The White Ship

by Nicholas Salaman

  ‘I should be interested, FitzStephen, and indeed I must know more but now is not the time. I see you have an excellent vessel which we can learn much from, but my son will be here soon and we have a busy day ahead …’

  But FitzStephen was bursting to impart something. He was steaming like a kettle.

  ‘I should like to offer the White Ship to you, sire. To take you to England today. It is truly a royal ship and…’

  The Duke raised his hand.

  ‘No, no, FitzStephen. I have made other arrangements. If I do not use the Honfleur ship, the mayor will have a seizure and the Comte d’Honfleur will start burning my castles.’

  The Duke was trying to be tactful; quite an effort for him, but he was doing it. FitzStephen tried another tack.

  ‘May I ask for my father’s position then, sire, the fief that my father was given, to provide ships for the royal service. I have money to purchase the honour – see, sire, one mark of gold.’

  The wretched FitzStephen dangled a purse at the Duke who you could see was tempted. Gold was short in the royal coffers.

  ‘Well, honest FitzStephen, I agree to your request for the fief, but I must tell you my decision is made for this particular voyage. Next time, I shall doubtless be very much obliged to you.’

  ‘But you m-m-must, sir. Anything else would be…’

  ‘No one says must to the Duke.’

  FitzStephen saw he had gone too far.

  ‘I am sorry, sire. My enthusiasm … I am only anxious for your state, your dignity.’

  ‘I leave in the Pelican this evening just after high water tonight. Half of my baggage train is loaded already. I cannot go back on my word; I have made a contract with Honfleur. It is fitting that the King should be seen to keep his promises.’

  I knew that better than anyone, except perhaps Juliana.

  ‘Sire. The Pelican is a fine ship, and my colleague of Honfleur is a clever man. But surely as King of England you should arrive in a ship that dazzles all eyes; you cannot creep home in an old slop-bucket.’

  ‘By the wounds of Christ, FitzStephen, you go too far! I do not creep anywhere.’

  ‘I think what he means is, by comparison, sire,’ I said, in appeasement. ‘You cannot blame a man for being too proud of his creation.’

  ‘Nor do I, Latiner, nor do I.’

  It had been a good performance by FitzStephen. He already knew the Duke was spoken for in terms of travel arrangements but he had led him well along the path. It was my turn now.

  ‘Perhaps, sir, the Prince would like to consider…’

  ‘Yes, indeed, good thinking, Latiner. As I was about to say, FitzStephen, what we shall do is this. The Prince – who has this month received not just King Louis’s approval and authority as my heir, but also the Pope’s benediction – the Prince and his brother Richard and their party shall have your excellent White Ship to take them to England where we may inspect it at greater length. How many can it hold?’

  ‘She, sir.’

  The shipwright was too shocked by the casual impersonal pronoun to consider even the impoliteness of correcting a king.

  ‘How many can she hold?’

  He was in a good mood today.

  ‘Three hundred and fifty at a pinch.’

  ‘We do not want a pinch,’ said the Duke.

  ‘There will be no pinching, sire,’ I put in. ‘Unless there are ladies on board.’

  The Duke threw me a sardonic glance.

  ‘I know about you, Latiner,’ he said. ‘Why is it that good women like little shits such as you?’

  I spoke without thinking. ‘I follow the example of my betters, sire.’

  I saw FitzStephen quail and I was about to take cover myself, when the Duke roared with laughter.

  ‘If you ever need a job as a jester, boy, let me know. My fellow’s got piles and can’t crack a joke any more. Can’t even crack a turd.’

  And then, turning on his heel, he said ‘That’s settled then. I will speak to the Prince myself.’

  ‘Well,’ I said to FitzStephen, ‘you got what you wanted. The Duke values his son more than he does himself. I would say you have the better bargain.’

  ‘I don’t like that little shit,’ FitzStephen replied. ‘I’ve heard one or two things about him.’

  ‘And so have I,’ I told him, breaking my rule of discretion, ‘and seen them too.’

  That little cry of love I had heard in the barn at Mortagne seemed a hundred years ago now. I had a pang of homesickness for a moment. I could smell the place, and wished I had not got myself into these deep waters. But for me, for all of us, it seemed there was no way out. We were all caught in Juliana’s net, my new little bastard-to-be included – unless, of course, I somehow escaped the doom I could see closing in upon me, survived, and returned in time to marry Alice. That would be a fine thing, but the future was too dark for me to read.

  LXX

  From this time on, it seemed to me that a gathering darkness lay over me. I walked in the shadow of death. There was nothing I could do to stop the course of events that I had set in motion, and for which I would everlastingly be cursed if I was successful in my enterprise – and indeed if I wasn’t, by those who valued morality and justice. I was a soul in the antechambers of hell, whose door is always open.

  The Prince and his party arrived late. He had stopped for a two o’clock dinner in Quettehou (he had a taste for pancakes as his father had a lust for lampreys) and did not enter Barfleur until seven. He marched to a very different drum from the martial beat of his father. The armour had come off and the ladies were in attendance, as well as some of the most dashing of the younger generals; silk and furs prevailed. There was music in their entourage, pipes and little castanets, timbrels, tambourines and fiddlers. A fool travelled with them, a creature hardly bigger than a football. I got wafts of perfume from the ladies – orris and jasmine, oranges, lemongrass and sandalwood – mingling incongruously with notes of dust and steel, horse sweat and human sweat, and fatigue (that has a smell of its own) which accompanied the elite soldiers arriving with the Prince. In spite of their exertions, they marched with a certain swagger. You couldn’t blame them; fighting was over and they felt they had won. It was time for pleasure. The only exception was the prince’s half-brother Richard, one of his father’s most trusted officers, who wore a somewhat rueful expression. Richard was a bastard like me, and a rueful expression is something that bastards wear. Rue is a herb that bastards eat. I was sorry that he was going to have to drown. They were all going to have to drown.

  One particular coxcomb, loud among the riders, caught my attention. I looked closer and saw, to my horror, that it was my half-brother Robert, now a knight. I made a note to try and avoid him, but my heart bled for my father, since if I were successful, the loathsome youth was going to have to drown. Worse, if he died, the likelihood was that my father would make me Comte, and what sort of person would I be then? I would be a murderer. Well, I was going to be a murderer anyway, but I would be a worse sort of murderer, a murderer for common advantage and I didn’t like that, but still I saw no way out.

  I thought that I caught a glimpse of Eliphas in the throng. It was the sort of glittering company he would sometimes be found in, but I could not be sure it was he, nor did I have the time to search. I badly wanted to speak to him. It was terrible for me now to see the people who must die.

  The Prince had already enjoyed a hearty dinner, and a light supper now sufficed, as he did not want to wait around. His father, who had been irritated at the lateness of his coming, now greeted him affectionately, although his son displayed what I thought was scant respect, indeed impatience. The Duke then showed him the ship he was to sail in, the White Ship, which rode high at the jetty.

  ‘Look, William,’ he cried, ‘you will be riding a swan like Jupiter himself!’

  This seemed to be to the lad’s grunted satisfaction, though he grumbled at the time it would take to re-load all his provisions and supplies. The bar in T
he Three Horseshoes was cleared for the comfort of the ladies of the court including my pretty little stepmother Matilda, Comtesse de Perche, who affected not to recognise me. Maybe she didn’t. The word was that she was in love. Was she to die too? I looked at all these people and I thought: if they knew what I am intending to do, they would turn on me and rend me in pieces.

  Wine was called for, and provided by the Duke, in what I thought considerable if not immoderate quantity. Hogsheads from Burgundy appeared (the Duke of Burgundy was something of an ally of Henry’s since he too had trouble with the King of France). I was surprised at the Duke for unleashing such a supply for the prince just before a sea voyage. I also noticed that some of it was making its way not just to the passengers but to the sailors, notorious for glugging and grogging. I would have called it rash, but the man was besotted with his son, and would do anything to win a smile. A party atmosphere began to make itself felt among the White Ship party; the girls giggled hectically, the men started singing and I noticed a player’s stall had been set up. I wondered again if it was Eliphas, but I could not get across to investigate.

  At length the Duke was satisfied that his own ship was properly stowed and ready to sail (I noticed that their captain had forbidden his men to drink the wine). The King’s Court and his men boarded her and the last farewells were made. I noted that some of those mighty men of valour, Gilbert of Exmes and Ralph the Red among them, along with William Bigod and a man I had marked as another Latiner, Gisulf the Scribe, were not after all travelling with the Duke, but were waiting to join the Prince’s party.

  It was a starlit night, but with just a thin crescent moon and the clarity of frost about it; not so dark you couldn’t see some distance ahead. There was a slight evening breeze from the east, firm but not brisk, driving towards Barfleur Point on the port side. Although the tide was still just on the flood, the wind in the sail coupled with the efforts of the oarsmen would more than compensate for the pace of the water. It was time for the Duke to leave for his other country.

  ‘Look after my son,’ the Duke enjoined FitzStephen.

  ‘I will, sire.’

  ‘You had better. If anything happens to him in your damned ship, I’ll string you up from that mast myself.’

  He smiled, like the mouthpiece of a steel helmet, to make FitzStephen see that he was serious. The water behind him was as black as his beard, tinged with red, from the embers of the fires around.

  ‘And you, Latiner? What are you waiting around for? You’re surely not going to England?’

  ‘As I told you, sire. I am here to collect money that is owing to the butcher of Rouen.’

  ‘You don’t look like a butcher. You look like a Latiner. Spit it out, man. The real reason! You have the look of a man carrying something close.’

  I did not like the way his questions were leading. He surely did not suspect me of a plot, though he would have good reason if he did. I reminded myself that he suspected everybody, all the time. It was his way. I repeated my excuse.

  ‘I shall be debt-collecting, sire. For butcher Haimo. I look after his accounts.’

  ‘Why, so you do. I had heard something of that. You have so many talents, Latiner. Schoolmaster, wrestler, sailor, accountant, ladies’ man … but always the bastard. Tell the Prince to pay. He can afford it.’

  I nearly reminded him that his own father was a bastard, but I held my tongue for I had quite enough adversity for him that evening.

  ‘As for not looking like a butcher, sire. My coat is made from our own sheepskins. Do I look the part now?’

  I unfolded the sheepskin coat that I had brought along against the cold, and put it on. He wrinkled his nose.

  ‘I’d put the coat on after you are on board. They won’t let you on the White Ship looking like that. And smelling. Oof!’

  He turned and stepped up onto the Pelican where one of the twins, famous for their disputation in front of the Pope, William (or was it Waleran?) Beaumont was politely waiting to assist the Duke should he require it. FitzStephen and his men on the jetty pushed the ship off, the wind filled her sail, and the oars poked out of her sides like the legs of a centipede and began to move in long, rhythmic strokes. Her lights twinkled and faded in the darkness, and then she was gone. It was a calm night and her master knew the course well. She would be in Southampton in less than five hours.

  I stood for a while in the quietness as the water licked up onto the jetty. The flood tide has a different smell from the ebb which carries all away.

  LXXI

  Another of the Duke’s hogsheads of wine had been broached. FitzStephen – taut and nervous, his dreams near to fulfilment – made himself known to the Prince, and the young man thrust a cup of wine into his hands. More soon followed it. I do not think the shipwright was used to strong wine, or he would have stopped his sailors drinking.

  I walked about, trying to recognise some of the passengers. Someone pointed out Rabel de Tancarville, son of the King’s chamberlain. He was a steady-looking young man, who seemed a little on edge, as he talked to a serious William Bigod. I noticed another bigwig, Richard, Earl of Chester, with his wife, who looked nervous. Apart from the Bishop of Coutances who kept lifting his eyes to heaven – perhaps because he was breaking wind or seasick already or both – these were about the only sober people in view, and I included in that category two monks from the Abbey of Tiron and the Archdeacon of Hereford, who were laughing at something that could well have been a dirty joke. The devil was afoot that night and putting his shite in good men’s mouths. Gilbert of Exmes and Ralph the Red may have been excellent generals, but they were well away now. Even Richard, the Prince’s half-brother, was flushed and garrulous, pressing himself upon one of the young ladies in a manner more befitting a melee.

  There was one man who caught my eye who was not drinking. I asked FitzStephen who he was and he told me his name was William of Pirou, a sometime royal steward – not a race of men I usually liked for they were full of guile at the expense of their betters and cruel or exacting to those beneath them. He was a pale-faced man, of middle height, lean but sinewy, ideal for disappearing in a crowd. He seemed to have some intent of purpose on his face, but what it was I could not discern. He was a man to watch: always smiling a little as though at some incipient jest; never laughing – as though he had a knife about his cloak. There were one or two rough-looking knights, more like scullions, I thought, who did not seem to fit in with the fine company, but then neither did I. It did cross my mind to wonder what they might be doing on board, but I had other things to think about.

  The crowd had now surged out onto the jetty. The lading of the ship was finished, and it was almost time to be away. FitzStephen lurched up and murmured something in my ear.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said.

  It had sounded like a cryptic word, a password. Why would he say a password to me? Was there some kind of plot – another one? In that hour of urgency and suspense, it seemed to me that anything was possible. I cocked an ear more closely.

  ‘Ofnanour,’ he slurred.

  ‘Ofnanour?’ I questioned.

  ‘’S nearly high water,’ he explained.

  I was only temporarily relieved. I sincerely hoped FitzStephen was going to cock the whole thing up by being too drunk to step on board.

  ‘Shall I go and tell the Prince?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes, get ’em on board. I’ll tell the M-m-mate.’

  The mate was a square-shaped, bearded, elderly seaman with a rolling gait, called Roger, whom FitzStephen trusted, but who didn’t know how to treat princes and courtiers. The last time I had seen him he’d been sticking his beak into a pint pot. I set off to locate the Prince who alone could give the order to embark. I found myself charged now with a strange energy and confidence. I knew what had to be done. All directions were leading towards it. I found the Prince with his arm round the waist of his half-sister, the Lady Matilda. They were laughing immoderately at some sally by Gisulf the Scribe who evidently
fancied himself as a wit. All around him the party hummed and buzzed, I recognised William of Rhuddlan, drinking with the two sons of Ivo Grandmesnil, and William Bigod – pointed out to me earlier as important nobs by FitzStephen. The girls with them were screeching and cackling. It was all very regrettable, not my idea of princessly behaviour, and I felt we were embarking on a ship of fools, such as may not return. Out in the harbour, masts wagged like the tongues of gossips. I had the feeling, I’m sure you know it, that all this had happened before.

  ‘The Captain begs your pardon and says he thinks it is time to get the party on board, sire,’ I told the Prince.

  ‘The Captain does not give the orders, fellow. I give the orders.’

  ‘Yes, sire. But if I may say so, the tide gives the orders. I don’t know if you have heard of King Canute and his problem.’

  ‘Who are you, fellow?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said the Comtesse, ‘don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  She was breathtakingly beautiful in that Saxon way, thick blonde hair, delicate features like an angel, her cheeks slightly pinker than usual from the wine. I had grown a beard since she last saw me.

  ‘I don’t think so, my lady,’ I mumbled, turning my head away from her, towards the Prince. ‘The Captain has enlisted my services, sire, to help get everyone on board.’

  ‘Who are you, fellow?’ he asked again.

  ‘Well, sire, in fact I am the butcher of Rouen’s counting-man, and I have come to collect money owing to him by your court for six months past.’

  ‘Go away, little man,’ he said, and I wanted to strike him.

  ‘Your father said you would pay, sire,’ I told him. ‘I have the bill with me here.’

  I offered it to him, but he half turned away.

  Gisulf the Scribe intervened. ‘Better do what he suggests, sire,’ he said. ‘There’ll only be trouble when you come back next year. You know how the Duke likes to play fair.’