Dirk
Banned
Sailing Aboard the White Ship
A Burial
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 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.
"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.
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