The Book of Eleanor by Pamela Kaufman

Author:Pamela Kaufman [Kaufman, Pamela]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-51472-1
Publisher: Crown
Published: 2011-07-20T00:00:00+00:00

The savage winds increased and snow obliterated the landscape. Each morning, I stumbled through an impenetrable murk from one inn to the other, a scarf across my eyes to protect them from sleet and sand. I had to lean forward like a gnarled shrub to avoid being toppled—not an easy feat for someone in my condition.

Every morning, I also had to contend with my son William’s angry howls.

“Why can’t I come with you?”

“This is grown-up talk, darling. Be a good boy and Aunt Amaria will tell you a story.”

“I want to go on the ship like you said.”

“And you will.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, maybe tomorrow.”

“When’s tomorrow?”

Amaria stroked his blond curls. “We’ll go to bed tonight, and when we wake, it will be tomorrow.”

“No!” he shouted. “When we wake it will be today! Tomorrow never comes.”

“Worthy of Abelard,” I declared proudly.

Henry chafed at the delay. The winter closed in, promising worse gales ahead, and he made a decision. “We’ll sail on Saint-Nicholas’s Day, for he’s patron saint of travelers.”

Therefore we prepared to leave on December 6, though no one was happy about it. Who knew how many ships had foundered under the saint’s care? We lined up on the beach in a gritty dawn and listened to the surf crash on the sand. My God, this is madness, I thought; what good to claim a throne from the bottom of the sea?

Even the Viking Matilda was rattled. “This is the month that killed my brother,” she said, her voice trembling.

A famous and awesome story, a Christmas sailing that had begun present events. The prince of England had sailed on Christmas Day from Barfleur with most of the young nobles of Europe. The ships had foundered and sunk in the harbor, in full view of people still alive who remembered watching the smacks go down on the rocks, then the lifeboats, which were overloaded. The loss of that prince had made Matilda heir to England’s throne, and now Henry. It had also been the reason my uncle Raymond had gone to England and subsequently to Antioch; thus the great chain links us to one another and the dead.

Henry paced back and forth, shaking his fist at the elements, but even he was sufficiently awed to postpone the departure. Then, when the sky was again darkening and we were all chilled to the bone, the wind suddenly dropped.

“Now!” Henry shouted.

Quickly, I took William from Amaria and climbed the slippery plank.

I huddled under the forecastle with my son.

“Like the Crusade,” Amaria said dryly.

“Except I don’t think we’ll wake to fields of flowers,” I replied.

“I’ll settle for dry land. I never fancied death by water.”

For one brief moment, the winds cleared and I saw the poignant figure of Matilda, still waving from the shore. She should be here in my place, I thought; no, in Henry’s place—she’s the birthright queen. Then she disappeared.

Lanterns hung fore and aft disappeared in the mist. The drums began a steady thump from ship to ship; then the horns bleated mournfully across the sea.

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