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.
The sinking ship had disappeared into the darkness, but Henry’s last glimpse of it would burn in his memory until his final breath: as the cog heeled sharply to the left, its side rudder had come completely out of the water, as useless as its tattered sail and broken mast. A sudden whimper drew Henry’s attention and he glanced down to discover that his dog had crept from the tent, managed to crawl across the deck, and was huddled at his feet. Touched by such selfless loyalty, he knelt beside the dyrehund and wrapped his arms around the animal’s trembling body. He considered returning to the tent, decided to remain there on the deck. Better to die under the open sky, facing his fate head-on.
Henry lost track of time, was never to know how many more hours passed before he heard one of the sailors give a joyful cry, “Land ho!” Turning his head toward the horizon, he saw a glimmer of light in the distance, and for a confused moment, he thought he was gazing upon the chalk cliffs of Dover. Surely they could not have been blown that far off course? But as the helmsman called out that he could see Culver Cliff, Henry realized that he was looking upon salvation, the steep, white bluffs of the Isle of Wight.
Henry came ashore at Portsmouth on March 3, and the remainder of his storm-battered fleet straggled into ports up and down the Channel. One of his forty ships was lost, taking more than four hundred people to their deaths, including Ranulf de Bellomont, his personal physician. But when he sent for his eldest son, Hal’s voyage was uneventful. He landed safely on English soil on June 5, proceeding to London, where his father awaited him, and was crowned in Westminster Abbey by the Archbishop of York on the following Sunday.
The Earl of Cornwall was enjoying himself enormously. Rainald loved food and revelries and good company, and in his considered judgment, his grandnephew’s coronation feast offered all three in plenitude. Westminster’s great hall had been newly whitewashed for the occasion, fresh, fragrant rushes laid down, clean linen cloths covered the tables, and in every wall sconce, a flaming torch blazed like a smoking sun. So far the menu had exceeded all his expectations; he’d confessed to his grand-nephew Hugh of Chester that he’d not thought Harry could manage an elegant meal without Eleanor’s guidance.