Sailing Aboard the White Ship

Dirk

Banned
PLEASE DIRECT ALL COMMENTS TO THE DISCUSSION THREAD

Discussion thread here.

Sailing Aboard the White Ship

The Unexpected Disaster

The baby's wails and Bert and Rory's shouts and the clack of their rough wooden swords still echoed in Emeny's ears as she shouted "I'm off for bread, too!" over her shoulder into the one-room house. Her mother was still mostly bedridden--though thank God not with a fever--from the childbirth, and she was going to the fountain around the corner to fetch water, a penny in her palm for bread.

Around the corner a gaggle of ducks waddled as fast as they could at her, spilling like a stream of water around her in the thick, cold mud. "You whoresons!" skinny little Sayer FitzRolf shouted, jogging after them and just barely ducking her. The voice of Sayer's father shouted, "I heard that, boy!" from the inside of a house across the lane.

Emeny shook her head, smiling, then shivered when the cold draft from the main street bit into her. It was refreshingly clean and smelled fresh and airy instead of fetid and heavy, but it was cold from the Channel just beyond. Emeny's father worked at the wharves, so they lived not a hundred feet from the water. She took a deep breath, hugging the wattle and daub wall next to her, then dashed into the square ahead.


Geoffrey de l'Aigle whooped as he overtook the prince himself and drew into the lead, crouching low in the saddle and slapping his horse's side enthusiastically. The squires of course hung back respectfully, but the noblemen were racing to see who reached the inn first, and it had always been to Geoffrey's advantage in races that he was the shortest and lightest of them.

"Gah!" William behind him growled, smoothly riding up and down, reducing the strain on his horse. The powerful animal beneath him reacted, speeding up and pounding the ground with massive strokes, but only managed to stop losing ground to Geoffrey's smaller, more compact beast. They needed to tire the horses out before the half-day sea voyage ahead.

They'd been passing farmhouses and waystations on both sides for miles now--not racing--but now houses and shops crowded both sides of a road that'd been churned to hard mud by heavy wheels and hooves. Only a mile to the inn.... Geoffrey knew that Dancer could do it; the horse was panting hard, froth from his lips flying back--maybe smacking the prince in the face!, but he had more in him.

Folk heard the hoofbeats and whoops and darted out of the way, or stood in their doorways waiting for the careless noblemen to pass. Some shook their fists and cursed, but King Henry's son and his retinue took no notice.

Almost there.... Geoffrey himself became frenzied and intent on the prize. Around the bend was the inn, just fifty feet across the paved square and around the fountain...when a girl darted in front of him, not paying attention. He gave the loudest shout of his life and sawed the reins to the right, back the way she'd come. She looked straight at him, mouth agape and eyes as big as the rest of her head, and then dived forward and into the fountain.

Dancer went down onto his hindquarters in his urgency to stop, for even the soft bit that Geoffrey used hurt when pulled so hard, and slid on the paving stones, falling flat and throwing Geoffrey clear. The others, seeing this, slowed less drastically but with concern, riding around the fountain and then vaulting off their horses, running to the prone form of Geoffrey.

Deep, gleaming red blood ran quickly between the cracks in the paving stones, meeting at some of the intersections and spreading outward away from the body. The noblemen stood around the body with the squires crowding in and craning for a view behind; they were in full riding gear and did not mind the breeze. "Is he...." began Richard FitzRoy of Lincoln, the King's bastard, but was unable to finish.

Bertrand, at twenty-six the eldest of them, knelt slowly, eyes crinkled as if staring into the sun, and turned him over. "Poor lad," he shook his head. "Poor lad." The center of Geoffrey's forehead was caved in grotesquely, with the sharp depression oozing blood and grey matter. The eyes were closed tightly, for all time, as if closed on instinct before impact.

William jerked as if bitten, still in shock, and turned quickly, shoving through the squires behind him. He went to the fountain, the others trailing behind, and saw the girl floating there, drowned, having hit her head on the fountain. "At least the bitch is dead, too."


"Can't leave," William said blearily in a hoarse voice to Thomas FitzStephen, captain of the White Ship. Thomas stood with his hands respectfully behind his back, looking down at the seated prince. The others sat at the table looking grim and moody; in fact, the entire inn looked depressed.

"Why not?" Thomas scratched his neatly trimmed grey beard, curious instead of aggrieved. He'd come from the docks a minute ago to tell the prince that all was ready for departure, and hadn't noticed or heard of the incident in the square.

The prince's jaw sagged as he stared down into the red wine in his cup. When he looked up again, his grey eyes were ringed by suppressed tears. "Geof...."

Bertrand next to him put his arm around him and Richard FitzRoy, sitting across, stood casually and took Thomas's arm, drawing him aside. "Geoffrey de l'Aigle, our good friend, died in a spill today. My brother is distraught. We must make the arrangements."

Thomas nodded. The prince sure looked distraught, but Richard decidedly did not. Still, he and his father--who had been William the Conqueror's personal boatman! he never failed to remind other captains--hadn't gotten so far by caring for politics or the social delicacies of the nobility, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Geoffrey's home of L'Aigle is about ten days away, though we'll try to get the Archbishop to come and officiate at the funeral. My brother may need you at any time, though, so you'll have to stay here for twenty days, or maybe even a month or more."

Thomas shrugged, nodding and noting how Richard always emphasized his fraternal relationship to the legitimate prince. "That's all fine, sir, no problem. I'll stay here." He received a salary from the king, anyway, and living in Barfleur was no more expensive than living in any town in England other than London.

Richard nodded and turned away, done with him. Thomas walked back to the table and said, "My prince, you have my deepest condolences for the loss of your friend. I've served you some years now, and in all the time I knew him Geof was always polite, quick to laughter, and slow to anger. He never made much of anything but God, his friends, and great times to be had." He stepped backward, head bowed, and turned to walk out when a spontaneous cheer of "Hear hear!" resounded through the inn.

He only winced when he stepped into the biting twilight wind and imagined his wife's scathing response to the letter he would send, demanding to know whether he was lying, and actually just living with some whore in Paris.


EDIT: So, the POD is that the White Ship never leaves port at OTL's time or date, meaning that Prince William Adelin survives and King Henry has a legitimate heir. Ironically--and I made it so--Geoffrey de l'Aigle was the only nobleman who survived IOTL; the only other person who survived was a Rouen butcher.
 
Last edited:

Dirk

Banned
Sailing Aboard the White Ship

A Burial

Geoffrey Brito let the pause after "Jerusalem" lengthen, hearing the imposing, sonorous echoes of his voice bounce of the chapel's walls. Then he began anew, "Chorus angelorum te suscipat et cum Lazaro, quondam paupere, aeternam habeas requiem. Amen."

"Amen," the crowd echoed, most of them standing awed at the pure chalked cleanliness of his robes and the majesty and divinity of his manner. But then of course, he was the closest man to God in the place. Most of them were the peasants, laborers, and craftsmen of L'Aigle uneager to wrench themselves away from their fires but unwilling to be noted absent at the lord's son's funeral.

Gilbert de l'Aigle himself stood in the middle forefront of the crowd next to his overlord and bearer of ill news, Prince William. Geoffrey Brito, Archbishop of Rouen, stood behind the chancel with his hands loosely clasped, gazing neutryally down the steps as Gilbert shuffled up stiffly to the temporary altar and stared down into his son's face.

Geoffrey de l'Aigle was to be interred in the tomb of L'Aigle wearing his newly cleaned riding clothes and a tight-fitting warlike leather cap that allowed his hair to artfully peak out but hid the horrifying wound. Richard FitzRoy, on thinking over how to lessen the impact of the sight of dead Geoffrey, had thought of this.

Gilbert's face, until now a neutrally stony mask, dissolved into a picture of pain and suffering. His shoulders hunched up and down rhythmically, first slowly and then faster as he sobbed silently, face contorting and teeth grimacing. He laid his hand on his son's chest and bowed his head, sobbing. Gilbert's elder--and now only--son Richard came up behind his father and put a hand around his shoulder dutifully, then a hand on his father's own.

The chapel was completely hushed, the mood somber. Finally Gilbert staggered away in his son's arms, and first Prince William, then his companions, then the residents of L'Aigle, strode up to pay their respects. The Archbishop's monks had prepared the body well, for not a part of the pale face with its bulb nose was not immaculate. William shook his head as he looked down, then nodded once and walked out into the light snow.


The land before them was made up of rolling fields covered by a uniform blanket of thin frost, overall creating the effect of a queer pale green patina that glinted sometimes in the weak waning sun and that reflected the white clouds above. There was no sound but the howling, biting wind and the gentle trot of hooves in the hard mud.

They were all wrapped in cloaks and blankets, heads down and exposed skin losing feeling; some were drinking to keep their warmth in. Richard d'Avranches, 2nd Earl of Chester, took a long swig and then handed the skin over to his half-brother Otheur.

He brought it to his lips and upended it, then threw it aside, disgusted. "You finished it!"

"Get me another!" Richard burped, then laughed. Though the others didn't think Earl Richard was a bad sort at all, the way he treated his bastard brother was a bit embarrassing. As Otheur rode back, cursing, to the wine cart, Richard shouted, "Enough of this damn cold! On to Barfleur, quick quick!" He kicked his horse's ribs hard and the chilled animal took a second to respond.

Eyes popped out of heads and there were shocked gasps; this was how Geof had died! Then they were all shouting at once, the noblemen and squires and retinue riding after him in a frenzy and crowding the road. The priests and monks of the Archbishop's retinue didn't move. William wailed in dismay and shouted, "After him, after him! Go Bert, Rich, Ridel, Walt, on!" but stayed put himself.

"What, my prince, you won't join in the chase?" asked a deep, smooth voice.

William turned to scowl at Archbishop Geoffrey, but all he could see of the man was the bright red tip of his nose, so buried was he in hoods and blankets. "There's a town ahead," he said, looking forward again and scanning the horizon, though he knew it was there. "I don't want to lose another like Geof."

"Very wise." From the tone it might have been sarcastic, but the lesson in fact made sense. We should stop being so reckless, riding around blind corners and through rocky fields and thick forests. Then a shout of indignation came from behind, startling them, and Otheur streaked past hollering, angry to be left out of the game and holding a wineskin in his mouth.

"Dog," William cursed and rode on.

In time they reached the town, where they'd planned to bed anyway, and saw a flurry of activity around the biggest, brightest inn. Fleet figures of servants flitted around the building, and several men stood roaring angrily in the road; apparently the innkeeper, realizing that William's men were royalty, had evicted the other guests when he saw their number.

The Archbishop turned to look at William and then pointed beyond him with a morbid grin, to the left. William twisted in the saddle and saw three gallows erected, only one with hanging men on it, beyond one of his companion's bannermen. The corpses turned slowly in the wind, naked but for soiled loincloths that no beggar would take, and placards around their necks proclaimed THIEF on each.

"A suitable penalty," William said, almost a question.

"They each have a family, and stole a loaf of bread. This is a priory town, and I received letters about this."

William turned back to look at the Archbishop, who seemed to be smirking. Without a word he nudged his horse on, and the party followed.

gskvW2H.jpg



"What's happened to Archbishop Ralph, anyway?" Archbishop Geoffrey had been standing at the White Ship's rail, savoring in the cold, fresh smell of the sea. He'd been born on a ship in this very sea, after all, and his father had been Baron of Naoned-on-the-Sea.

The Archbishop turned to survey the prince. "You should take greater notice of these things, my prince. A serious ailment of the Archbishop of Canterbury is something that any great nobleman, let alone the king's only son, should start at."

The king's bastard Richard FitzRoy, standing nearby, scowled and stalked away. "I was in France these past four years, first fighting the war, then organizing things as Duke of Normandy, then getting married!"

"All the more reason why you should have noticed. Nothing escapes the notice of a man who is under control; you were in the best mindset for that. And I personally wrote you about it." William's face turned red and he looked away. "Oh, you didn't read my letter? Too boring, am I? Did you even know I'd gone to England for two months last autumn? No?" The Archbishop scoffed and turned back to the sea.

After a few moments the prince leaned his elbows onto the rail next to him. "I still want to know what happened to him." The Archbishop turned his head, looking into intense grey eyes. Oh, he's determined. I'll make a king of him yet. My God Henry, who has been tutoring him?

Feigning indifference, Brito shrugged. "He had a stroke. His left side is paralyzed and he has difficulty speaking. I visited him once, to be courteous, but now we've grown to be close friends, and this trip is for pleasure." In fact, Brito thought that Ralph d'Escures had been a foolish, too-happy, too-easy man; after the stroke he'd turned introspective, calculating, and bitter, and the letter's they'd exchanged had fascinated both men.

"I'll have to visit Canterbury for Christmas, to see him."

That took Brito aback, for it was unheard of for the prince to delay or avoid a party like any Christmas one for some official duty. Yes, I'll make a Henry of him yet.
 
Last edited:

Dirk

Banned
Sailing Aboard the White Ship

Homecoming

The fresh snow had long ago been churned into a slurry mud along the road, and the effect was even worse here in the city. Huddled bakers and shivering laborers stepped aside and bowed their heads as William's retinue trotted through the streets, eager to be indoors despite their warm layers of wool and fur.

The smell of burning firewood was everywhere in the air, though not much was being done; this was the season for temperance by the lords and semi-starvation by the peasantry. The only distinct sounds were the stray shouts of children and the banging of felting hammers, at work all year round.

The party emerged from the dirt high street into the paved square of Westminster, and turned immediately to the palace. The guards stepped aside immediately to let them through, and they were in the yard. The low, even walls loosely embraced the visitors, allowing the morning sun into the yard. This palace had been built after the infamous viking invasions, and no attack had been expected, so it was very comfortable and accommodating. No doubt useless in a war.

William dismounted and looked around. Freshly cleaned white walls and immaculate, relaxed guards proclaimed the state of the kingdom; England was at peace and able to pass any muster. The others dismounted after him and began to check their saddlebags and hand their horses over to the running grooms as William strode proudly to the entrance to the hall.

The smoke and din of indoors after the fresh, cold, light air of outdoors made him stop. All he saw was a thick wall of dark forms ahead of him, facing inward. Fires roared at several hearths around the great hall, and even more figures were gathered about those. William sighed. Of course, Christmas was near, and all the great earls and barons of the land along with their ladies and retainers and servants would be lodged here at Westminster for the feast; this was the twentieth anniversary of Henry's reign, and special entertainments were planned.

When his eyes had adjusted he saw that his father, King Henry, was seated on the gilded throne at the far end of the room; he watched him for a moment. King Henry was fifty-two years old, with dark grey hair and a face lined by worry and revolt; while he didn't quite glow with vitality, he was known for his great energy, and sat straight and serene, a man in control of his surroundings. Despite being somewhat short and stocky, especially for a Norman--William was taller than him by almost a head--the elevation of the throne and the tasteful elegance of the tapestries framing it mitigating this fact.

Now King Henry had eaten breakfast, and was welcoming those nobles and clergymen who had arrived that day. "Here kneels Richard FitzGilbert, Lord of Clare and Tonbridge," said Robert Malet, Henry's Lord Great Chamberlain. He was a lean old man with narrow, piercing eyes who stood straight and didn't miss a thing; he'd been High Sheriff of Norfolk and Suffolk, and been instrumental in ending the great Revolt of the Earls in 1075.

Richard FitzGilbert was a fresh-faced, handsome young man not much older than twenty. King Henry looked down at him and said in his calm, booming voice, "We welcome you, Lord Richard, to our table. The services of your father and grandfather to me in that capacity as Lord of Clare against the Welsh cannot be valued highly enough. I trust with no doubt that you will continue to carry out our will."

"Indeed and in fact, Your Grace. The peace and wealth England has known under your leadership is unsurpassed in all the world; what more could a sane man ask for?"

"Indeed and in fact," responded Henry wryly. "You can't have a high opinion of our Father in Rome, then; he wants much of me." Richard, having hardly met Henry before, chuckled nervously, though others in the hall laughed more freely. He stood, head bowed, and stepped back.

Meanwhile, William was pushing patiently through the musky-smelling crowd, greeting those he knew with a quick nod, as another man stepped forth. "Here kneels Gilbert FitzGilbert, Lord of Cardigan."

Now King Henry leaned forward, forearms flat on the armrests of the throne, interested. "Ah, Gilbert. Your brother has been generous and gracious enough to give you freely that lordship, and you, only twenty years old, have done so well with its incomes. Four robber bands of Welshmen in and around your lands exterminated, and all within three years of inheriting perilous border properties. We commend you."

Gilbert looked up, staring respectfully at the king. "Your Grace, I only do the duty and service by which I hold my lands. I thank you for holding this great Christmas feast to honor our Lord in heaven."

Henry nodded slowly. "Your honor and loyalty are noted, Lord Gilbert. Perhaps we shall send an army sometime next year, to teach the Welsh a lesson."

"Thank you, Your Grace. It would be much appreciated," Gilbert responded, still on his knees. Henry looked up at a movement and saw William standing there behind the kneeling young man.

"The peace that your brother spoke of must sometimes be broken, for our honor. You may rise."

Gilbert stood and turned, then gave a pleased shout and embraced William when he saw him. "Ah, William, so you've come!" he said, eager to show off his closeness to the heir apparent.

"In fine," William sighed in Latin. "Surely you've heard about poor Geof?"

Gilbert shook his head and closed his eyes. "Of course. Poor little shrimp." After a pause he added quickly, "Oh, but I wouldn't keep the king waiting!" He shuffled aside and turned to face the throne again, eyes downcast.

William sighed through his nose and stepped forward, kneeling. The assembled courtiers, who'd been eavesdropping on their conversation or holding their own sidetracks, quietened and pushed forward. "Here kneels William Adelin FitzHenry, Duke of Normandy, Count of Maine jure uxoris."

There was an awkwardly length pause, where the only sound was that of the fires crackling loudly in the hearths. There was no tension in the air, and yet all wanted to know how Henry felt about his son. "You're late," he said finally.

William sighed through his nose again. Why does he always have to do this? "I am, Your Grace. I could not in honor allow a good friend to be sent to God without my presence."

And, just like that, Henry's flippant attitude left him. "Ah, very well then. How was your journey?"

"Fine," said William. "Cold," he added stiffly. The assembled nobles, many of whom had traveled that week, grinned or chuckled at this gross understatement.

The king, having been in the comfort of Westminster for the past two months, didn't notice. "I've heard good things from many important men about your rule in Normandy. Archbishop Geoffrey has even written me, and urges me to put more responsibility onto your shoulders...though I would suspect him of being a lazy old man if I didn't know him better."

"I am yours to command, Your Grace."

Just a month ago William would have responded with some sharp riposte at this insinuation that he wasn't quite doing his job, but King Henry now noticed his submission. "Then I'll let you choose," he leaned forward again. "Go back to Normandy and rule as a Duke in France would, with no help from me and hardly any supervision by that fatboy in France, or leave Normandy to the Archbishop and lead an army against the sheep shaggers next year."

William thought quickly, heart beating hard in his chest. Here was the chance of his life...the chances of his life.... Would he stay in Normandy, slowly grabbing land from the Counts of Blois and Orleans and Vermandois and Flanders, or would he spend the next year in the hills and vales of Wales, making war against the growing power of King Gruffudd ap Cynan of Gwynedd, and leave with comradeship born of blood and fire with the powerful marcher lords?

He made his choice in a heartbeat. All the trials and grief of the past month had changed him in ways he didn't yet understand. He was not the adventurous adolescent he'd once been, who would run off to any fight; he was becoming a king.

"I'll show the King of France a lesson or two."
 
Top