Castle of the Heart (35 page)

The night was ink-black except where torches
and oil lamps flared to light the wild scene on deck. Most of the
participants had had entirely too much to drink. A few particularly
rowdy young nobles leaned over the railing hurling pieces of food
and open taunts at the elderly priest who had come to the harbor to
pronounce a benediction upon the ship and all who sailed in her.
Selene, shocked at their behavior, crossed herself and turned
aside.

‘There you are, my lady.” Sir Ottuel of
Chester stood before her. “Come and dance with me again, I beg
you.”

Selene resolutely forced her tortured
thoughts into the back of her mind. There was nothing she could do
now save follow Thomas’s instructions. After she was in England she
would find some quiet place, and there think on what means she
might use to win her husband back to her should his mother tell him
of their mutual treachery. But not here, not in this laughing,
noisy throng. Selene put on her best court smile. At least Sir
Ottuel was reasonably sober, unlike most of the others.

“I shall be happy to dance with you, Sir
Ottuel, but first I must find my lord William. I have a message for
him from my husband.” She moved off across the crowded deck,
searching for the Atheling with Sir Ottuel trailing happily in her
wake.

Isabel was not dying. She did not even look
the slightest bit sick. Pale, yes, but that might have been from
emotion at seeing her son again after so many years. Garbed in her
favorite shade of brilliant blue, she sat in a high-backed chair
next to the hearth, leaning her head against its carved wood, her
long, tapering fingers resting lightly on the arms. Thomas had
noted the rich appointments of the house as he was led from the
entrance through the great hall and up a flight of steps to this
private bedchamber. Sir Valaire, whose generosity provided the
house, had played fair by Isabel.

“Your messenger told me you were ill,” Thomas
said, looking at her keenly. “Dying, in fact.”

“So I was told two days ago,” Isabel replied.
“But as you see, I’ve tricked the doctors.”

“And tricked me, too, I’ve no doubt.” Thomas
sat down across the fire from her. He had to sit, for suddenly his
knees were trembling and he was embarrassed by the powerful emotion
he felt. Mother or no, after all she had done at Afoncaer to him
and to Guy, this woman should mean nothing to him. He thought he
had torn her out of his heart, but that was not so. He took refuge
in anger, and it was not mock anger, either. “This meeting breaks
your solemn oath to Uncle Guy. You had better have some deep reason
for calling me here, madame. Why did you want to see me?”

“Why not, after so long? Selene told me you
were both returning to England. I’m growing older. Who knows if I
will live until you come to these shores again? I thought I ought
to seize my chance while you were still here.” Isabel smiled at
him. “You have grown into a fine, handsome man, Thomas. Like your
father and your uncle. You resemble them both.”

“When Selene came to me after her last visit
with you she was sorely distressed. What happened between you?”

“She didn’t tell you? Then I shall have to.
But not now, not tonight. It’s late and you have ridden hard. I’ve
ordered a room prepared for you.”

“I’m not staying,” Thomas declared.

“What, still so hot to be with your
fish-blooded wife?” Isabel laughed at him. “But if my messenger
plucked you from the very deck of the royal ship, then your dear
Selene must be halfway to England by now. Sleep, Thomas, and
tomorrow we will talk. I will open my heart to you. And after you
know all, you may return to Selene, and to Afoncaer. If you still
want to.”

“What do you mean by that?” Thomas rose to
stand over her with a menacing look. Isabel remained totally
unafraid of him.

“What could I mean, my dear son, but that I
will put no impediment in your way once you know the truth?”

Isabel rose, too, gracefully slender and tall
for a woman, and Thomas suddenly recalled how he had always had to
look up at her when he was a boy, bending his head far back to see
her face. She had seemed like a queen to him then, far away and
incredibly lovely, a distant, perfect ideal of womanhood. And
almost always irritated or angry with him. Always pushing him away
lest his childish hands soil her lovely gowns. He had worshipped
Isabel, but he had never had a true mother until he found Meredith.
And now he was taller than she, he looked down at her, not up, and
he saw the lines about her eyes and the grey hair just visible at
the edge of her coif. She was growing older, as she had said, and
in spite of all she had done – and he knew most of it, Guy had told
him the full story of her treachery and Walter’s those long years
ago – in spite of it all, he loved her still. It was that love that
had brought him here today, against his better judgment. He decided
he would hear whatever she had to say, and forgive whatever she
wanted forgiven. He could do that much for her.

“Very well,” he said. “Since I am here, I
will stay the night.”

“I am so glad.” Her hand moved up to touch
his cheek in an odd, wistful gesture. “Dear Thomas.”

The servants came to lead him to his
bedchamber, where, after eating a little, he slipped between fresh
linen sheets. He fell asleep at once, his dreams untroubled by any
premonition about the morrow.

Selene had tried, but she could not banish
the tormenting thoughts that plagued her. She ought to have gone
with Thomas. Then she would have been able to counter at once
whatever Isabel said about her. Thomas would hate her. How could he
do otherwise? She thought of all the possible punishments an
outraged husband might inflict upon his wife and shivered. Whatever
happened when they met again, no matter what she said to him, or
how many excuses she made, one thing was certain: she had lost him
forever.

In addition to her emotional distress, Selene
was feeling a bit seasick. She knew she had drunk too much wine in
her efforts to calm herself, and she had eaten more rich food than
she really wanted. Whirling about in so many dances had further
disturbed her stomach, so that the ship’s slightest motion made her
queasy. It might not have been so bad had they not been traveling
so fast, but William Atheling had insisted they must catch up to
King Henry’s ship. Additional sails were hoisted, and the rowers
below deck were urged to greater efforts. A double row of long
oars, fifty of them altogether, rose and dipped into the sea and
rose again. The ship strained forward, into the rough open water of
the Narrow Sea.

Selene felt the first slapping surge of the
choppy waves and her stomach heaved. She would not give into it,
would not suffer the indignity of hanging over the side and casting
the contents of her stomach into the sea. She found a coil of rope
and sat down on it, heedless of the damage dirt and tar might do to
her gown. Pressing her lips firmly together she concentrated on
taking deep breaths through her nose until she felt a little
better. Sitting as she was, she did not see the white foam breaking
over the reef called Le Ras de Catte.

No one else saw the reef, either.
The
White Ship,
hurtling through the darkness with all sails full
and all rowers laboring to the limits of their strength, crashed
headlong upon the rocks, then slewed off to one side, the jagged
rocks tearing open a long gash below the waterline.

Selene was thrown forward by the impact,
sprawling onto the sharply slanting deck. Shrieks of panic and
cries for help sounded all about her. Selene crawled to the rail
and pulled herself upright. Sir Ottuel appeared beside her,
dragging the weeping countess of Chester with him.

“Stay here,” he cried, putting her hands on
the rail next to Selene’s. “Hold on. Lady Selene, make her stay
with you. She is hysterical. We can’t find my brother.”

“The ship is sinking,” Selene gasped, looking
over the edge into sucking black water.

“Yes, and there are not enough lifeboats,”
Ottuel told her. “At least that fool Fitz Stephen has put the
Atheling into one of them. He will be safe enough, we aren’t far
from shore. Help will come soon. Stay here, both of you. I’ll come
back for you.” He was gone, sliding across the tilting deck into
the night.

They were lower in the water now. One of the
sails, billowing loose from its lines, had blown against a torch
and caught fire. Its brilliant glare lit up a nightmarish scene of
broken bodies on the ship and people in heavy court dress trying
desperately to stay afloat in the water. Selene saw Sir Ottuel
reach for a rope, miss it, and plunge headlong into the sea. She
uttered a silent prayer for him. Beside her, the earl of Chester’s
wife sobbed softly.

“William, William, don’t leave me!” That was
Matilda of Perche, the Atheling’s favorite sister, leaning over the
side and stretching out her arms toward a boat Selene’s straining
eyes could just make out at the edge of the fire-lit scene. There
was a great shout from the sea, and the small boat seemed to be
returning. Selene watched with odd detachment as Countess Matilda
flung herself over the side and into the water.

The ship settled deeper. Water lapped at
their feet. Selene watched it coming closer. The cries of pain and
shouts for help receded into a distant clamor. She scarcely felt
the shuddering of the ship as it ground upon the rocks, breaking up
and sinking toward the bottom of the harbor. The flaming sail was
nearly burnt out. It hung on the yard a moment more, then fell into
the sea in a shower of sparks, and all was dark. The cries and the
ship’s movement and creakings receded even further from Selene’s
consciousness. She was only dimly aware that the weeping woman
beside her had loosed her hold on the rail and fallen across the
deck and into the sea.

This is the way,
Selene thought
calmly,
the best way to end it. I’ll never have to listen to
Thomas’s reproaches or know his hatred, never have to face Guy and
Meredith, or see the pity in Arianna’s eyes when I am brought to
punishment. Reynaud, that constant watcher, will never look at me
in triumph and know his suspicions have all been confirmed at last.
When I am gone, Thomas won’t have to tell anyone what I’ve done, my
children won’t have to be ashamed of me. It will all be forgotten
because I am dead. Whatever Isabel says to Thomas won’t matter at
all and I know him; he won’t repeat it. The truth would hurt too
many people.

She felt no fear at all, only a sense of
relief that Thomas was safe on shore. In a moment it would all be
over, the pain and fear, and the hot, desperate wanting.

The ship settled a little lower, the motion
nearly jerking her hands off the railing to which she still clung.
Selene pulled herself up onto the rail and perched there, hearing
the last remaining cries of the drowning like the calls of faraway
seabirds.

She closed her eyes, breathed a quick prayer,
and let herself fall into the blackness. The water was cold, like
black ice all around her, numbing her body. Her heavy gown pulled
her down, down, and Selene sank gratefully, willingly, giving
herself up to the sea without a struggle. She kept her eyes closed,
and in that all-encompassing blackness, in the silence of the sea’s
cold embrace, Selene found the peace she had searched for all her
life.

Isabel had put Thomas off all morning,
remaining in her private chamber and refusing to meet him until it
was time for the midday meal. Thomas seriously considered leaving
without seeing her again, but he did not. He was held in her house
by an intense curiosity about what she might have to say to him.
Still, he decided to let her know that he was angry with her for
making him wait so long. They finally came together in the hall,
where food was being placed upon the tables and his men had joined
Isabel’s household, all of them hungrily awaiting her arrival so
they could begin.

“I know what you are attempting by this
delay, madame,” he stormed at her. “You think to keep me here
another night, but, by heaven, I tell you I will leave the moment
this meal is finished, whether you have said what you have to say
or not.”

“Very well, Thomas, but let us at least sit
down and begin to eat. You are frightening my servants with your
quarrelsome ways. My household is usually more peaceful than this.”
Isabel glided past him, heading for her chair on the dais. Thomas
followed her so closely that he nearly bumped into her when she
whirled about at the sound of loud voices at the door. Isabel
exclaimed in irritated surprise as the same messenger who had
accompanied Thomas from Barfleur burst into the hall. “Alain, what
do you mean by this rude intrusion?”

“My lady.” The messenger made a hasty bow and
began to speak, his words tumbling out on top of each other, yet
for all his hurried, confused manner, what he said made dreadful
sense. “News from Barfleur ... a great tragedy…
The White
Ship
sunk…William Atheling…tried to save his sister…dead, all
dead.”

“What are you saying?” Isabel demanded
impatiently. “Who is dead?”

But Thomas had grasped the import of Alain’s
story at once.

“They are all gone?” he gasped, catching at
Alain’s arm. “Selene? All?”

“All save one, my lord, and that a butcher
from Rouen, on his way to the English court to serve in King
Henry’s kitchens. He alone lived to tell the tale. I am sorry, my
lord,” Alain added sympathetically.

“Selene.” Thomas sank into the nearest chair,
hearing the loud murmuring among Isabel’s servants as they, too,
began to comprehend the magnitude of the disaster Alain had
described.

“Here. Swallow every drop.” Isabel thrust a
goblet of wine at him, and he drank in stunned, childlike obedience
to her command. He was sharply aware of Isabel ordering everyone
else out of the hall, of Benet and his other men leaving with many
concerned backward glances, and of servants picking up trenchers
and platters and disappearing behind the screens passage toward the
kitchen. He took another deep gulp of the wine, wishing it would
numb the pain and blur the unnatural clarity with which he saw and
heard everything.