When Christ and His Saints Slept Read Online Free PDF

precariously over the gunwales jeered and mocked the priests who’d come to offer a blessing for “they that go down to the sea in ships.” As the spectators gasped and the priests angrily denounced their impiety, the anchor was raised, the shrouds were tightened, the sails were unfurled, and the White Ship slowly moved away from the quay, out into the blackness of the harbor.
    The night was clear, the sky adrift in stars. The moon was on the wane, casting a wavering, silvery gleam upon the cresting waves. The ship rode low in the water, and Berold was unnerved to realize the freeboard was only three feet or so above the surface of the bay. He was already feeling queasy, and whispered a quick plea to St Elmo, who was said to pity those poor souls stricken with seasickness. He’d heard that, depending upon the wind and tides, a crossing from Barfleur to Southampton might take a day. Twelve hours lay ahead then, the longest twelve hours of his life.
    Berold might have been comforted had he known that his anxiety was shared by most of the highborn passengers, including the king’s son. William had crossed the Channel more times than he could remember, but his body always reacted as if each voyage were his first time on shipboard. He had so many miserable memories of seasick suffering that he had only to look upon a ship to experience a queasy pang. This was one reason why he’d gotten so drunk, in the hope that wine might settle his treacherous stomach, keep him from making a fool of himself, for at seventeen, there are few greater fears than the dread of public humiliation. That others, too, were often stricken with the same undignified malaise consoled him not at all, for he was England’s future king and must not give in to the weaknesses of lesser men. His lord father never did, and by God, neither would he.
    But as soon as they headed toward open water, William bolted for the ship’s bow, then clung to the gunwale as he vomited into the waves splashing over the prow. “Greensick so soon, Will?” The voice was sympathetic, but it also held a hint of amusement, the smug indulgence of a good sailor. William felt too wretched, though, for resentment, and he let his brother help him up, steer him toward the canvas tarpaulin, where he flopped down on a blanket, grabbed a handhold, and held on for dear life. When Richard checked on him again a little later, he’d rolled over onto his back, was snoring softly.
    “Richard…how fares Will?”
    “The wine has done him in. With luck, he’ll sleep through the night, poor lad.”
    Richard reached out then, as the ship pitched, helped to steady his sister and cousin. Mahault could only marvel at his surefootedness; he’d had almost as much wine as Will, but he seemed none the worse for it. Why, she wondered, were men such fools? Lucia was less judgmental. Poor Will, she thought, he’ll be shamed as well as dog-sick come the morn. Aloud, she said, “I’ll stay with him in case he awakens.”
    Richard was more interested at that moment in his lost gamble, for he’d wagered a goodly sum that the White Ship would beat the rest of the king’s fleet to Southampton. As soon as he could catch Thomas Fitz Stephen’s eye, he beckoned the ship’s master over to find out if there was still a chance of victory.
    The ship’s master shrugged. “We are in God’s Hands, my lord. They are well ahead of us, but if we caught a good wind…” He shrugged again. “We’ll not be able to make up much time till we are out into the Channel and can rely on the sail. I’ve told the oarsmen and my helmsman to keep close to Barfleur Point as long as we can, so we can avoid the worst of the contrary currents offshore. At least it is a cloudless night, so we’ll have the polestar to steer by. I would hope—Jesus God!”
    Both men were flung backwards as the ship suddenly shuddered, stopped dead in the water. There was a crunching sound, and then the ship began to list, sending screaming