The White Ship A Story of the Twelfth Century Titanic

Chapter I

The Year 1119

The Herbarium

Thomas Fitz Stephen’s plans for the greatest ship the world would ever know were laid out on the table before him. Many years ago his father had taught him, The trick, son, is to sail with the wind abeam and a good square sail. Always remember that. With the wind abeam and her sail unfurled, a double ended ship will fly through the water like a bird in the air. There is nothing like it, if you build her right.

Thomas had mastered his craft. He knew how to draw plans, how to manage money, and how to calculate the number of men needed to build a ship. He knew each man’s job that built her and each man’s job that sailed on her. He knew how to read the stars and how to navigate by them to find his way across the sea. He knew above all things the sea herself. He could read her comings and goings like the back of his hand.

His father’s words rang as fresh in his memory as the bells that called the abbey monks to lauds. The sea is like a woman. If you respect her she will be kind to you. If you vex her she might kill you. You must learn to read the sky for signs of weather. To know how to build a ship you must understand the forest so you know which trees make the best hulls. You must become a diplomat to convince a nobleman to part with his trees. And you must learn to command, for you will be the captain of your ship one day.

That day had come.

* * *

Once when they were children, Wandrille brought Martin a kitten to make him forget his pain and learn to laugh again. He had a dream after the fire in which he saw his father’s hand bathed in golden light and his mother’s reaching to grasp it, so small in comparison. In the dream the child knew she was gone even before he awoke to the pain of his burns, the agony in his head, and the terrible knowledge that his mother was dead. Martin knew the spirit of his father had come for her, and that comforted him in his grief for her loss. In all the years that followed, as they grew and played together in the Great Forest, his greatest comfort of all had been Wandrille.

The grown Martin found peace in his walled herb garden, which was planted on the south side of the manor house adjacent to the curved outer walls of Lady Catherine’s chapel where it would capture the full warmth of the sun. He had thrown open the shutters of his herbarium to let the fresh spring air clear away the musty damp of winter. He watched through the window as Lady Wandrille stepped through the kitchen door into the garden. She wore a simple homespun gown with a green tunic that matched her eyes. Errant wisps of dark curls escaped the bright scarf that framed the face he knew so well.

The maiden paused to pet a barn cat sunning itself on the limestone wellhead which stood at the center of crossed paths that divided the garden into quadrants. The cat pawed at the fanciful figures carved into the stone, chipmunks, rabbits, and the guardian spirit of the garden, the Green Man, with his face of leaves and flowers. Shadows of the twisted branches of quince trees surrounding the wellhead played across Lady Wandrille’s smiling face. The cat hopped into the basket she carried. Her easy laughter bespoke a woman accustomed to joy. She set the cat back on the well where it meowed in complaint.

As Wandrille approached the herbarium, Martin realized he had forgotten himself. He had stained his hands and the table with dripping ink from his quill. He cast his eyes down quickly when he saw her look his way. He covered the scars on his face with his hand.

Martin! she called.

He looked up, feigning surprise. In a moment Wandrille had crossed the threshold, the sun’s rays following her into his gloomy room as if loathe to leave her presence.

Good morning, Martin, Wandrille said. Have you ever seen such a lovely day?

Martin smiled. Lovely, indeed.

Mother and I are going into the village. I need to replenish her supply of medicinal herbs to take with us.

Is there illness in the village? Martin asked.

No more than usual for this time of year. The villagers are always sick in the spring after such a hard winter. The peasants insist on bringing their livestock into their homes against the winter’s cold instead of keeping them in barns. Mother is convinced that sleeping with animals is not healthy. People say Mother is mad to put such an emphasis on cleanliness. Even with the help of the servants, I will sweep and scrub until my hands are as raw as a scullion’s.

Martin looked at her hands, so unlike a scullery maid’s. Perhaps sleeping with a cow or pig is not healthy, but it is warm.

I will need a goodly supply of sage to air out the houses, and plenty of fleabane, Wandrille said. "You know how Mother feels responsible for the villagers. She will administer remedies for the peasants’ physical ills.

Rows of dried herbs hung from the rafters and lay next to crocks on the table under his window. Martin painstakingly printed vellum labels which he would affix to the crocks before placing them on one of the many shelves lining the walls.

The young man had a view of the corner doorway leading to the kitchen and larders, and the door to the chapel on either side of which espaliered pear trees climbed iron framework below the high chapel windows. He loved the symmetry of the covered arcades surrounding the enclosed yard of the garth, open to the sky. Benches lined the stone walls inside the arcade. Fanciful animal faces peered down from the tops of pillared archways.

Herbs and flowers bordered the paths, providing color and scent from early spring through late fall. Buzzing bees gathered the nectar they would carry back to the skeps in the kitchen larders to turn to honey. One side of the garden led down to a terrace with a view overlooking the lawns and the river below, where Martin’s sailboat with its red sail rocked at anchor beside a small dock.

Martin’s plants were organized into herbal groups according to their uses, each plot surrounded with wattle fences. There was a plot for household plants, like goat’s rue, wormwood, and soaproot. Another held the very important medicinal herbs, madonna lilies, valerian, burning bush, sea holly, and hollyhocks. Foxgloves, comfrey, and cuckoopint grew all along the base of one wall. There was a bed of culinary herbs, including winters savory, marsh mallow, laurel, sweet bay, marjoram, and rosemary. In another plot grew plants artists used in their work, colorful golden marguerites, lavender, cornflowers, and bay myrtles. The bed of magical herbs contained fennel, bittersweet, lady’s mantle, Saint John’s wort, mugwort, yarrow, scarlet pimpernel, mandrake and plaintains. These were considered agents of blessing and protection.

A doorway and shuttered window in the west wall led to Martin’s herbarium where he dried and bottled herbs, not only from the garden but also from the forest, to keep a constant supply of medicines and balms for Lady Catherine’s healing work.

Stone steps led down to a second smaller garden. Here cherry and crabapple trees grew along the terrace wall. Beds bordered by blue periwinkles surrounded the central limestone fountain, which was carved in the shape of a cross with water splashing from spouts where small birds came to drink.

In the lower garden, plants sipped by butterflies bloomed in their proper seasons. Eight sets of pillars in every color of marble surrounded the plot. Herbs growing in pots had been placed on ledges beneath each of the seven archways. The pots held aloe, lemons, olives, sour oranges, oleander, wild thyme, myrtle, and bay leaves. These pots could be moved inside during the cold winter months to ensure the vitality of the more delicate plants.

Wandrille leaned against the open door watching butterflies flutter among the flowering herbs. By summer the bees would be fat, their hives dripping with the honey that sweetened Cook’s recipes. A peacock and his hen pecked at the earth, seeking bugs to eat.

I love the springtime, Martin. I love to open the shutters and let the wind blow through the house filling the rooms with the fragrance of sage and new flowers, and how everything looks after the winter’s dust is swept away and the furniture freshly oiled and smelling like lemons. I feel mystery in the air, like something is coming. Do you know what I mean? She looked at him the way she had as a child, like she was trying to see all the way through to his soul.

Martin, do you ever wish you could be in love?

Martin blushed deeply. What woman, he thought, could love a man with an affliction? He turned away to fuss with his herbs, banishing the memory of the fire. He was only a boy trying to save his mother when the beam fell on him. The servant who saved his life and ran back for his mother perished in the flames with her. Martin had been cursed with the falling sickness from that day on, looked upon by the peasants as cursed by the devil.

Wandrille sighed. I wish I could be in love. But my parents do not give me a chance.

Martin frowned. What do you mean?

Oh, Martin, you must have noticed that every suitor that has ever spoken for me is unworthy in their eyes. Even though I am past the age to be wed, they try to keep me a child. Where is my freedom to choose a husband when my father chases every marriageable man away? He calls them all boors. Sometimes I think father does not realize this is the twelfth century and things are no longer as when he was young. I do not want an arranged marriage.

Martin said, Wandrille, do not fault your parents for loving you. Perchance they regret promising that you could choose your mate. Our mothers were the closest of friends, and when your parents adopted me I am sure it made them more aware than most how precious and fragile life can be. Maybe they fear losing you.

Are you on their side?

Martin shrugged. Well, I agree with your lord father that your suitors have been boors. Did you love any of them?

Wandrille looked thoughtful. She shook her head. No. Not the way I imagine love must be. She laughed. They have been boors haven’t they? Oh, please do not misunderstand me nor ever speak of this to any other. I love my parents and would not hurt them for the world. I am just restless because it is spring. Look! The peacock has a rival, and both have opened their tails to impress the hen. How handsome her suitors are! I love peacocks, don’t you Martin?

Is there anything you do not love?

She thought for a moment. I do not love trying to convince the peasants they need to stop throwing their offal into the village streets, and that it is distasteful to allow pigs and cows to defecate inside their homes. I do not love the smells of spring in the village.

They laughed easily, comfortable with one another.

Martin asked, What herbs does Lady Catherine need?

Goldenseal and rose hips, chamomile, slippery elm bark, and plenty of feverfew. We shall need mint to make tea for stomach ailments. There will be plenty of those, and comfrey to treat infected cuts.

Martin busied himself pulling down crocks and bundling herbs. Wandrille helped him tie the bundles with string.

You will be weary when you finish in the village, Martin said."

Wandrille nodded.

Too weary to sail with me on Sunday?

The maiden’s eyes sparkled. I could never be too tired for that, Martin. Can we sail to Barfleur?

Martin leaned back against the table with his arms crossed, no longer self conscious of his scars. He raised one eyebrow. Wandrille slapped his arm playfully, and he pretended to back away, throwing up his arms to protect himself from her advances until she doubled over laughing.

Perhaps we shall sail farther this time, he said.

Wandrille looked puzzled. Farther? But there is nothing beyond Barfleur except sea monsters and danger.

He grinned. Are you afraid of danger?

Never! Wandrille raised her chin proudly. I fear nothing which you do not fear.

Martin laughed at her bravado. We shall take wine, bread, and cheese and sail right into the sea beyond the cliffs. Of course, we may end up supper for the sea monsters.

Wandrille giggled.

Thomas will return from England soon. We can watch for his ship.

Yes! she cried. Oh, I cannot wait to see Thomas. Please let us go, Martin. I shall tell Mother and have Cook pack us a basket.

You see? Your parents give you much freedom for a girl.

Except where suitors are concerned. Mother shall be in her chapel all day like every Sunday, and Father cares little what I do. And you do not have to worry about sea monsters eating you, Martin, they would spit you out because you are so sour.

Wandrille’s laughter echoed through the rafters as she dodged the playful swat aimed at her bottom. She stuck out her tongue at him. Martin laughed as he leaned casually against the table.

Wandrille! Wandrille!

There is Mother calling for me, the young woman sighed.

Wandrille gathered up the bundles of herbs, placed them in her basket, and ran back across the garden toward the house. When she reached the center wellhead, Wandrille turned back and blew Martin a kiss. As she disappeared through the kitchen door, Martin whispered, I love you.

Chapter II

The Year 1119

Gloucestershire, England Early Spring

Thomas Fitz Stephen packed his plans, the drawings and specifications he had been working on, and a bag full of gold. He looked fondly at the toy boat with the red and yellow striped sail which sat on the mantle over the fireplace. Each day brought him closer to his dream, and each year his dream grew clearer in his mind.

The rising sun flooded the room. It would be a fine day to sail. If the wind and the current were favorable, he would be in Normandy in good time. Normandy in springtime, with its alabaster cliffs and apple orchards heavy with blossoms as far as the eye could see. Soon he would see his two dearest friends again, Martin and Wandrille. They had been children together, and none knew him better, for he had shared his dream with them since the day the three children set his toy boat on the river and raced it downstream.

One long ago summer, Martin and Wandrille helped him build his first real boat with a blue sail stitched by Wandrille and the figurehead of a dragon carved by Martin. They navigated that boat through the marshes all that glorious summer, pretending to be the Vikings who had conquered and settled Normandy so many centuries ago. What adventures they had. Thomas could not wait to see Martin and Wandrille again and to tell them the exciting news that the time had finally come to build his ship of dreams.

Thomas Fitz Stephen was a rugged-looking man. His tanned and weathered skin made him look older than his years, as did his air of intelligence and authority. He wore his brown hair pulled back in a single braid. His handsome face was clean-shaven. Thomas carried himself with a proud bearing. He favored well-made practical clothing and finely crafted deerskin boots.

Thomas picked up a coin that sat on the mantle next to the little boat. Both treasures had come from his father, Airard. The gold coin represented the family fortune. William the Conqueror had presented this piece of gold with his likeness on it to Airard in gratitude for building and sailing the ship that carried him from Normandy to England in 1066, and Airard in turn had passed it down to Thomas. That voyage had made William not only king, but also one of the most powerful men in the world. The Conqueror had rewarded Airard and his heirs richly. Now the legacy belonged to Thomas.

Thomas knew he had only to present the coin to William the Conqueror’s son, King Henry the First, and any favor he asked would be granted. Such a small bit of metal, he thought, yet it holds more value then all of my family’s lands and assets combined.

Chapter III

The Year 1119

Normandy

Lady Wandrille saw the body lying next to the martyr’s well. Hastening to his side, she knelt and turned the man over. A trickle of blood had congealed around a nasty purple bruise on his forehead, but he was alive. She drew a bucket of water, pulled off her scarf, and gently bathed the wound and his face.

The man was young. His frame was stocky, but he had the muscular torso of a knight and the strong arms of a bowman. A bow and quiver of arrows lay not far from where he had fallen. His thick hair was dark, streaked with auburn, his skin tan. The man was unsoiled, unlike a peasant. Clean shaven, he must be wealthy, for only the wealthy shaved their beards.

He wore a simple tunic and leggings, but the fabric of his tunic was fine linen, not coarse, and his boots were leather. The silver hilt of his sword was of the finest craftsmanship. He must be a nobleman. What was he doing here? Had he been poaching in the king’s forest?

Wandrille searched through the bundles of herbs in her basket until she found comfrey leaves. She gently rested his head in her lap, placed a leaf on the cleaned wound, and bound it with her scarf. The young man moaned. His eyes fluttered open. They were brown, like a patch-eyed calf.

What happened? he said weakly. He spoke with a slight accent.

I think your horse must have thrown you, Wandrille said.

The young man touched his hand to his head, wincing when he found the lump. Yes. I remember now. A wild boar charged us.

Who are you? Wandrille asked.

He answered slowly. I am called Will.

I have never seen you in the forest. Where are you from?

The man’s hesitation in answering seemed understandable given the lump on his head. I am a student at the Abbey. I ran away for the day. You must promise to keep my secret.

She smiled. I suppose we all have secrets, she said. I have no reason to betray you.

And whose soft lap do I lie upon? Are you an angel?

Try to sit up, she said, helping him. Are you dizzy?

He groaned a little as he sat up, holding his head in his hands. He looked at her in a manner that made her feel naked. He grinned.

I am dizzy with love.

The maiden filled the wooden cup that hung from the well’s bucket with water. My name is Wandrille. My father is lord of this estate and the king’s forester. Drink this.

He drained the cup. I think rather that you are an angel, and this is a magic well whose waters revive me. But it is not the well water I would drink of, Milady. I would rather taste your lips on mine.

Wandrille felt the heat of a blush fill her cheeks. You must not speak so boldly. This is the ground of a sacred martyr’s well.

He raised his eyebrows. My head is clearing now. You are quite lovely, forest maiden. Tell me, what saint belongs to this well?

Saint Guinefort. And you, sir, look like a gentleman, but you do not talk like one.

I never heard of this saint. What is his claim to fame?

She hesitated. It is unimportant.

An angelic maiden with eyes as green as the forest saves my life by a martyr’s well and then tells me the martyr is unimportant? I would know the saint’s legend, pray.

Wandrille