An extract from
Cameos from English History, from Rollo to Edward II.
by Charlotte Mary Yonge.

Foulques IV., le Réchin, was a scholar, and wrote a Latin history of Anjou, of which, however, only a fragment is preserved. He was as wicked as most of the race, fierce, violent, and voluptuous. He was no longer a young man, and had been twice married and once divorced (one tradition says that he was the husband of the demon-countess), when, in 1089, he cast his eyes on the beautiful young Bertrade, daughter of the Count de Montfort, and promised Duke Robert of Normandy to make over to him the county of Maine, if he would use his influence with her parents to obtain her for him.

The Count de Montfort would not give up his daughter to the wicked old Angevin, till Robert, in his usual weak, good-natured fashion, had yielded up a number of his own frontier castles as her purchase. Foulques did indeed put Maine into his hands; but he did not keep it long, for Helie de la Flèche set up his claim, and maintained it as we have seen. Nor did Foulques gain much by his bargain; for Bertrade had no perfection but her beauty, and, in the fourth year of her marriage, abandoned him and her infant son, and went to the court of Philippe I. of France, who had lately grown weary of his queen Bertha, the mother of his four children, and had shut her up in the castle of Montreuil.

Philippe found some pretext for declaring that his first marriage and Bertrade's were both null and void; but not one French bishop could be found to solemnize the disgraceful union he desired. He was obliged to look beyond his own dominion, and it is said that it was the brother of the Conqueror, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, who consented to pronounce a blessing over their marriage.

They were not, however, allowed to sin unmolested. Bertrade's husband made war on them on one side, Bertha's brother on the other. Philippe's son Louis fled to the protection of the English; and the Pope laid them under excommunication. For nine years, however, they persisted in their crime; but at last they made a show of penitence; the King pretended to renounce Bertrade, and they were absolved.

Bertrade had forsaken her child; but she was very anxious that he should succeed his father, instead of his elder brother Geoffrey, a high-spirited youth, whom the peasantry of Anjou regarded as their friend and protector. She contrived to sow dissension between him and his father, and at last caused him to be assassinated.

Then she chose to come to Angers to see her son heir of Anjou, and actually brought the King with her; made Philippe and her husband behave in the most friendly manner, eat at the same table, sleep on the same couch; and Foulques was even base enough to sit on a footstool at the feet of this woman, who could scarcely have been better than the witch-lady herself.

After the death of Philippe she returned to Anjou, and went into the Abbey of Fontevraud, where she practised such rigorous penances that her health sank under them.

Her son, Foulques V., succeeded to the county in 1109, and was a much better man than could have been expected from the son of such parents. His wife was Sybil, daughter of Helie de la Flèche, an excellent, gentle, and pious lady, whom he loved devotedly.

His eldest daughter, the Alix, or noble maid of Anjou, whose name seems to have been Matilda, was betrothed to William the Etheling, son of Henry I., in order to detach her father from the cause of the unfortunate William Clito of Normandy.

Their marriage took place in the autumn of 1120, when the bridegroom was seventeen and the bride twelve. It was celebrated with great splendor, and all the Norman barons did homage to young William as their future Duke. Afterward the English court repaired to Barfleur, there to embark for their own island; but there was considerable delay in collecting shipping enough for so numerous a party, and it was not possible to set sail till the 25th of November. Just as the King was about to embark, a mariner, named Thomas Fitzstephen, addressed him, with the offering of a golden mark, saying that his father had had the honor of carrying King William to the conquest of England, and entreating that his beautiful new vessel, the Blanche Nef, or White Ship, with fifty good oarsmen, might transport the present King.

Henry, always courteous, answered that his own arrangements were made, but that no doubt his son, the Etheling, and his companions, would gladly make the passage with him. The King then sailed, taking with him the little bride, but leaving behind no less than eighteen ladies of the highest rank—among them his niece, Lucy de Blois, Countess of Chester, and his illegitimate daughter, Marie, Countess de Perche—also another illegitimate son, named Richard, and all the gayest young nobles, who were in attendance on the prince. Including the crew, the Blanche Nef was expected to carry full three hundred persons across the Channel. All were in high spirits, in that reckless state of mirth which the grave Scots deem as the absolute presage of a fearful catastrophe, as well as often its cause; and the young Etheling, with open-hearted, imprudent good-nature, presented the crew with three casks of wine to drink to his health and the success of the voyage. Such feasting took place, that all the rest of the fleet had sailed; but Fitzstephen boasted that he would overtake and outstrip every ship before they reached England. Some prudent persons—among them young Stephen de Blois—left the ship; but no one else had any fears; and though the night came on, there was a bright moon, and the water was calm. Every sail was set; the rowers plied their utmost strength, and thus it was with great violence that the ship ran foul of the rocks called the Ras de Catte. A lamentable cry reached the ships of the King's fleet; but no one guessed the cause. A boat was lowered; Fitzstephen handed in the prince and a few rowers, and bade them make for the shore; but just as they had pushed off, William heard the agonized calls of his sister, the Countess de Perche, and commanded the rowers to put back and save her. The masterless, terrified multitude no sooner saw the boat approach, than they all flung themselves headlong into it; down it went under them, and the whole freight perished. The ship itself soon likewise foundered, and there only remained, clinging to the mast, a young baron, named Godfrey de l'Aigle, and a butcher of Rouen. Fitzstephen, however, swam up, and called out to ask if the King's son had got off safe. When he heard their answer, he cried aloud, "Woe is me!" and sank like a stone. It was a cold night, and, after some hours, young Godfrey became benumbed, lost his hold, and likewise sank; but the butcher, in his sheepskin coat, held on till daylight, when he was picked up by some fishermen, and told his piteous tale.

Next day the news came to England, and every one knew it but the King. For some days no one could summon up resolution to inform him of this surpassing calamity; but at last a little boy was sent to fall at his feet, and, weeping bitterly, to tell him all. The stern heart was wrung: Henry fell senseless on the ground; and he, whose gayety had once almost hidden his hard, selfish nature, never smiled again.