He let the spar slip away from him and he sank down into the water.

* * * * *

Henry was amused. He and his soldiers had reached England before the White Ship.

‘Stephen.’ he said, ‘what ails you? Why are you so nervous?’

Stephen said he did not know that he was.

‘You are back in England now, my lad. The fighting is behind us for a while. I think never have events in Normandy augured so well for peace. We must be eternally on the watch of course, but the signs are good. The White Ship is not sighted yet. I will ask Fitz-Stephen what he means by bringing in the fastest ship of all the last.’

Stephen did not answer. He could not get out of his mind his last glimpse of the White Ship.

The King’s Resolve

They had brought the news.

The butcher had been picked up and taken back to Normandy. He had seen what had happened.

The White Ship lost with all on her—except butcher Berthould who had climbed the mast and seen the ship go down.

They brought the news to Stephen for he was now considered to be nearest to the King.

‘How can I tell him that his son is lost?’ asked Stephen.

‘Someone must, my lord.’

‘Ay,’ said Stephen, ‘someone must.’

There came a time when the King could not be kept in the dark any longer.

Stephen went to him.

‘Uncle, there is bad news.’

The King turned his head slowly and looked full at his nephew. ‘It is William...’ he began.

Stephen nodded. ‘The White Ship foundered not far out of Barfleur. She sank and all went with her save one butcher who lived to tell the sorry tale.’

The King said nothing; his lips moved but no sound came.

Then slowly he got to his feet. He would have fallen had not Stephen caught him.

The news had been such a shock to him that he had fainted.

* * * * *

The King shut himself in his chamber. He wanted to see no one. Only Stephen ventured near him and for a few days he did not speak even to him.

Then there came the day when Stephen went to him and he said: ‘Sit down, nephew.’

‘My lord,’ said Stephen with a smile of compassion which seemed beautiful in the King’s eyes.

‘My boy,’ said Henry, ‘I wish you were my son, then the tragedy would seem less severe.’

It seemed to Stephen then that he felt the crown upon his head. The dreams that seemed so wild where wild no longer. Was it possible? There is no male heir, those words kept hammering in his brain. There is Matilda but she is the Empress of Germany. If I could have married Matilda there would be no doubt.

‘I would I were.’ he answered the King vehemently.

‘You are a comfort to me, Stephen, in my bereavement.’

‘My uncle, there is nothing I would not do to bring you comfort.’

‘I know it well. I rejoice in you. You shall not suffer for your devotion to me. You see a man bowed down with sorrow.’

‘But a great King, sire.’

‘I have done what I thought best for my people.’

‘And will for many years to come, please God.’

‘There is life in me yet, Stephen.’

‘It is clear to all who behold you, sire.’

‘I have suffered much tragedy of late. I lost my wife, my good Matilda, and I was hoping for more sons from her until the last. And then my son and heir, the future King. It seems God would punish me for all my sins. I lost two other children on that ship, Stephen—my daughter the Countess Matilda, my son Richard. Three children with their lives before them went down with that accursed White Ship. You see a man bowed down with misery.’

Stephen said: ‘I see a great King, sire, who will rise above his adversity.’

Stephen had always had a golden tongue. The King smiled at him affectionately. ‘You are a comfort to me, nephew. I’ve told your mother that I shall do well by you.’

‘Thank you, sire. You have been so good to me. I would ask nothing more but to serve you to the end of my days.’

‘Talk to me, Stephen. Tell me what the butcher told you.

Tell me of William’s last hours. The butcher saw him go back for his sister. He was a saint, Stephen.’

Stephen thought: And so do we all become in death. But he said: ‘A saint, sire.’

‘I sometimes thought that he would have had too gentle a nature to be a king. For we have to be harsh, often, Stephen, to do what is best.’

‘You have always done what is best for your subjects, sire.’

Oh yes, there was great comfort in Stephen.

When Stephen left the King he could not help feeling exultant.

Who is there? he asked himself. Why should I not be the next? The King loves me. If he does not get himself an heir...why should the next ruler not be King Stephen?

* * * * *

Henry had come out of stupor. A king cannot mourn forever. We should have had more sons, he thought. Better too many than not enough.

He went to the window and looked out.

Across the courtyard walked a comely young lady of the Court. He felt the familiar stirrings which invariably assailed him at the sight of a nubile girl.

I am not old, he thought. I am not as old as the Emperor of Germany—yet he took a young wife.

Why should I not get sons, a prince who will follow me? I have the time; I have the vitality.

It was the answer.

Then he would stop grieving. He had loved Matilda; he had loved his son; but they were lost.

He was not old; he was full of vigour. His desire for women had not yet begun to fail.

The King had made up his mind. He would take a young wife and that without delay.

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