bright colours to protect them from the cold, talked, laughed, and
sang. The Prince encouraged the fifty sailors to row harder yet,
for the honour of The White Ship.
Crash! A terrific cry broke from three hundred hearts. It was the
cry the people in the distant vessels of the King heard faintly on
the water. The White Ship had struck upon a rock – was filling –
going down!
Fitz-Stephen hurried the Prince into a boat, with some few Nobles.
‘Push off,’ he whispered; ‘and row to land. It is not far, and the
sea is smooth. The rest of us must die.’
But, as they rowed away, fast, from the sinking ship, the Prince
heard the voice of his sister MARIE, the Countess of Perche,
calling for help. He never in his life had been so good as he was
then. He cried in an agony, ‘Row back at any risk! I cannot bear
to leave her!’
They rowed back. As the Prince held out his arms to catch his
sister, such numbers leaped in, that the boat was overset. And in
the same instant The White Ship went down.
Only two men floated. They both clung to the main yard of the
ship, which had broken from the mast, and now supported them. One
asked the other who he was? He said, ‘I am a nobleman, GODFREY by
name, the son of GILBERT DE L’AIGLE. And you?’ said he. ‘I am
BEROLD, a poor butcher of Rouen,’ was the answer. Then, they said
together, ‘Lord be merciful to us both!’ and tried to encourage one
another, as they drifted in the cold benumbing sea on that
unfortunate November night.
Page 45
Dickens, Charles – A Child’s History of England
By-and-by, another man came swimming towards them, whom they knew,
when he pushed aside his long wet hair, to be Fitz-Stephen. ‘Where
is the Prince?’ said he. ‘Gone! Gone!’ the two cried together.
‘Neither he, nor his brother, nor his sister, nor the King’s niece,
nor her brother, nor any one of all the brave three hundred, noble
or commoner, except we three, has risen above the water!’ Fitz-
Stephen, with a ghastly face, cried, ‘Woe! woe, to me!’ and sunk to
the bottom.
The other two clung to the yard for some hours. At length the
young noble said faintly, ‘I am exhausted, and chilled with the
cold, and can hold no longer. Farewell, good friend! God preserve
you!’ So, he dropped and sunk; and of all the brilliant crowd, the
poor Butcher of Rouen alone was saved. In the morning, some
fishermen saw him floating in his sheep-skin coat, and got him into
their boat – the sole relater of the dismal tale.
For three days, no one dared to carry the intelligence to the King.
At length, they sent into his presence a little boy, who, weeping
bitterly, and kneeling at his feet, told him that The White Ship
was lost with all on board. The King fell to the ground like a
dead man, and never, never afterwards, was seen to smile.
But he plotted again, and promised again, and bribed and bought
again, in his old deceitful way. Having no son to succeed him,
after all his pains (‘The Prince will never yoke us to the plough,
now!’ said the English people), he took a second wife – ADELAIS or
ALICE, a duke’s daughter, and the Pope’s niece. Having no more
children, however, he proposed to the Barons to swear that they
would recognise as his successor, his daughter Matilda, whom, as
she was now a widow, he married to the eldest son of the Count of
Anjou, GEOFFREY, surnamed PLANTAGENET, from a custom he had of
wearing a sprig of flowering broom (called Genˆt in French) in his
cap for a feather. As one false man usually makes many, and as a
false King, in particular, is pretty certain to make a false Court,
the Barons took the oath about the succession of Matilda (and her
children after her), twice over, without in the least intending to
keep it. The King was now relieved from any remaining fears of
William Fitz-Robert, by his death in the Monastery of St. Omer, in