfolk, and the Bishop took to his heels, an absence that would last a year.

  Henry wound up the council and in November marched with his army first to l’Aigle where the French king was waiting for him. By all accounts the king’s soldiers were good. They emerged from the castle and attacked the attackers. One of the Duke’s nephews and best generals was unhorsed. Henry himself and his other nephew Stephen had to come to the general’s aid and, in the struggle that followed, Henry was struck on the head by a rock, which would have caused serious injury had he not been wearing a helmet.

  Juliana turned pale as she read this report, and I know she implored him in her next letter to keep out of the line of battle himself. He was not a natural soldier, but he was brave and – more importantly – he was lucky.

  ‘That is where my husband is now,’ she told me. ‘He is one of the self-same lords who are flocking to Amaury’s banner. Eustace is better at the banquet than the melee, but our Marshal, who leads his soldiers, is good, though God knows how we manage to keep him. Our men are brutish but well trained. No wonder Amaury eggs him on. But it will all end badly. The Marshal himself does not like to take arms against my father but he has no choice for he serves my husband. It would be all much better if women ran the world.’

  It was not the first time that I had heard that sentiment. My mother was ever fond of repeating it, as was the barmaid down at The Bear.

  The next week brought new trouble for Henry when some experienced troops, led by an ally of King Louis, disguised themselves as English soldiers in order to gain entrance to the strategically important castle at Andelys. Once inside they swiftly sang out the French war cry, ‘Montjoie’; the garrison collapsed and the French were soon in command of both castle and town.

  ‘What a stupid war cry that is,’ the Duke was heard to exclaim. ‘Mount Joy? It sounds like a brothel. Perhaps that is why the French like it.’

  Montjoie was what the French called the mound of corpses they built after a victory, an unpleasant habit which Henry thought barbarous. I heard of this battle at The Bear. Henry did not write of the small setback to his daughter, perhaps ashamed of it.

  The citadel of Andely soon became host to a nest of vipers in league against the Duke. They controlled all the land from Andely to Pont-Saint-Pier
re, and strutted about with their veteran soldiers, taunting Henry. Meanwhile in the south, at Alençon, disgruntled townsfolk took exception to the Duke’s favourite nephew, Stephen. The taking of hostages was a normal part of a battle, but these townsfolk were indignant that Stephen had taken the wife of a rich burgess and put her in the charge of some bad characters who had humiliated and raped her. Henry, of course, would not hear a word against Stephen (inept soldier though he was), so the townsfolk complained to the Comte of Anjou, who never let slip an opportunity to discomfort the Duke. Anjou besieged the castle, and when Henry marched down to relieve it with Theobald and Stephen, he got a bloody nose. Anjou cut the castle’s water supply and called in the help of the Comte de Maine, another reliable opportunist in the Henry-baiting stakes.

  They fought a pitched battle and Henry lost. It was only a small battle, but apparently it hurt. He wasn’t used to being beaten. Everywhere there seemed to be enemies. The only bright spot on the horizon was that Baldwin, Comte of Flanders, was dying – he had received a grievous wound in battle earlier in the year. Even so, as Henry remarked in a letter to Juliana, it was like the Hydra’s head. You cut one off and ten grew in its place. He could never stay anywhere for long enough to mount a proper siege before there was trouble somewhere else, and he had to bustle off to deal with it. Everything was ad hoc and quam celerrime.

  So the season of fighting ended miserably for Henry. We did not see so much of it at Breteuil because it was known that Eustace was a collaborator of the malcontents, so the malcontents left us alone. Henry himself was on good terms with his daughter even if he abhorred her husband, so he left us alone too. Eustace being away much of the time was an added bonus. Soon it was Martinmas, and we began to look forward to Christmas.

  Breteuil was a cold castle but wine mulled with honey, cinnamon, grains of paradise and galangale started to appear in hall, and warmed us, thanks to Juliana’s prompting, though it was officially the Advent fasting-time before the Christmas feast, and the Chaplain looked askance (while he drank the wine).

  And then Eustace returned.

  He was so full of himself that bits of him seemed to spill over. He had grown fat on his travels. His chin and his cheeks topped his jerkin like over-stuffed puddings. Nonetheless, his little, piggy eyes stared out with the same old malevolence.

  ‘You have grown soft in my absence,’ he shouted at us. ‘In the new year, I shall be wanting every man jack of you out in the field, wearing my colours and fighting my fight. Yes, even you, Latiner. What we need, before Christmas weakens us and softens us, is a melee. What do you think of that?’

  There was a deep, grumbling lowing noise from the majority, though I did hear someone shouting ‘YES’.

  I looked around and I think you can probably guess who it was. Yes, it was Fulk. And he had his eyes fixed on me. He really did hate me, that man. Later, that evening after dinner, he accosted me on the stairs.

  ‘A word, Latiner,’ he said.

  ‘Ingrediamur,’ I replied.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You asked for a word and I gave you one. In my role as Latiner, I felt I should give you one in Latin. Ingrediamur. It means let us go in.’

  ‘Go in where?’ his face showed a mixture of puzzlement and aggression.

  ‘Let us go into what you want to say to me.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Very clever. Well you won’t feel so clever when you hear what I have to tell you.’

  ‘What have you to tell me?’

  ‘I know what you are up to.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You and the Comtesse.’

  I felt the floor under my foot turn to quicksilver. I suppose somebody had to discover us one day, but that it had to be now – and that it should be Fulk – seemed unnecessarily brutal. What to do now? Denial was a possible course, but the man clearly had proof of some kind otherwise he would not have dared speak out. Juliana and I had had such good luck for so long that perhaps we had become careless. My mind raced and my scrotum contracted as I recollected what happens to courtiers of a castle who cuckold a comte.

  ‘Not so high and mighty now, are you?’ said Fulk, noticing my chagrin.

  ‘On the contrary, Fulk,’ I said, collecting myself. ‘I am higher and mightier than ever. It is you who are the fool. You really feel the Comte would listen to you rather than to my lady who everyone knows is a virtuous wife. No, what would happen to you if you blabbed is what happens to tattle-mongers and slanderers everywhere. First you will be whipped and then you will have your tongue cut out.’

  I was deeply worried, but I didn’t like to show it to Fulk. It would give him enormous satisfaction.

  ‘It’s …’

  ‘No, Fulk. It is the standard treatment meted out to those who break the seventh commandment. Thou shalt not bear false witness, you horrible piece of witless sediment.’

  ‘I’m …’

  ‘Yes, Fulk, you are. Convicted out of your own mouth. Say one word to anyone of what you have just mentioned to me, and that will be that last word of any kind that you will say. I personally will slice your tongue out and serve it at high table, jellied in aspic, with a piquant sauce, because otherwise it will taste of you and your rancid lies.’

  He sidled away, cursing me roundly, and vowing to find me in the melee next day and beat my head in.

  I managed to chance on Juliana upstairs, unaccompanied for a moment, and I told her the news. We looked at each other desperately. This could be the end, and yet we had hardly begun.

  ‘You must kill him,’ she said, ‘in the melee. It’s just the place. People get injured all the time. It’s part of the sport.’

  I thought she was joking, so I answered lightly.

  ‘What if he kills me?’

  ‘That would be unfortunate. But you’re not going to let him. You have fought with sticks?’

  ‘I have, it is a sport we novices practised at the abbey. We all had to have some training in military service in case we were attacked by people like de Montfort.’

  ‘You were good at it?

  ‘Quite good.’

  ‘Well, there you are. Knock him down. Addle his wits. Kill him, if you must. He is a danger to us, Bertold.’

  ‘I don’t like to kill him,’ I said. ‘He’s just an angry man.’

  ‘Milksop.’

  She took it for granted that I would do it for her and, alas, she was probably right.

  XXV

  The next day we were all drawn up and instructions on the melee were issued by the Marshal, who knew his stuff even though he did not always enjoy discharging his duties for Eustace. Juliana had told me she would not even peep through a window at the bloody struggle. She had told me I could cry off if I liked. She could get me excused, but of course I could not agree. We had an argument about it, but I would not budge. Even a bastard does not like to be kept. To be honest, I was keen to fight the fight. I was quick and strong and ready for Fulk any time he liked.

  ‘You will be divided into two armies,’ the Marshal told us. ‘They will be called French and English.’

  ‘Why not Norman?’ someone asked.

  ‘Because you are all Norman, and the last thing our Duke wants is to see Normans fighting each other.’

  I could see Eustace chewing his beard at this, but he said nothing because he did not want to lose the best marshal in south-east Normandy. There were others who would take him as soon as look at him.

  ‘You will be armed with a helmet, a stout stick and a shield. Each side will have a standard and a standard-bearer. The object of the exercise is to capture the enemy’s standard. Once someone is down, there must be no further contact with him. Leave him alone. We do not want serious injuries. Anyone seen behaving dangerously will be disciplined. The melee is an exercise designed to show the realities of battle without the use of steel and the spilling of unnecessary blood. It is not an opportunity to settle scores. Is that understood?’

  We stood there like oxen in th
e cold wind.

  ‘Is that understood?’ he shouted.

  ‘Answer the Marshal, you dogs,’ called a sergeant.

  ‘YES, SIR,’ we shouted.

  ‘We will proceed, French first. The infantry – that is the squires – will be led by the knights who will position themselves at the front of their infantrymen at the left-hand end of the big field outside the castle wall. The English will follow the same procedure at the right-hand end of the field. When I sound the trumpet, the cavalry will charge each other. Foot soldiers may only intervene if the standard is in danger. When I sound the trumpet twice, the cavalry will withdraw. On trumpet call three, the infantry will advance and fall upon each other. On the last trumpet call of four, all fighting will cease completely. Anyone disobeying will be …’

  ‘Castrated,’ called Eustace.

  He thought that a huge joke. The Marshal started to divide us. I was careful to be English when I saw Fulk was French. We passed into the field, preceded by our steaming cavalry.

  Some castles, I knew, had recently taken up a much more courtly form of ritual combat, charging at each other on their horses. Armed with bated lances, their object was to knock each other off their steeds. My father’s dangling-iron was a new-fangled auxiliary to the sport. These new, so-called tournaments were all very well, the Marshal had told us, but as training in the matter of real fighting, the hard and shocking, reeking and dismembering actuality of the battlefield, there was nothing to beat the melee.

  What would it be like to cut off a man’s arm or his face? And what would it be like to have that done to the face that you thought of as you? It was impossible not to see men with terrible wounds these days: soldiers spewed out by the troubles in Normandy, peg-legs with just one ear or eye or half a mouth, and so on.

  I was pondering this as we faced up to the villainous Frenchies on the other side. We started to mutter against them, whipping ourselves up into ferocity and group-courage, and next we were shouting obscenities and insults at people we had regarded as our comrades moments before. When the trumpet sounded, our knights thundered across the ten-acre field towards their adversaries. They were armed with wooden poles with rounded ends and they wore their armour cap-a-pie, but as they clashed together, there were some who fell heavily and lay still for a while, and others who raised triumphant gloved fists into the air. Those who had failed to unhorse their opponents used their wooden staves to beat at the enemy. When the cavalry had fought itself to a standstill, the second trumpet sounded, and the riders withdrew. Servants hurried onto the field to carry the casualties with sore heads and broken bones away to the infirmary. Neither of the standards had been taken yet.