THE WHITE SHIP
The rebellion extended, castle after castle fell; those of the Normans
who remained maintained themselves within fortresses, like Pembroke and
Aberystwyth, that could receive provisions from the sea. Powys was
seething--a thrill of excitement had run through Gwynedd, and the aged
King there quaked lest his people should rise, dethrone him, and call on
Griffith to reign over them, and combine north and south in one against
the invader.
It was in the favor of the Welsh that King Henry was out of the country.
He was warring against the French King in Normandy, and the malcontents
in the duchy.
In order to punish the Welsh, he had sent Owen ap Cadogan at the head of
a body of men into the country. Owen was furious because the people of
Cardigan had greeted Griffith as their prince. Cardigan was the kingdom
to which Owen laid claim, but he had done nothing to maintain this claim
against Strongbow. Yet no sooner did he hear that a cousin, Griffith ap
Rhys, had been welcomed there as its deliverer and prince, than in
uncontrolled rage he gathered a troop of ruffians, and aided by the men
afforded him by King Henry, he invaded Dyfed, and took an oath that he
would massacre every man, woman, and child he came across till he had
cut his way, and left a track of blood from the Usk to the Atlantic.
Thus a Welsh prince, with a mixed host of Welshmen and English, had come
among the mountains that had cradled him to exterminate those of his own
blood and tongue.
The horrors he committed, his remorseless savagery, sent men and women
flying before him to the wastes and heaths of the Brecknock mountains,
and they carried with them the infirm and feeble, knowing well that Owen
would spare neither the gray head nor the infant.
Enraged at not finding more food for his sword, he marked his onward
course with flame, destroying farms and homesteads.
An appointment was made for the host of Owen, another led by Robert
Consul, and the disciplined foreigners under Gerald of Windsor, who had
been reinforced from the sea--to converge and unite in one great army
for the chastisement of South Wales.
It so happened, while thus marching, that Owen, with about a hundred
men, detached himself from the main body to fall on and butcher a party
of fugitives on their way to the fastnesses of the mountains. Returning
with their plunder and their blades dripping with blood, Owen and his
ruffians came near to where Gerald of Windsor was on his way.
Then up flamed the rage of the baron, and he resolved on using the
opportunity to discharge a personal debt of honor. It was this Owen who
had penetrated as a friend into Pembroke, and had carried off Gerald's
wife, Nest.
At once he turned and fell on Owen and his murderous band, cut them to
pieces, and slew the man against whom he bore so bitter a grudge.
Henry had returned from Normandy; he was triumphant. Peace had been
declared, and his son William had been invested with the duchy. The King
hastened to Westminster as soon as he had landed, expecting his sons,
William and Richard, and his daughter, Matilda, to follow him in a day
or two. As he was about to embark at Barfleur, there had come to him one
Thomas Fitz-Stephen, the son of the man who had conveyed the Conqueror
to England. At his petition, Henry accorded him the favor of convoying
the princes and the princess across the Channel in his splendid new
vessel, the _White Ship_.
The crew, greatly elated at this honor, after having received their
passengers on board, begged Prince William that he would order drink to
be supplied them, and this he imprudently granted. A revel ensued, which
was kept up even after the King and his fleet had put to sea. Owing to
this, Henry arrived in England without the _White Ship_ remaining in
sight and forming a portion of the fleet. He was not, however, in any
concern, as the sea was calm and there was little wind, and he made his
way at once to Windsor.
Almost immediately on his arrival, Nest appeared before him.
The King was in a bad humor. He was vexed at his children not having
arrived. He was very angry because his porcupine was dead. The servant
whose duty it was to attend to the natural rarities Henry collected,
assured him that this death was due to the porcupine's licking himself
like a cat, to keep himself clean, and he had accidentally swallowed one
of his own quills, which had transfixed his heart.
"And, Sire," said the man; "when I saw him licking himself, I blessed
Heaven, as I thought it to be a token of fair weather while your Majesty
was crossing the sea."
"You should not have suffered him to lick himself," said the King
angrily.
"Sire, I believed he was cleaning his spines, that he might present his
best appearance to your Majesty."
"Take him away!" ordered Henry, addressing a man-at-arms, "and say he is
to receive fifty stripes at the pillory for his negligence. Well, what
are you here for, Nest? This is a cursed bad augury on my return to find
my porcupine dead and you here with a complaint."
"Sire," said the Princess, "at one time my presence was not of
ill-augury to you."
"Times have changed. I am driven mad with rebellion. First in Normandy,
then in Wales. One has no peace. But I have beaten down all opposition
in the duchy, and now I shall turn my attention to your country. What
do you want? To threaten and scold, as once before?"
"No--only to entreat."
"Oh, you women! you plead, and if you do not get what you ask, then you
menace. What one of all your threats and denunciations has come true?
What single one?"
"Oh, my Sovereign," said Nest, "hearken to me but this once. Now there
is an occasion such as may not present itself again of pacifying Wales
and making my dear people honor you and submit to your scepter."
"What is that?"
"Owen ap Cadogan is dead. He entered his native land slaying and laying
waste, so that every Cymric heart trembled before him--some with fear,
others with resentment. And now--he is dead, Gerald my husband, who had
some wrong to redress----"
Henry burst into derisive laughter.
"Gerald killed him; and now the Welsh people hail him as having
delivered them from their worst foe."
"Then let them submit."
"But, Sire and King, their wrongs are intolerable. Oh, let there be some
holding of the hand. Lay not on them more burdens; meddle not further
with their concerns. I speak to you now, not for the princes, but for
the people."
"It is well that you speak not for the princes. The worst of all, a
rebellious dragon, is your brother Griffith. Him I shall not spare."
"I speak for the people. Sire, there is one truth they have taken to
heart now by the fall of Owen. It is that given in Scripture: Put not
your trust in princes! Those we have known have failed; and fail they
all will, because they seek their own glory, and not the welfare of the
people. Our Cymri know this now. Griffith of Gwynedd and Owen of
Cardigan have taught them that. Therefore, they are ready to bow under
the scepter of England, if that scepter, in place of being used to stir
up one prince against another, be laid on all to keep them in
tranquillity. What my people seek is peace, protection, justice. Sire,
you are mistaken if you believe that the Welsh people rise against the
overlordship of your Crown. They rise because they can obtain no peace,
no justice from the Norman adventurers sent among them, and no
protection against their best lands being taken from them and given to
Flemings. Sire, trust the people. Be just and generous to them. Protect
them from those who would eat them up. All they rise for, fight for--are
the eternal principles of justice as between man and man. Your men
snatch from them their lands; their homes they are expelled from; even
their churches are taken from them."
"Ah, ha, Nest! I have the sanction of Heaven there. Did not your British
Church resist Augustine? Does it not now oppose our See of Canterbury?
And as Heaven blesses the right and punishes the wrong, so has it
marvelously interposed to silence evil tongues. When my Bernard was
resisted, fire fell from heaven and consumed those who opposed him, in
the sight of all men. I believe a hundred men were suddenly and
instantaneously burnt."
"You heard that from Bernard."
"It has been published throughout England. I have spoken of it myself to
the successor of the Apostles, to Pope Callixtus, at Rheims, and he was
mightily gratified, for, said he, I ever held that British Church to be
tainted with heresy. And he reminded me that when the British bishops
opposed Augustine, they were massacred at Bangor. Which was very
satisfactory. So now with my Bernard----"
"Bernard!" exclaimed Nest, boldly interrupting the King, "Bernard is an
arch liar! Sire! a priest named Pabo struck the bishop in the mouth, and
knocked out one or two of his teeth."
"I noticed this and rallied him on his whistling talk. But he said
nought of the blow."
"It was so. And he pretends that Pabo was smitten by lightning for
having thus struck him. But, Sire, I have seen this priest since the
alleged miracle; his hair is unsinged. He has a hearty appetite, and
good teeth--not one struck out by lightning--wherewith to consume his
food. The smell of fire has not passed upon him."
The King broke into a roar of laughter.
"That is Bernard! Bernard to the life! A rogue in business. He cheated
my Queen, and now tries to cheat me with a lie, and sets up as the
favored of Heaven. You are sure of it?"
"Quite sure; Bernard endeavored to huddle the man out of the way lest
the lie should be found out."
"Famous!" The King had recovered his good-humor. "And to see the
solemnity and conviction of the Holy Father when he heard the story."
Again he exploded into laughter. "I must go tell the Queen. It is fun,
it will put her in a passion."
"And, Sire! about my people--my poor Welsh people?"
"I will see to it. I will consider--what did I hear? You have brought
your young child with you?"
"Yes, Sire, he is without."
"Let me see him--has he your beauty or Gerald's ugliness?"
"Your Majesty shall judge."
Nest went towards the door, but turned. "Oh, Sire, forget not my
entreaty for my people."
"Away--fetch the boy. I will think on it."
Nest left the room.
In the ante-chamber all present were in obvious consternation, pale, and
dejected.
She had left her little son with a servant, and she crossed the chamber.
Then the Chancellor, who was present, came to her, drew her into the
embrasure of a window, and spoke to her in awestruck tones. At his words
her cheek blanched.
"None dare inform him," said the Chancellor. "We have instructed the
child. Suffer him to enter alone and tell the tale."
For a moment Nest could not speak; something rose in her throat. She
signed to the boy to come to her. "Do you know what to say?"
"Yes, mother; that the _White Ship_----"
"Cast yourself at the King's feet, tell him all; and when you have said
the last words, 'The princes, thy sons, be dead; thy daughter also, she
likewise is dead'--then pause and say in a loud voice, 'Remember
Wales!'"
The child was dismissed. He passed behind a curtain, then through the
door into the royal presence.
All without stood hushed, trembling with emotion, hardly breathing, none
looking on another.
Then, in the stillness, came a loud and piercing cry; a cry that cut to
the hearts of such as heard it like a stiletto.
In another moment Henry staggered forth, blanched, and as one drunk,
with hands extended and lifted before his face, and in a harsh voice,
like a madman's shriek, he cried: "It has come. The judgment of God! I
am a dry and a branchless tree, blasted in the midst of life--blasted in
the hour of victory." Then he reeled to a table, threw himself on his
knees, laid his head on his hands, and burst into tears.
None moved. None ventured near him. The Bishop of London was there--but
he felt that no words of his were of avail now.
So they stood hardly breathing, watching the stricken man, who quivered
in the agony of his bereavement.
Presently he lifted his face--so altered as to be hardly recognizable,
livid as that of a corpse, and running down with tears. He turned
towards Nest and said--"Go, woman, go--it shall be as thou hast desired.
I am judged."
What had occurred needs but a few words of explanation.
When the _White Ship_ started the captain assured Prince William that
such was her speed that she would overtake the King's ship, and even
pass it and leave behind the royal squadron. The signal was given, and
the _White Ship_ left the harbor, impelled to her utmost speed by fifty
excited rowers; but she had not proceeded far before she was driven
violently against a reef, which stove in two planks of her starboard
bow. Prince William was put into the boat, and was already on his way
towards the land when, hearing the cries of his sister from the sinking
vessel, he ordered his rowers to put back and save her. He was obeyed;
but on reaching the wreck such a rush was made by the frantic passengers
to enter their boat that she was swamped, and the whole crowd was
swallowed in the scarcely troubled sea. William and Richard, the two
sons of Henry, and their sister Matilda, and three hundred others,
chiefly persons of exalted rank, perished on this occasion.
Nest returned to Wales.
She had gained all that she desired. She went at once to Dynevor. There
was her brother, Griffith, who had done much to restore the ruinous
castle of his fathers, the kings of Dyfed.
"Griffith," said she, "I have done what I could. For thee, free pardon
and reinstatement in thy principality--yet is it not to be a kingdom,
only as a great chiefdom. The King undertakes to suffer no more English
or Normans to enter our country and carve out for themselves baronies
therein. Nor will he send into it any more Flemings. But such as are
here shall remain, and Norman, Fleming, and Welshman alike shall be
under his scepter, and be justly ruled, the English by their own laws,
the Welsh by those of Rhodric Dda." She looked round and saw Pabo, "and
for thee--return thou to Caio and thy Archpriesthood--and to thy wife.
Let Bernard look to it. The King will not forget the story of thy being
consumed with fire from Heaven for having knocked out one of the
bishop's teeth. And now, Griffith, give me the armlet of Maxen Wledig.
We have both deserved well of our country."
THE END.