Time and Chance (68 page)

Eleanor did not appreciate having a watchdog, even one as competent as the Constable of Normandy. Had it escaped Harry’s notice that she’d been governing Aquitaine quite capably in his absence? She had no doubts whatsoever that she could rule as well as any man. Granted, she could not take to arms and capture rebel castles as Harry so often had to do. But mayhap her Poitevin lords would not be so defiant if not for his heavy-handed Angevin ways.

She gave no voice to her grievance, though, knowing it would serve for naught. Her husband was not a man to relinquish even a scrap of power if he could help it. Passing strange that he seemed so unconcerned about elevating Hal to a kingship. Did it never occur to him that Hal might not be content as his puppet, that the lad might want authority to accompany his exalted new rank? Or did Harry just take it for granted that his will would always prevail?

But in this, they were in agreement, for she, too, wanted to see their sons made secure in their inheritances. “You need not worry, Harry,” she said. “Even if Becket gets wind of what you’re planning, no messenger of his will set foot on English soil, not unless the man can walk on water.”

Their eldest son had switched his attention from the quintain and was making a run at the rings, braided circles of rope hung from the branches of a gaunt, winter-stripped tree. As Hal deftly hooked one of the rings onto the point of his lance, Henry and Eleanor exchanged a smile of parental pride. Echoing Henry’s praise, Eleanor agreed that Hal’s skill at this maneuver was indeed impressive. “During our stay at Caen, he never stopped talking about the glories of the tourney, and now I see why. He is good enough to win on his own merits, king’s son or not.”

Henry did not share the common enthusiasm for tournaments, thought they were a waste of time at best and an inducement to civil unrest at worst. “Do not encourage him in such foolishness, Eleanor. It is not as if he has to earn his way, like that young knight of yours, Marshal. You brought him along, did you not?”

“Will? Yes, he is in the great hall.” She glanced at him curiously, for he never made casual conversation. “Why?”

“I was thinking that he would be an ideal choice to watch over Hal. From what you’ve told me, he has a good head on his shoulders, could rein in Hal’s youthful follies whilst tutoring him well in the arts of war.”

She agreed that Will would be a good choice, although she felt a prickle of resentment that Henry felt so free to appropriate one of her household knights without so much as a by-your-leave. Will Marshal would have made a fine tutor for Richard, too.

“Richard will miss Will’s company,” she said composedly, “for he’s gotten right fond of Marshal. Speaking of Richard . . . it might be advisable to make a public acknowledgment of his right to Aquitaine now that you plan to crown Hal.”

Henry had expected her to make such a suggestion and he was amused that he could read her so well. Her partiality toward their second son was obvious to all but the stone-blind. But he was willing to indulge it, for Richard would make a good duke for Aquitaine. He was fortunate indeed that his realms were vast enough to provide for all of his sons. Well . . . for Hal, Richard, and Geoffrey. There was still the little lad, John, whom he’d dubbed John Lackland in a moment of levity. But John was being well cared for at Fontevrault Abbey and he would be pledged to the Church.

“An excellent idea, Eleanor.” They smiled again at each other, then cheered loudly when Richard survived his first run at the quintain, being buffeted soundly by the sandbag but remaining in the saddle.

“What of Marguerite?” Eleanor asked suddenly, thinking of her young daughter-in-law. “Do you mean to have her crowned with Hal?”

“I am not sure,” he admitted. “If I do not, Louis will be grievously offended. But if I do have the lass crowned now, that will make her an accomplice in my defiance of the Pope and the saintly Becket. You know Louis far better than me, love. Which is the lesser evil?”

Eleanor frowned. “It might be easier for him to forgive a slight than a sacrilege, for that is how he will view the coronation. I think it might be better to wait and have her crowned the second time . . . once you’ve come to terms with Becket.”

This was his thinking, too, and he was gratified to have her confirm his own instincts. Reaching up for her hand, he pressed a kiss into her palm, then turned back to watch as Hal snared another ring.

“When do you plan to sail, Harry?”

“As soon as the weather permits. Why?”

“Hal’s birthday,” she reminded him. “He turns fifteen on Sunday.”

“Ah, yes,” he said vaguely, for as finely tuned as his memory was, he had an inexplicable difficulty in remembering birthdates and the like, usually joking that it was her fault for giving him too many children to keep track of. “Well, then, of course I will not depart for Barfleur until Monday.”

“Hal will be pleased,” she said, wondering if that was indeed so; wondering, too, if he meant to take Rosamund Clifford with him to England.

 

 

 

“HOLY MOTHER OF GOD !” Henry’s brother was moaning softly, curled up into a ball, knees drawn against his chest, arms clasped over his head. A foul-smelling bucket testified to Hamelin’s physical distress, but the worst of his vomiting seemed to be over, probably because his heaving stomach had nothing left to disgorge. Henry leaned over and patted the younger man’s shaking shoulders, all he could think to do. Like most men blessed enough to be spared the humbling miseries of mal de mer, Henry usually felt faint contempt for those afflicted with seasickness. But now he had only sympathy for Hamelin’s ordeal. Henry had crossed the Channel more times than he could count, often in rough, wild weather. Yet he could not remember a storm of greater savagery than this one.

The seas had been choppy and turbulent even in Barfleur’s harbor. Once they had rounded Barfleur Point out into the unprotected waters of the Channel, the full force of the squall struck Henry’s fleet. In no time at all, most of the passengers on Henry’s flagship were suffering the torments of the damned, retching and shivering and offering urgent prayers to Nicholas of Bari, the patron saint of sailors. Even Henry began to experience queasiness and he could count his episodes of seasickness on the fingers of one hand. He fought it back and assured his companions that the storm would soon slacken. Even if it did not, these high winds would blow their ships to England faster than any bird could fly.

He was wrong on both counts. The storm only intensified and then the wind changed direction. The hours passed and they made little progress, their ships wallowing in heavy swells, the lanterns on mastheads extinguished by torrents of stinging, icy rain. Canvas tents had been set up to shelter the highborn passengers from the weather, but they could offer little protection against a gale of this magnitude. In Henry’s tent, the terrified men and women were soon bruised and sore, for even the most desperate grip was no match for the power of the elements. Each time the ship pitched, someone slammed into the gunwale or one of the coffers crammed into the tent, cries of pain muffled by the roar of the wind and the thud of waves slamming into the hull. Their prayers, too, were lost to the fury of the squall. As the night wore on, Henry was the only one aboard, including the ship’s master and crew, who was not convinced that they were doomed, sure to drown in the maw of the storm.

Hamelin was mumbling again about his wife, berating himself for having let Isabella sail in one of the other ships. Now they would not even drown together, he gasped, choking back a sob.

That was too maudlin for Henry. He could understand Hamelin’s fears for his wife. He had fears, too, for others in the fleet, especially his half-sister Emma and her husband. Of Geoffrey’s crop of bastards, he was fondest of Hamelin and Emma, and he regretted not insisting that she sail with him. Thank Christ that Hal and Eleanor were safe in Caen and Rosamund at Falaise, awaiting his return from England. It seemed a foolish waste of regret, though, to fret about being buried with a loved one, as Hamelin was doing. If their ship went down, they’d all be food for fish; how many bodies were ever recovered from the sea?

When he could endure Hamelin’s tearful remorse no longer, he said brusquely, “What’s done is done, man. Better you should save your breath for prayer.”

Hamelin raised his head at the sound of Henry’s voice. Although the wind blotted out most of Henry’s words, the impatient expression on his face communicated a message of its own, and Hamelin felt a quiver of despairing rage. Who but Harry was prideful enough to sail when the weather was so foul? Now they were all going to die because of his reckless flouting of God’s Will.

Hamelin said nothing, though, for even when feeling Death’s hot breath on the back of his neck, he could not blame his brother; it would be like rebuking the Almighty. But his eyes were brimming with silent reproach, and even Henry’s self-confidence was not immune to the force of that mournful gaze. He’d long ago learned that a king’s chess game was played with the lives of other people. Men had died to make him England’s sovereign, and more would die in defense of boundaries he alone defined. It was a great and fearful power—having the right to sanctify bloodshed—and it did not bear close inspection, for otherwise it could never be invoked.

Getting abruptly to his feet, Henry stumbled as the deck rolled and maintained his footing by sheer will and some luck. “I can no longer stand the stink in here,” he said, feeling the need to offer an excuse. It was true that the stench was execrable, for no one could empty the vomit-filled buckets overboard until the storm subsided. But it was also true that he was escaping the mute misery in his brother’s teary, accusing eyes.

As he emerged onto the deck, he was hit in the face by the wind, sleet pelting his skin like flying needles. Sailors scrambled across the slanting deck, struggling to tighten one of the shrouds dangling loosely from the mast. The man at the windlass was spinning the spokes, cursing as his frozen fingers slipped off the wheel. Henry dodged as a burly figure skidded toward him, recognizing the ship’s master only when he was close enough to touch. The man turned on Henry with a snarl, realizing just in time that this intrusive passenger was the king. He could not order Henry off the deck, but neither could he indulge in the niceties of court protocol when his ship’s survival was at stake. Thrusting a wet coil of rope into Henry’s hand, he tersely told the king to tie himself to one of the windlass’s posts ere he was washed overboard.

Henry did as bade, taking shelter against the gunwale out of the crew’s way. He was grateful that he’d chosen to sail on a cog and not a nef like the ill-fated White Ship, for nefs rode so low in the water that they’d surely have been swamped by now. He was not as confident of the ship’s steering innovation, though. Instead of the customary side rudder, this cog relied upon a newfangled stern rudder, and the enthusiastic arguments of the ship’s master that this was a vast improvement over the steering oar were not as persuasive now as they’d been in the safety of Barfleur’s harbor.

Henry guessed that dawn must be nigh, but the skies were still black, smothered in storm clouds. As much as he strained to see, he could catch no glimpse of bobbing lantern light. Did that mean the fleet was scattered to Kingdom Come? Or merely that their lanterns had been quenched, too, by the downpour? It was eerie, not knowing what the darkness concealed, knowing only that each ship was alone in its struggle to stay afloat.

There was an alarmed yell from one of the sailors, and although Henry didn’t understand the man’s Breton, the fear in his voice needed no translation. He jerked around in time to see the crew members lunging toward the starboard side. A shape was looming out of the blackness. With horror, Henry realized that it was another ship.

The ship’s master was screaming, “Hard on the helm!” As the helmsman jerked the tiller to the left, a sailor lurched from the bow, clutching an armful of boat hooks. When he staggered and fell, Henry was jolted out of his frozen shock, and he grabbed for the spilled boat hooks, began to toss them to the sailors clustered at the gunwale. God’s Blood, what was wrong with those fools? Was their helmsman blind?

Henry sucked in his breath sharply as the other ship came into clearer focus, for he saw then that the mast was broken in half, the sail shredded. It was close enough for him to make out scurrying figures on the deck. He forgot for a moment that this other cog could be his own destruction, for he knew he was looking at a ghost ship, one manned by the living dead. Only the Almighty could save those poor souls now.

His sailors were leaning over the gunwale, desperately gripping the boat hooks that were their only defense. Henry began to fumble with his rope lifeline so that he could join them, although a boat hook seemed a frail, feeble weapon against a cog. But the distance between the two ships was not narrowing, and with a surge of overwhelming relief, he realized that his own ship was slowly, ever so slowly, responding to the helm. The crewmen were shouting in grateful acknowledgment of their reprieve, yet they fell silent as the doomed ship was swept past them, for a respectful hush was all they could offer to the drowning passengers.

Henry sagged back against the gunwale. Oddly enough, their respite had done what the storm itself could not do, and for the first time that night, he accepted that he might not survive this accursed voyage. In just two days time, he would be thirty-seven, but would he live to celebrate it? What would happen to his domains without him? And his sons? Hal was only fifteen, the other lads even younger. What would become of them if he were no longer able to protect their rights?

Henry had often faced danger, but never before had he gazed down into his open grave. As was his way, he at once set about changing the ending. God’s Will be done. But not yet, Lord, not yet. He needed to live long enough to see his son crowned. Surely the Almighty could see that? Hal was still in need of his guidance, his judgment, for the lad had not yet shown the mettle of a king. He would learn, but he needed seasoning. Holding fast to the gunwale, Henry offered up the most heartfelt prayers of his life, bargaining with God for more time.