Berold’s lungs were bursting, aching for air. It was too late now for prayer. He’d been too petrified when there’d still been time, huddling in the stern, whimpering each time the ship lurched, paralyzed by fear. And then the deck seemed to fall away, water was flooding in, and he was swept over the side, sure that he would die unshriven, lost to God’s Grace. But he continued to fight instinctively for life, kicking and clawing his way back to the surface.
All around him people were struggling, splashing, snatching at floating debris. Not far away, a wine cask was bobbing, and Berold plunged toward it, managed by sheer luck to catch one of its trailing ropes. Nearby, he could hear a woman sobbing to the Blessed Lady for deliverance, but the sea was pitching and rolling as the White Ship went under, and he could see nothing but waves rising against the sky. The hugh cask was unwieldy; try as he might, he could not get a secure grip. Clinging to its rope, he was waging a losing battle to stay afloat; swells were breaking over his head, and he sputtered and gasped for air between submersions. And then the cask thudded into something solid. There was a jarring thump, and he mustered his dwindling strength, grabbed for this new lifeline. For a time, he just concentrated upon holding on, upon breathing. Gradually his numbed brain began to function again. Shredded canvas and crossed wooden beams—the White Ship’s yardarm and mast. That realization gave him his first flicker of hope. Clenching his fists in the rigging ropes, he slowly dragged himself up onto the spar.
He was not alone. Other men were straddling the mast, clutching at the sail, hanging on to the yardarm, and these fortunate few were the only ones to survive the sinking of the White Ship. They clung to their precarious refuge and listened as their shipmates drowned. It did not take long, for the water was very cold. Soon the screaming stopped, and an ominous silence settled over the bay. Berold saw one of the men securing himself with the rigging rope, and he, too, groped for the halyard, fumbled until he’d knotted it around his waist. No one talked; they were saving their strength for staying alive. But the boy took comfort in knowing they were there, sharing his fate. Shivering, he squeezed his eyes shut and began to pray.
Never had Berold been so cold. But his heavy sheepskin cloak shielded him from the worst of the wind. As wet and wretched as he was, he was still better off than the other men, and as the hours passed, the cold began to claim victims. One by one, their grips loosened, their wits started to wander, and they slipped silently off the mast, disappeared into the dark, icy sea.
At last there were but two, Berold and the young man who’d lashed himself to the yardarm. Berold watched him sag lower in the water and pleaded with him to hold on, not to die. He got no answer, for the youth had no breath for talking. When he did speak, his teeth were chattering so violently that Berold could hardly understand him. “I am Geoffrey Fitz Gilbert de l’Aigle. Tell my family, tell them…” After that, he said no more, and Berold began to cry, silently and hopelessly, for he was alone now on this tossing spar with a dead man, and there would be none to know when death came for him, too.
During the night, fog swept in from the west, patches of ghostly grey lying low along the horizon. Sometimes he slept. Or did he? His thoughts were rambling, confused. He could not always remember where he was, or why he was suffering so. Why could he not recall the patron saint for sailors, for those in peril on the sea? Why was the Almighty taking so long to bring him home?
When he heard the voices, muffled and distorted in the fog, he felt a weary wonderment that his ordeal was over, that God’s good angels were coming for him at last. But they came not in winged chariots, as the priests had taught. Instead, they glided out of the fog in a small fishing craft, its hull painted yellow and black, its single sail as bright as blood.
Berold tried to yell; it emerged as a hoarse croak. But they’d already seen him, were dipping their oars into the sea. And then they were alongside, and one of the men had nimbly scrambled out onto the mast, was cutting him loose, and Berold realized that for him, salvation had come in the unlikely guise of three Breton fishermen. He had been spared to bear witness, to tell the world that the White Ship had gone down off Barfleur Point, with the loss of the English king’s son and all aboard, save only a butcher’s lad from Rouen.
IT was two days before they dared to tell the English king. Henry was shattered by the loss of his children, his dreams of a dynasty. Within two months, he’d taken a new wife, the daughter of the Duke of Lower Lorraine. Adeliza was just eighteen and beautiful, but the marriage proved barren; she could give him no son for the one he had lost.
Men thought it God’s inexplicable joke that Henry should have sired twenty-three children, and of them all only two born in wedlock—William and his sister Maude, who’d been sent off to Germany as a child of eight, wed to the Emperor Heinrich V. When Henry’s lords debated the succession in the aftermath of the Barfleur tragedy, none thought of Maude, for there were worthy male candidates: the king’s two nephews, sons of his sister, Adela: Theobald, Count of Blois, and his younger brother Stephen, Count of Mortain. There was also Robert Fitz Roy, for as some pointed out, Henry’s great father had been bastard-born, too, and still claimed a crown.
One man alone saw Maude as Henry’s successor. When, five years after the sinking of the White Ship, Maude was suddenly a young widow, Henry called her home. Maude, he announced, would be his heir. This was a notion so alien to their world—that a woman should rule in her own right—that his barons and council fought him on it. But age had not weakened his will, and he would not be thwarted. As he had forced Maude to return from Germany, so did he force the lords of his realm to swear fealty to her. When he died, Maude would be queen.
2
City of Angers, Province of Anjou, France
August 1129
BARBE knew that her sister, Marthe, was a whore. When Marthe had returned to the village three months ago for the funeral of their mother, their stepfather had turned her away, saying she had shamed them all with her evil, ungodly life. As young as Barbe was—just thirteen—she understood what a whore did, that she sold her body to men for money. She understood, too, that it was a grievous sin. Nonetheless, she loved her wanton sister and detested her pious, righteous stepfather. She loathed his new wife, too, for he’d married again with indecent haste, claiming he needed a woman to mind his young sons. There was no room in his new family circle for Barbe, the unwanted, the child not his. She found herself facing a dismal future, treated as a servant, likely to be married off to the first elderly widower willing to accept her youth in lieu of a marriage portion. Barbe wept softly at night, nursing her bruises and muffling her sobs in her straw mattress, praying for the courage to run away. But it was not the Almighty who came to her rescue, it was her sinful sister.
When Marthe came back for her, Barbe never hesitated. Stuffing her meagre belongings into a hemp sack, she walked away from her home and village without a backward look. It was only as their cart neared the city walls of Angers that Barbe began to have qualms about what she’d done. It was plain that her sister did not lack for money, not if she could afford to hire a cart and driver. But what lay ahead in Angers? What would life be like for her here?
A week had passed since then, a week of continual surprises for Barbe. She had been vastly relieved to find that her sister did not live in a brothel. Indeed, Marthe’s residence was the most luxurious dwelling she’d ever seen; it had a kitchen and a hall, with a bedchamber and a loft above, and a garden view of the river. Barbe was astounded, but she was too shy to probe, and Marthe offered no explanation, only a sly smile and a jest about having an accommodating landlord. Marthe had a coffer chest full of clothes, plump hens scratching about in her garden, even a servant, a widow who came in every day to cook and clean. What she did not seem to have was a means of support. Where were the men come to buy what her sister was selling? Since Barbe had been there, nary a one had shown up. Who was paying for Marthe’s fine house and food and jasmine perfume?
Barbe got her answer—
and the greatest surprise of all—at week’s end. He rode up at twilight, pounded on the door, and when she pulled back the latch, he brushed past her as if she did not exist, shouting for her sister, using Marthe’s new name, the one Barbe could not get accustomed to: Mirabelle. “You’ll not believe what that bitch did, Mirabelle! I swear to Christ that I’d have throttled her if I’d stayed—” But by now he and Mirabelle were on their way up the stairs, and the closing door cut off the rest of his rage.
Barbe stared open-mouthed after them, for as brief as her glimpse had been, it was enough. She’d seen this handsome, angry youth once before, had watched in awe as he and several hunting companions stopped in her village for wine, while word of his identity spread from house to house, emptying the entire population out into the dusty street. Barbe’s knees had begun to tremble and she sat down abruptly on the closest stool, overwhelmed by the realization that her sister’s mystery lover was the Count of Anjou.
Barbe slept fitfully that night in the loft, and when she awoke the next morning, her sister was already up, gossiping in the kitchen with her neighbor, the red-haired, bawdy Brigette. Barbe started down the stairs, only to stop at sight of the bedchamber door, invitingly ajar. Before she could think better of it, she crept forward.
One of the shutters had been unlatched, and half of the chamber was filled with hot, hazy sunlight, half still deep in night shadows. The floor was littered with discarded clothing and several empty wine flagons, and a scabbard was buried in the rushes, almost at Barbe’s feet. The Count of Anjou was sprawled, naked, upon Mirabelle’s bed, his legs entangled in the sheets, an arm flung across his eyes. His skin was fair and seemed remarkably clean and smooth, tanned wherever he’d been exposed to the sun, white where he had not. His hair was shoulder length and curly, the color of copper, as was the hair between his legs. He was clean-shaven, in the fashion for youths, and when he stirred sleepily, his arm dropping away from his face, Barbe caught her breath, for never had she seen any man so beautiful as this young drunken lord.
When a hand suddenly grasped Barbe’s shoulder, she cried out in fright, spinning around so fast that she tripped over her own skirts. Mirabelle signaled for silence, then pushed her toward the door. Her face flaming, Barbe scurried down the stairs. She began to stammer an apology once they reached the hall, not wanting a witness to her sister’s scolding. But Mirabelle waved her on into the kitchen, where Brigette was drinking cider left over from the Lammas Day celebration. “You’ll not believe where I found the little lass, Brigette—by the bed, lusting after my young lordling!”
Barbe’s face went even redder. “I was not!” she gasped, sounding so horrified that both women burst out laughing. Some of Barbe’s discomfort began to fade as she realized her sister was not angry with her. “I ought not to have gone into the bedchamber,” she admitted, “but…but I could not help myself. Is he really your lover, Mart—Mirabelle? For how long? And who was he so angry with? Not…not his wife, surely?”
“Oh, so you know about the wife, do you?” Mirabelle asked, but she did not sound annoyed, and Barbe nodded shyly.
“Oh, yes, for that was all we talked about last year, that Lord Geoffrey was to wed the King of England’s daughter. We heard that they had a splendid wedding, that she was a beautiful bride. Is…is that not so?”
“Yes, she is a handsome wench, is the Lady Maude. But I’d not say she made so fair a bride, not when she went to the altar like one going to the gallows!”
Barbe was astonished. “Why ever would she not want to wed the Lord Geoffrey? I do not understand, for he is so handsome,” she sighed, and then blushed again when the women laughed.
“Geoffrey could not understand it, either! But it seems the lady felt she was marrying beneath her. She had been the wife of the Holy Roman Emperor, after all, and Geoffrey was merely the son of a count. And then he was just a lad, only fourteen, and she was a woman grown and worldly-wise of twenty-five. It may be, too, that she did not want to make a marriage so sure to displease her future subjects, who loathed the Angevins. Her objections were for naught, though. The English king was set upon the marriage, for he saw it as a means of thwarting William Clito’s claim to the crown.”
“Who is he?”
“He was another of the English king’s nephews, his elder brother Robert’s son. When Clito allied himself with the French king, Maude’s father feared that Count Fulk of our Anjou would join forces with them against England. Are you following this so far?”
Barbe nodded, wide-eyed. “How do you know all this?” she asked admiringly, and Mirabelle pointed ceilingward, to the bedchamber above their heads.
“Men talk in bed, too,” she said dryly. “So…to win over Count Fulk, the English king proposed a marriage between the Lady Maude and the count’s eldest son, Geoffrey. The count agreed, but the Norman barons liked it little, and the Lady Maude not at all. She balked, refused to make the marriage.”
Barbe was amazed; she’d never heard of a woman’s daring to defy male authority. “Could she do that?”
“Well, she surely tried. But the king was no man to cross, and he had his way in the end. She yielded, and plans went forward for the wedding.”
“Maude’s father did make one concession in her favor,” Brigette interjected, and Mirabelle nodded.
“I was just getting to that. You see, Barbe, the King of Jerusalem faced the same predicament as the English king: no son to succeed him. His eldest daughter was to be queen, and was in need of a husband. And so it was arranged for Count Fulk to take her to wife. As King of Jerusalem, he could well afford to cede Anjou to Geoffrey, so the Lady Maude would at least be marrying a count. And indeed, it all came to pass as the English king would have it. Geoffrey and Maude were wed last year, two months before his fifteenth birthday, in a magnificent ceremony at Le Mans. Count Fulk later departed for the Holy Land and his new destiny, the English king returned contentedly to his own domains, and the war began.”
“War? With that…that William Clito?”
“No, William Clito’s claim came to an abrupt and unexpected end, thanks to a mortal spear thrust. He was wounded whilst putting down a rebellion in Flanders and died soon afterward, little more than a month after Geoffrey and Maude’s wedding! Geoffrey called that ‘ironic,’ a word I know not, but I suspect it is just a fancy way of saying his marriage need not have been. No, when I talked of war, I meant the one between Geoffrey and Maude. It began on their wedding night, and I see no truce in sight. Indeed, their fighting has gotten worse in past weeks. In truth, I’ve never seen Geoffrey as wroth as he was last night. It was no easy task, calming him down, took every drop of wine in the house!”
Barbe felt an odd sense of disappointment, for she’d always assumed that the highborn led blessed and blissful lives. “Why do they not get along?” she asked, and Mirabelle shrugged.
“Geoffrey has complaints beyond counting. To hear him tell it, Maude has no virtues, only vices. He says she is arrogant and sharptongued and quick-tempered, utterly lacking in womanly softness or warmth. But if I were seeking to understand why he hates her so, I’d look no further than their marriage bed. Keep this in mind, child, if you remember nothing else I teach you. There is no insult that wounds a man more than one aimed at his manhood.”
“I…I do not understand.”
“I mean that Geoffrey’s wife finds no pleasure in his bed and lets him know it,” Mirabelle said bluntly, and Barbe blushed anew.
“Well…why does he not shun her bed, then?” she suggested timidly. “If he has you, Mirabelle, why does he need Maude?”
“Alas, it is not so simple, Barbe. Geoffrey does need Maude—to give him an heir. And then, too, he is just sixteen. If he were older, her coldness would not matter so much to him. But he has never had an unwilling bedmate, not until now. Why would he, with a face like a wayward angel and all Anjou his for the taking? Women have been chasing after him since he was fourteen or thereabouts, and more often than not, he’d let them catch him. It
was a great blow to his pride to discover that his beautiful wife does not want him. He is hurting and angry and baffled, and each time she rejects him, it gets worse. So he punishes her in bed, the one place where he is in control. That only makes her scorn him all the more, of course. Her scorn then goads him into maltreating her again, which…well, just think of a dog chasing his tail if you want to understand this accursed marriage of theirs! They must—Barbe? Lass, are you weeping?”
Barbe ducked her head, trying to hide the tears welling in her eyes. “It is just so sad,” she said, “that they are so unhappy…”
“Save your pity for those who truly need it, for mothers with hungry babes to feed, for that one-legged beggar we saw in the marketplace, for lepers or women with no men to protect them. Geoffrey and Maude may be miserable, but misery is much easier to bear in a castle, child.”
“Amen,” Brigette said fervently, and she and Mirabelle laughed. Barbe was quiet after that, startled by her sister’s unsentimental assessment of her royal lover’s plight.
“Do you think Maude will truly rule England and Normandy one day?” she asked, for she found it incomprehensible that a woman could wield power like a man. “How would she know what to do?”
“Oh, she is clever enough to match wits with most men. Even Geoffrey admits as much. She knows how to read and write, she is fluent in French and German, and Geoffrey says she understands a little Latin. If you ask me, though, I think she is one of God’s great fools. That lad up there in my bed is not a bad sort. But there is no forgiveness in him, none at all. Once he decides that Maude owes him a debt, she will be paying it off for the rest of their marriage. She—”
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 4