by Speer, Flora
“Food,” laughed Chester, plucking a roasted capon off one of the tables set up nearby. “Let us eat while we may. Who knows what will befall our stomachs once we reach the rough waters outside the harbor?” He tore the bird apart in his hands, distributing pieces of the meat to those standing near him. “Sweet, white breast for you, my lady wife, in honor of your own, a juicy thigh for my lady of Perche, a wing for you, Lady Selene, that you may fly ever higher in this world, and for you, sir,” turning to a rather effeminate young knight, “for you, the back, a most appropriate piece of flesh.”
Raucous laughter greeted this comment and was joined in by the knight himself, who instead of being offended threw one arm across the earl’s shoulders, raised his winecup and toasted his friend in a long, confused speech.
“More wine here.” That was William Atheling, moving about the deck and courteously seeing to the needs of friends and guests. “Let us have music and dancing. And you there, open a few casks for the crew. They’ll row the faster for a bit of wine in their bellies. Tell them, good Captain Fitz Stephen, there will be more wine for them in England. And for God’s sake, cast off. Let’s be on our way. We’ll never overtake the king if we stay all night at dockside.”
“It will be nearly another hour before we can leave, my lord,” Captain Fitz Stephen replied. “There is a new load of baggage yet to come aboard, and a few stragglers from your own party. But have no fear, sir, we’ll crack on all the sail we have, and with the rowers working besides, we’ll easily outrace the king.”
“I’m depending on you,” William said. “Come, Lady Selene, will you dance with me? I trust I have your permission, Thomas?”
At Thomas’s nod, Selene curtsied, blushing prettily at the honor, and went off with the earl and countess of Chester, leaving Thomas standing alone next to the earl of Chester’s brother.
“By heaven, I nearly forgot in all this confusion,” Sir Ottuel cried, striking his forehead with one hand. “Thomas, forgive me, I am truly a dunce. There’s a man on the dock who wants to speak with you. He says it’s important.”
“I thought my people were all aboard,” Thomas said. “Did he give his name?”
“I don’t think it’s one of your men. I’ve seen your servants, and his clothing is not like theirs. He gave me no name, but said it had to do with Afoncaer.”
“Did he mention my Uncle Guy, or Lady Meredith?” All Thomas could think of was the horrible possibility that Guy, or one of the others he loved at Afoncaer, was sick or dead. What if Guy’s wounds had reopened and felled him all these months later? Or might the Welsh have made another attack? “I should never have left them,” he muttered.
“The man mentioned no names,” Ottuel said, “but he’s still there, see, in the grey cloak standing by those casks. You have plenty of time to speak to him before we sail, and if aught is amiss at Afoncaer, you could have no faster transport back to England than this ship. We’ve a little room left, I think. If he’s from Afoncaer, bring him aboard with you. William won’t mind.”
“I wonder he did not come aboard himself to find me. I see my wife is still dancing. Should she ask for me, will you tell her I’ll rejoin her as soon as I can?”
“Gladly. I’ll ask her to dance myself, if William will give her up.”
The man waiting on the dock was a smooth, black-haired fellow with eyes that did not look directly at the person he spoke to, and Thomas knew at once he was not from Afoncaer.
“What is your business with me?” Thomas demanded, one hand on his sword hilt, prepared for treacherous attack.
“There’s no need for that, my lord,” the dark man said, shifty eyes following the motion of Thomas’s hand. “I’ve not come to take your life, only to plead for your presence. Your lady mother is desperately ill and like to die this night. She charged me to beg you, on my knees before all the Atheling’s court if I must, to let me take you to her. She would ask your forgiveness for her sins against you before she dies.”
“I cannot go to her,” Thomas said. “She is bound by the documents she sealed on the day she left Afoncaer. She may not contact me or see me.”
“That can scarcely matter once she’s dead, can it?” the man asked. “Would you deny the last wish of your dying mother? Will you not give her the forgiveness she so desperately wants, and send her peacefully into the next life?”
“She is truly contrite?” Thomas did not know what to think. Selene had said days ago that Isabel wanted to see him, and he had refused, though in his heart he had wanted to go to her. Had she perhaps been ill even then? It was possible she had changed after so many years, and really was sorry for what she had done in the past. He believed she had always loved him. He hesitated, torn and uncertain what to do. The messenger saw his confusion.
“My lord, she is desperate for your presence,” the man insisted, adding, “I came here alone, but I have brought extra horses with me in case you wish to take your own men with you. We need only mount and ride.”
Thomas still hesitated, but he discounted the idea of treachery, since he would indeed take several of his own men along. They would be well armed and alert.
“She is at her house near Dol?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” the messenger said.
“Too far for me to ride there and back and still sail with William as I should. And yet, if she is really dying, I may regret all my life that I did not take this last chance to see her.”
“Just so, my lord. Lady Isabel was certain you would feel that way, and confident you would not fail her. Consider that the Atheling would not be angry with you for leaving him under such circumstances.”
“Wait here for me,” Thomas said, making his choice.
He hurried back aboard The White Ship. He met Selene by the gangplank, her face flushed with wine and dancing, her eyes shining. She wore a deep wine-red gown belted in gold, a gold net on her hair, and she was exquisitely beautiful. She took his hand to pull him into the throng on deck.
“I thought you had deserted me,” she cried. “We are ready to sail. We are going to a new life, Thomas, where I will do all I can to make you happy. I swear it. Come and dance with me.”
When he told her what the messenger had said, all the glow went out of her face, and she stood before him, white and haggard.
“No, Thomas, you can’t go to her. Stay here with me.”
“How could I do that, laugh and dance and drink my way across the Narrow Sea while my mother lies dying? I must go to her. I’m surprised at you, Selene. Only a few days ago you were urging me to visit her.”
“She’s evil. I saw it at my last visit with her. Stay away from her, Thomas, I beg you.”
“She has repented of her evil and wants my forgiveness. The messenger said so. You will come with me, Selene.”
“No! No, she doesn’t want to see me again. It’s you she wants to speak with.”
Thomas, although surprised at Selene’s vehemence, agreed with her after only a moment’s reflection. He knew from what the messenger had said that he should make haste. He did not want to tarry long enough to have all their belongings and the servants disembarked and to make provisions for them to stay at Barfleur until he returned, and if he insisted that Selene go with him she would only delay him. He could ride much faster without her.
“There is no time to discuss this,” he said. “I must leave at once if I’m to reach Dol while my mother still lives. Perhaps it’s just as well that you do stay on board. I’ll take Benet for squire and two men-at-arms for guards. The rest of our people and our baggage I leave in your charge. When you reach England, go to court as we had planned and remain there until I join you. I’ll see to my mother’s last wishes and attend to her funeral, and when it’s over I’ll sail to England. From what the messenger said, it won’t be very long, a day or two at most. I pray she lives until I get there.”
“Thomas, don’t leave me.” Selene put her arms around his waist, laying her head on his chest. “Please stay with me. I
love you, dear husband.”
He held her briefly, thinking how sad it was that she should say she loved him after he had ceased to love her at all, and wondering if she really meant it. Then he took her slender shoulders in his hands and set her gently aside.
“If you love me, do as I wish,” he said. “Tell William what has happened. I don’t have time to search him out in this crowd. See to all my belongings, my goods and my people, and especially to yourself, Selene, and I will join you at court as soon as I can.”
She reached toward him once more, clutching at his sleeve.
“I will obey, my lord. Will you kiss me before you go? Just one last kiss.”
He bent his head and her arms crept around his neck. She pressed her body against him, but he did not embrace her. His mouth was on hers, and he felt her lips open under his, her tongue searching across his lips. Thomas did not, could not, respond to her. He reached up and caught her wrists, unlocking them from the back of his neck and holding her away from him.
“I trust you to carry out my orders,” he said, and turned to leave the ship.
Selene watched him go, feeling fear beyond anything she had known before. What good were all her intentions of winning back Thomas’s affections and making herself into a perfect nobleman’s wife if Isabel ruined everything by confessing to Thomas all the things she and Selene had done? Was Isabel really sick? She had appeared to be in perfect health a few days ago. Perhaps the message was a ruse. If it was, its purpose could only be to lead Thomas face to face with his mother, where she would betray Selene and tell all. Dying or healthy, Isabel would surely do Selene irreparable harm. And there was no way she could stop whatever Isabel planned, for after much delay, the lines had finally been cast off and The White Ship began to move out into the harbor.
The night was ink-black except where torches and oil lamps flared to light the wild scene on deck. Most of the participants had had entirely too much to drink. A few particularly rowdy young nobles leaned over the railing hurling pieces of food and open taunts at the elderly priest who had come to the harbor to pronounce a benediction upon the ship and all who sailed in her. Selene, shocked at their behavior, crossed herself and turned aside.
‘There you are, my lady.” Sir Ottuel of Chester stood before her. “Come and dance with me again, I beg you.”
Selene resolutely forced her tortured thoughts into the back of her mind. There was nothing she could do now save follow Thomas’s instructions. After she was in England she would find some quiet place, and there think on what means she might use to win her husband back to her should his mother tell him of their mutual treachery. But not here, not in this laughing, noisy throng. Selene put on her best court smile. At least Sir Ottuel was reasonably sober, unlike most of the others.
“I shall be happy to dance with you, Sir Ottuel, but first I must find my lord William. I have a message for him from my husband.” She moved off across the crowded deck, searching for the Atheling with Sir Ottuel trailing happily in her wake.
Isabel was not dying. She did not even look the slightest bit sick. Pale, yes, but that might have been from emotion at seeing her son again after so many years. Garbed in her favorite shade of brilliant blue, she sat in a high-backed chair next to the hearth, leaning her head against its carved wood, her long, tapering fingers resting lightly on the arms. Thomas had noted the rich appointments of the house as he was led from the entrance through the great hall and up a flight of steps to this private bedchamber. Sir Valaire, whose generosity provided the house, had played fair by Isabel.
“Your messenger told me you were ill,” Thomas said, looking at her keenly. “Dying, in fact.”
“So I was told two days ago,” Isabel replied. “But as you see, I’ve tricked the doctors.”
“And tricked me, too, I’ve no doubt.” Thomas sat down across the fire from her. He had to sit, for suddenly his knees were trembling and he was embarrassed by the powerful emotion he felt. Mother or no, after all she had done at Afoncaer to him and to Guy, this woman should mean nothing to him. He thought he had torn her out of his heart, but that was not so. He took refuge in anger, and it was not mock anger, either. “This meeting breaks your solemn oath to Uncle Guy. You had better have some deep reason for calling me here, madame. Why did you want to see me?”
“Why not, after so long? Selene told me you were both returning to England. I’m growing older. Who knows if I will live until you come to these shores again? I thought I ought to seize my chance while you were still here.” Isabel smiled at him. “You have grown into a fine, handsome man, Thomas. Like your father and your uncle. You resemble them both.”
“When Selene came to me after her last visit with you she was sorely distressed. What happened between you?”
“She didn’t tell you? Then I shall have to. But not now, not tonight. It’s late and you have ridden hard. I’ve ordered a room prepared for you.”
“I’m not staying,” Thomas declared.
“What, still so hot to be with your fish-blooded wife?” Isabel laughed at him. “But if my messenger plucked you from the very deck of the royal ship, then your dear Selene must be halfway to England by now. Sleep, Thomas, and tomorrow we will talk. I will open my heart to you. And after you know all, you may return to Selene, and to Afoncaer. If you still want to.”
“What do you mean by that?” Thomas rose to stand over her with a menacing look. Isabel remained totally unafraid of him.
“What could I mean, my dear son, but that I will put no impediment in your way once you know the truth?”
Isabel rose, too, gracefully slender and tall for a woman, and Thomas suddenly recalled how he had always had to look up at her when he was a boy, bending his head far back to see her face. She had seemed like a queen to him then, far away and incredibly lovely, a distant, perfect ideal of womanhood. And almost always irritated or angry with him. Always pushing him away lest his childish hands soil her lovely gowns. He had worshipped Isabel, but he had never had a true mother until he found Meredith. And now he was taller than she, he looked down at her, not up, and he saw the lines about her eyes and the grey hair just visible at the edge of her coif. She was growing older, as she had said, and in spite of all she had done – and he knew most of it, Guy had told him the full story of her treachery and Walter’s those long years ago – in spite of it all, he loved her still. It was that love that had brought him here today, against his better judgment. He decided he would hear whatever she had to say, and forgive whatever she wanted forgiven. He could do that much for her.
“Very well,” he said. “Since I am here, I will stay the night.”
“I am so glad.” Her hand moved up to touch his cheek in an odd, wistful gesture. “Dear Thomas.”
The servants came to lead him to his bedchamber, where, after eating a little, he slipped between fresh linen sheets. He fell asleep at once, his dreams untroubled by any premonition about the morrow.
Selene had tried, but she could not banish the tormenting thoughts that plagued her. She ought to have gone with Thomas. Then she would have been able to counter at once whatever Isabel said about her. Thomas would hate her. How could he do otherwise? She thought of all the possible punishments an outraged husband might inflict upon his wife and shivered. Whatever happened when they met again, no matter what she said to him, or how many excuses she made, one thing was certain: she had lost him forever.
In addition to her emotional distress, Selene was feeling a bit seasick. She knew she had drunk too much wine in her efforts to calm herself, and she had eaten more rich food than she really wanted. Whirling about in so many dances had further disturbed her stomach, so that the ship’s slightest motion made her queasy. It might not have been so bad had they not been traveling so fast, but William Atheling had insisted they must catch up to King Henry’s ship. Additional sails were hoisted, and the rowers below deck were urged to greater efforts. A double row of long oars, fifty of them altogether, rose and dipped into the sea and rose again
. The ship strained forward, into the rough open water of the Narrow Sea.
Selene felt the first slapping surge of the choppy waves and her stomach heaved. She would not give into it, would not suffer the indignity of hanging over the side and casting the contents of her stomach into the sea. She found a coil of rope and sat down on it, heedless of the damage dirt and tar might do to her gown. Pressing her lips firmly together she concentrated on taking deep breaths through her nose until she felt a little better. Sitting as she was, she did not see the white foam breaking over the reef called Le Ras de Catte.
No one else saw the reef, either. The White Ship, hurtling through the darkness with all sails full and all rowers laboring to the limits of their strength, crashed headlong upon the rocks, then slewed off to one side, the jagged rocks tearing open a long gash below the waterline.
Selene was thrown forward by the impact, sprawling onto the sharply slanting deck. Shrieks of panic and cries for help sounded all about her. Selene crawled to the rail and pulled herself upright. Sir Ottuel appeared beside her, dragging the weeping countess of Chester with him.
“Stay here,” he cried, putting her hands on the rail next to Selene’s. “Hold on. Lady Selene, make her stay with you. She is hysterical. We can’t find my brother.”
“The ship is sinking,” Selene gasped, looking over the edge into sucking black water.
“Yes, and there are not enough lifeboats,” Ottuel told her. “At least that fool Fitz Stephen has put the Atheling into one of them. He will be safe enough, we aren’t far from shore. Help will come soon. Stay here, both of you. I’ll come back for you.” He was gone, sliding across the tilting deck into the night.