The Knights of England, France, and Scotland

by Henry William Herbert

Not yet, however, were the anchors weighed—not yet were the sails sheeted home; for on the deck of the king’s vessel, beneath an awning of pure cloth-of-gold, a gorgeous board was spread. Not in the regal hall of Westminster could more of luxury have been brought together than was displayed upon that galley’s poop. Spread with the softest ermine—meet carpet for the gentle feet that trod it—cushioned with seats of velvet, steaming with perfumes the most costly, it was a scene resembling more some fairy palace than the wave-beaten fabric that had braved many a gale, and borne the flag of England through many a storm in triumph. And there they sat and feasted, and the red wine-cup circled freely, and the song went round: their hearts were high and happy, and they forgot the lapse of hours; and still the reveller’s shout was frequent on the breeze, and still the melody of female tones, blent with the clang of instrumental music, rang in the ears of those who loitered on the shore, after the sun had bathed his lower limb in the serene and peaceful waters.

Then, as it were, awaking from their trance of luxury, the banqueters broke off. Skiff after skiff turned shoreward, till none remained on board the royal ship except the monarch and his train, and that loved son with his bright consort, whom, parting from them there, he never was to look upon again! The courses were unfurled, topsails were spread, and pennants floated seaward; and, as the good ship gathered way, the father bade adieu—adieu, as he believed it, but for one little night—to all he loved on earth; and their barge, manned by a score of powerful and active rowers, wafted the bridal party to the Blanche Navire, which, as her precious freight drew nigh, luffed gracefully and swiftly up to meet them, as though she were a thing of life, conscious and proud of the high honor she enjoyed in carrying the united hopes of Normandy and England.

Delay—there was yet more delay! The night had settled down upon the deep before the harbor of Barfleur was fairly left behind; and yet so lovely was the night—with the moon, near her full, soaring superbly through the cloudless sky, and myriads on myriads of clear stars weaving their mystic dance around her—that the young voyagers walked to and fro the deck, rejoicing in the happy chance that had secured to them so fair time for their excursion: and William sat aloof, with his sweet wife beside him, indulging in those bright anticipations, those golden dreams of happiness, which indeed make futurity a paradise to those who have not learned, by the sad schoolings of experience, that human life is but another name for human sorrow.

Fairer—the breeze blew fairer; and every sail was set and drawing, and the light ripples burst with a gurgling sound like laughter about the snow-white stem; and, still to waft them the more swiftly to their home, fifty long oars, pulled well and strongly by as many nervous arms, glanced in the liquid swell. The bubbles on the surface were scarcely seen as they flashed by, so rapid was their course; and a long wake of boiling foam glanced in the moonshine, till it was lost to sight in the far distance. The port was far behind them; and the king’s ship, seen faintly on the glimmering horizon, loomed like a pile of vapor far on their starboard bow. And still the music rang upon the favorable wind, and still the rowers sang amid their toil, and still the captain sent the deep bowl round. The helmsman dozed upon the tiller—the watch upon the forecastle had long since stretched themselves upon the deck—in the deep slumbers of exhaustion and satiety.

“Give way! my merry men, give way!” such was the jovial captain’s cry; “pull for the pride of Normandy—pull for your country’s fame, men of the fair Cotentin. What! will ye let yon island-lubbers outstrip ye in the race? More way! more way!”

And with unrivalled speed the Blanche Navire sped on. A long black line stretches before her bow, dotting the silvery surface with ragged and fantastic shades; but not one eye has marked it! On she goes, swifter yet and swifter, and still the fatal shout is ringing from her decks: “Give way, men of Cotentin! give more way!” Now they are close upon it, and now the dashing of the surf about the broken ledges—for that black line is the dread Raz de Gatteville, the most tremendous reef of all that bar the iron coast of Normandy! The hoarse and hollow roar must reach the ears even of those who sleep. But no! the clangor of the exulting trumpets, and the deep booming of the Norman nakir, and that ill-omened shout, “Give way—yet more—more way!” has drowned even the all-pervading roar of the wild breakers. On, on she goes, fleet as the gazehound darting upon its antlered prey; and now her bows are bathed by the upflashing spray; and now—hark to that hollow shock, that long and grinding crash!—hark to that wild and agonizing yell sent upward by two hundred youthful voices, up to the glorious stars that smiled as if in mockery of their ruin. There rang the voice of the strong, fearless men; the knight who had spurred oft his destrier amid the shivering of lances and the rending clash of blades, without a thought unless of high excitement and fierce joy; the mariner who, undismayed, had reefed his sail, and steered his bark aright, amid the wildest storm that ever lashed the sea to fury—now utterly unnerved and paralyzed by the appalling change from mirth and revelry to imminent and instant death.

So furious was the rate at which the galley was propelled, that, when she struck upon the sharp and jagged rocks, her prow was utterly stove inward, and the strong tide rushed in, foaming and roaring like a mill-stream! Ten seconds’ space she hung upon the perilous ledge, while the waves made a clear breach over her, sweeping not only every living being, but every fixture—spars, bulwarks, shrouds, and the tall masts themselves—from her devoted decks. At the first shock, with the instinctive readiness that characterizes, in whatever peril, the true mariner, Fitz-Stephen, rallying to his aid a dozen of the bravest of his men, had cleared away and launched a boat; and, even as the fated bark went down, bodily sucked into the whirling surf, had seized the prince and dragged him with a stalwart arm into the little skiff, which had put off at once, to shun the drowning hundreds who must have crowded in and sunk her on the instant.

“Pull back!—God’s death!—pull back!” cried the impetuous youth, as he looked round and saw that he alone of all his race was there; “pull back, ye dastard slaves, or by the Lord and Maker of us all, though ye escape the waves, ye ’scape not my revenge!”—and, as he spoke, he whirled his weapon from the scabbard and pressed the point so closely to Fitz-Stephen’s throat, that its keen temper razed the skin; and, terrified by his fierce menaces, and yet more by the resolute expression that glanced forth from his whole countenance, they turned her head once more toward the reef, and shot into the vortex, agitated yet and boiling, wherein the hapless galley had been swallowed. A female head, with long, fair hair, rose close beside the shallop’s stern, above the turbulent foam. William bent forward: he had already clutched those golden tresses—a moment, and she would have been enfolded in his arms—another head rose suddenly! another—and another—and another! Twenty strong hands grappled the gunwale of the skiff with the tenacity of desperation. There was a struggle, a loud shout, a heavy plunge, and the last remnant of the Blanche Navire went down, actually dragged from beneath the few survivors by the despairing hands of those whom she could not have saved or succored had she been of ten times her burden.

All, all went down! There was a long and awful pause, and then a slight splash broke the silence, a faint and gurgling sigh, and a strong swimmer rose and shook the brine from his dark locks; and lo, he was alone upon the deep! Something he saw at a brief distance, distinct and dark, floating upon the surface, and with a vigorous stroke he neared it—a fragment of a broken spar. Hope quickened at his heart, and love of life, almost forgotten in the immediate agony and terror, returned in all its natural strength. He seized a rope, and by its aid reared himself out of the abyss; and now he sat, securely as he deemed it, upon a floating fragment on which, one little hour before, he would not have embarked for all the wealth of India. Scarcely had he reached his temporary place of safety, before another of the sufferers swam feebly up and joined him, and then a third, the last of the survivors. The first who reached the spar—it was no other than Fitz-Stephen—had perused with an anxiety the most sickening and painful the faces of the new-comers: he knew them, but they were not the features he would have given his own life to see in safety—Berault, a butcher of Rouen, and Godfrey, a renowned and gallant youth, the son of Gilbert, count de L’Aigle. “The prince—where is the prince?” Fitz-Stephen cried to each, as he arrived; “hast thou not seen the prince?” And each, in turn, replied: “He never rose again—he, nor his brothers, nor his sister, nor his bride, nor one of all their company!”—“Wo be to me!” Fitz-Stephen cried, and letting go his hold, deliberately sank into the whirling waters; and, though a strong man and an active swimmer, chose to die with the victims whom his rashness had destroyed, rather than meet the indignation of their bereaved father, and bear the agonies of his own lifelong remorse.

Three days elapsed before the tidings reached King Henry, who in the fearful misery of hope deferred had lingered on the beach, trusting to hear that, from some unknown cause, the galley of his son might have put back to Barfleur. On the third day, Berault, the sole survivor of that night of misery, was brought in by a fishing-boat which had preserved him; and, when he had concluded his narration, Robert of Normandy had been revenged, although his wrongs had been a hundred-fold more flagrant than they were. Henry, though he lived years, NEVER SMILED AGAIN!