Chapter VII · (continued 8)

The Interview between William Rufus and Helias.

We have two chief accounts of this remarkable interview, one in Orderic, 773 B, the other in William of Malmesbury, iv. 320. 641 As with some of the other anecdotes of William Rufus, Orderic tells the story in its place as part of his regular narrative, while William of Malmesbury brings it in, along with the story of his crossing to Touques, as a mere anecdote, to illustrate the King’s “præclara magnanimitas.” And he tells the tale very distinctly out of its place, for he puts it after the voyage to Touques, that is in the campaign of 1099, whereas it is clear that it happened during the campaign of 1098. One’s feelings are a little shocked when he speaks of “auctor turbarum, Helias quidam,” which reminds one of the meeting between the Count’s earlier namesake and another tyrant (“venit Achab in occursum Eliæ. Et cum vidisset eum, ait; Tune es ille, qui conturbas Israël?” 3 Regg. xviii. 16). To be sure he does afterwards speak of the “alta nobilitas” of the Count of Maine.

There is a good deal of difference in the details of the dialogue in the two accounts. That in William of Malmesbury is much shorter, and consists wholly of an exchange of short and sharp sayings between the speakers, which are certainly very characteristic of William Rufus. There is nothing in this version of the offer of Helias to enter the King’s service, or of the counsel given by Robert of Meulan. In Orderic’s version Helias speaks first, with the offer of service, beginning “Rex inclute, mihi, quæso, subveni pro tua insigni strenuitate;” and we read, “Liberalis rex hoc facile annuere decrevit, sed Rodbertus Mellenticus comes pro felle livoris dissuasit.” Then, after speeches on both sides which are not given, comes the defiance of Helias, in these words;

“Libenter, domine rex, tibi servirem, si tibi placeret, gratiamque apud te invenirem. Amodo mihi, quæso, noli derogare, si aliud conabor perpetrare. Patienter ferre nequeo quod meam mihi ablatam hæreditatem perspicio. Ex violentia prævalente omnis mihi denegatur rectitudo. Quamobrem nemo miretur si calumniam fecero, si avitum honorem totis nisibus repetiero.”

All this is represented in William of Malmesbury by two sentences;

“Cui [Heliæ] ante se adducto rex ludibundus, ‘Habeo te, magister,’ dixit. At vero illius alta nobilitas quæ nesciret in tanto etiam periculo humilia sapere, humilia loqui; ‘Fortuitu,’ inquit, ‘me cepisti; sed si possem evadere, novi quid facerem.’”

This is very characteristic of Rufus; is it equally so of Helias? 642 Surely the two speeches given to him by Orderic—​allowing for a little improvement in the process of turning them into Latin—​much better suit his character and position. And we can hardly fancy that Helias’ offer to enter William’s service, the King’s inclination to accept it, and the evil counsel given by Robert of Meulan—​all likewise thoroughly characteristic—​are all mere invention.

The last speech of Rufus is much fuller in William of Malmesbury than in Orderic. Orderic simply says, “Cui turgidus rex ait, ‘Vade, et age quidquid mihi potes agere.’” In the other version this becomes;

“Tum Willelmus, præ furore extra se positus, et obuncans Heliam, ‘Tu,’ inquit, ‘nebulo, tu, quid faceres? Discede, abi, fuge; concedo tibi ut facias quidquid poteris; et, per vultum de Luca, nihil, si me viceris, pro hac venia tecum paciscar.’”

He adds, without any mention of a regular safe-conduct,

“Nec inferius factum verbo fuit, sed continuo dimisit evadere, miratus potius quam insectatus fugientem.”

I have in the text followed the version of Orderic, venturing only to add the eminently characteristic words with which William of Malmesbury begins and ends. They in no way disturb the main dialogue as given by Orderic. But I must add that William of Malmesbury warns us against supposing that William Rufus, either in this speech or in his speech on the voyage to Touques, knowingly quoted Lucan. His words are curious;

“Quis talia de illiterato homine crederet? Et fortassis erit aliquis qui, Lucanum legens, falso opinetur Willelmum hæc exempla de Julio Cæsare mutuatum esse: sed non erat ei tantum studii vel otii ut literas unquam audiret; immo calor mentis ingenitus, et conscia virtus, eum talia exprimere cogebant. Et profecto, si Christianitas nostra pateretur, sicut olim anima Euforbii transisse dicta est in Pythagoram Samium, ita possit dici quod anima Julii Cæsaris transierit in regem Willelmum.”

That is to say, Cæsar and William Rufus, being the same kind of men, uttered the same kind of words. The passage of Lucan referred to is where Domitius (ii. 512) is brought before Cæsar at Corfinium;

643 That William Rufus should quote Lucan, as his brother Henry could most likely have done, was so very unlikely that William of Malmesbury need hardly have warned us against such a belief. At the same time it does not seem impossible that he might have heard of Cæsar without having read Lucan. But we must remember that whatever William Rufus said was said in French, and not in Latin. Without supposing either that Rufus had read Lucan or that the soul of Cæsar had passed into his body, we may believe that William of Malmesbury or his informant could not resist the temptation of translating his speech into the words of a really appropriate passage of a favourite author; then, when he had done this, the singular apology which I have quoted might seem needful.

It must be remembered that William of Malmesbury puts this story altogether out of place. It is put yet further out of its place by Wace (15106), who makes the capture of Helias follow the siege of Mayet (see p. 289). His version brings in some new details. Helias, having been taken prisoner, makes (15120) a boastful speech to his keepers, swearing by the patron saint of his city that, if he had not fallen by chance into an ambuscade, he would soon have driven the King of England out of all his lands beyond the sea (15120);

When this is told to the King, he causes Helias to be brought before him; he gives him a horse, and bids him mount and ride whither he will; only he had better take care that he is not caught again, as he will not be let out of prison a second time;

644 In this version the horse is something new, though not at all out of place, as Helias could not well get away without a horse, and he could not have had any horse at his command at the moment. We may note also that William is here made, whether seriously or in mockery, to give Helias the title of Count, “Dans quens.” But the story has very much come down from the level of either of the other versions. The boastful speech to the keepers is not at all in the style of Helias, and it is a poor substitute either for the dignified offer and defiance in Orderic or for the lively dialogue in William of Malmesbury. This last we should gladly have had in Wace’s version, as there would have been some faint chance of recovering a scrap or two more of the original French to match the “Dans quens,” which has a genuine ring on the one hand, as the “magister” and the “nebulo” of William of Malmesbury have on the other.

Geoffrey Gaimar too (Chroniques Anglo-Normandes, i. 37) has a version in which Helias, when a prisoner, makes a boastful speech to the effect that, if it had not been by an ambush, he would never have been taken;

He is brought before the King, to whom he says that he is much beloved in his land, and that, if he were only able to assemble his men, no king could subdue him in it. William lets him go to see what he can do, and gives up to him Le Mans and all the castles of the country;

Helias calls on his barons to help him in war with the King; but they decline, and advise him to give up the city and all the 645 castles, and to become the King’s man. He does so; otherwise the poet says that the King would have thrown aside his friendship, and that he would have taken the castles and put all concerned to a vile death;

I need hardly stop to show how utterly unhistorical all this is. But the “bel amur,” the challenge, the release of the Count and the surrender of the city and the castles, the general looking on war as a kind of game, are all highly characteristic of the chivalrous King. The last words indeed give us the other side of chivalry; but I confess that they seem to me to be unfair to William Rufus, however well they might suit Robert of Bellême. Geoffrey Gaimar lived to see times when the doings of Robert of Bellême, exceptional in his own day, had become the general rule.

The Voyage of William Rufus to Touques.

This story is told by a great many writers; but, as in the story of the interview of William Rufus and Helias, our two main versions are those of Orderic (775 A) and of William of Malmesbury (iv. 320). And, as in the case of that story, with which William of Malmesbury couples it, he tells it simply as an illustrative anecdote, while with Orderic it is part of his regular narrative. And again William throws one of the speeches into the form of a familiar classical quotation, and the curious apology quoted in the last note is made to apply to this story as well as to the other. At the same time there is no actual contradiction between the two versions. The messenger—​Amalchis according to Orderic—​reaches England and finds the King in the New Forest. He thus (775 A) describes the delivery of the message; “Ille mari transfretato Clarendonam venit, regi cum familiaribus suis 646 in Novam Forestam equitanti obviavit, et alacriter inquirenti rumores, respondit, Cœnomannis per proditionem surrepta est. Verum dominus meus Balaonem custodit, et regalis familia omnes munitiones sibi assignatas sollerter observavit, auxiliumque regalis potentiæ vehementer desiderat, in hostile robur quod eos undique includit et impugnat.” William of Malmesbury (iv. 320) does not mention the place; “Venationi in quadam silva intentum nuntius detinuit ex transmarinis partibus, obsessam esse civitatem Cinomannis, quam nuper fratre profecto suæ potestati adjecerat.” This is a somewhat inadequate summary of the Cenomannian war.

Now comes the King’s answer, in which I have ventured in the text to bring in both the speeches which are attributed to Rufus on first hearing the news of the loss of Le Mans. In Orderic the story stands thus;

“His auditis, rex dixit, ‘Eamus trans mare, nostros adjuvare. Eodem momento inconsultis omnibus equum habenis regiravit, ipsumque calcaribus urgens ad pontum festinavit, et in quandam vetustam navim quam forte invenit, sine regio apparatu velut plebeius intravit et remigare protinus imperavit. Sic nimirum nec congruentem flatum nec socios nec alia quæ regiam dignitatem decebant exspectavit; sed omnis metus expers fortunæ et pelago sese commisit, et sequenti luce ad portum Tolchæ, Deo duce, salvus applicuit.’”

He then goes on with the graphic details of the landing at Touques and the ride to Bonneville, which find no place in William of Malmesbury. William’s version is as follows;

“Statim ergo ut expeditus erat retorsit equum, iter ad mare convertens. Admonentibus ducibus exercitum advocandum, paratos componendos, ‘Videbo,’ ait, ‘quis me sequetur; putatis me non habiturum homines? si cognovi juventutem meam, etiam naufragio ad me venisse volet.’ Hoc igitur modo pene solus ad mare pervenit. Erat tunc nubilus aer et ventus contrarius; flatus violentia terga maris verrebat. Illum statim transfretare volentem nautæ exorant ut pacem pelagi et ventorum clementiam operiatur. ‘Atqui,’ inquit rex, ‘numquam audivi regem naufragio interiisse.’ Quin potius solvite retinacula navium, videbitis elementa jam conspirata in meum obsequium. Ponto transito, obsessores, ejus audita fama, dissiliunt.”

Then follows the interview with Helias, quite out of place. 647

Here we have several separate details in each version; but they quite fit into one another. Of Rufus’ two speeches before he rides off, each seems to need the support of the other. The speech to the sailors lurks as it were in the words of Orderic, “remigare protinus imperavit,” and his other words, “fortunæ et pelago sese commisit,” suggest the same general idea which comes out in them. They suggest the well-known story of Cæsar which William of Malmesbury seems to have in his head, which is told by Florus (iv. ii. 37), Appian (Bell. Civ. ii. 57), and Plutarch (Cæsar, 38). The Latin writer says only “Quid times? Caesarem vehis?” while the two Greek writers bring in the word τύχη (Ἴθι, γενναῖε, τόλμα καὶ δέδιθι μηδέν. Καίσαρα φέρεις καὶ τὴν Καίσαρος τύχην συμπλέουσαν). Our writers are not likely to have read either of the Greek books, and there is enough about “Fortuna” in the passage of Lucan (v. 577–593) which William of Malmesbury at least must have had in his eye, and where the few words of Appian and the fewer of Florus grow into a speech of many lines. The odd thing however is that the actual words do not seem to come from anything in Lucan, but to be in a manner made up out of two passages of Claudian. We get the sentiment in one (De III Cons. Hon. 96);

But the actual words come nearer to the other (De IV Cons. Hon. 284);

Just as in the other story, we may suppose that Rufus said something which, in the course of improving into Latin, suggested the words of the two Latin poets. The saying that he had never heard of a king being drowned surely has the genuine stamp of the Red King about it. And it is to be remembered that there is a passage which evidently refers to the same story in a grave contemporary, who takes his quotations, not from heathen poets but from the New Testament. Eadmer (54) attributes to William Rufus, as a general privilege, something like what in our own day we have been used to call “Queen’s weather;”

648 “Ventus insuper et ipsum mare videbantur ei obtemperare. Verum dico, non mentior, quia quum de Anglia in Normanniam transire vel inde cursum prout ipsum voluntas sua ferebat, redire volebat, mox, illo adveniente, et mari appropinquante, omnis tempestas, quæ nonnunquam immane sæviebat, sedabatur, et transeunti mira tranquillitate famulabatur.”

It is worth notice that the same idea is found, besides Lucan and Claudian, in a third Latin writer, who is much less likely to have been known to either Orderic or William of Malmesbury. This is in the Panegyric addressed by Eumenius to the elder Constantius (Pan. Vet. v. 14). He is describing the voyage of Constantius to Britain to put down Allectus, when, as in the cases of Cæsar and William Rufus, the weather was bad;

“Quis enim se, quamlibet iniquo mari, non auderet credere, te navigante? Omnium, ut dicitur, accepto nuntio navigationis tuæ, una vox et hortatio fuit; ‘Quid dubitamus? quid moramur? Ipse jam solvit, jam provehitur, jam fortasse pervenit. Experiamur omnia, per quoscumque fluctus eamus. Quid est, quod timere possimus? Cæsarem sequimur.’”

Eumenius of course had the story of the earlier Cæsar in his mind.

In all these versions the saying of William Rufus seems to be quoted as an instance of his pride and irreverence. Matthew Paris alone (Hist. Angl. i. 166) gives his speech an unexpectedly pious turn. To the shipman, who addresses him as “hominum audacissime” and asks “numquid tu ventis et mari poteris imperare?” he answers, “Non frequenter [no longer “never” but “hardly ever”] auditum est, reges Christianos Deum invocantes fluctibus fuisse submersos. Aliqui de oppressis et obsessis apud Cenomannem orant pro me, quos Deus, etsi non me, clementer exaudiet.” Matthew also makes the news be brought to the King, not when he is hunting, but when he is at a feast.

The story is found, in one shape or another, in all the riming chronicles. Wace (14908), who tells the whole story of Helias’ entry into Le Mans with great spirit, but utterly out of place, gives a vivid picture of the coming of the messenger;

The passage in its general effect, and to some extent in its actual words, recalls the better known description (10983; cf. N. C. vol. iii. p. 258) of the news of Eadward’s death and Harold’s election being brought to William the Great. It is perhaps to make the two scenes more completely tally that Rufus, who, in Orderic and William of Malmesbury, is already engaged in hunting, is in this version merely going out to hunt. Of his father it was said;

But the son,

This reminds us of the other passage (see above, p. 533) where “Normans” and “English” are made to help the fallen Rufus before Saint Michael’s Mount. And the question again presents itself; What did Wace exactly mean by Normans and English? We must remember his position. Wace was a writer locally Norman, the chronicler of the Norman Conquest, writing when, in England itself, the distinction of races had nearly died out. His way of thinking and speaking, as that of one accustomed to past times, would most likely be different both from that of the time of which he is writing and from that which would be familiar to either Normans or English—​whether genere or natione—in his own time. In Rufus’ day “Normanz et Engleiz” would have meant “Normanni et Angli genere;” but it is not likely that many “Angli genere” would be in the immediate company of the King. In Wace’s own day, “Normanz et Engleiz” already meant “Normanni et Angli natione;” only there would hardly have been any occasion for using the phrase. Wace very likely used the phrase in a slightly different sense in the two passages. Before the Mount, in describing a warlike exploit, he most likely meant simply Norman and English natione. In the present passage his mind perhaps floated between the two meanings.

The King hears the news brought by the sergeant; he gives up 650 his purpose of hunting that day, and swears his usual oath by the face of Lucca that those who have done him this damage shall pay for it;

He bids the messenger to cross the sea as fast as he can, to go to Le Mans and to tell his forces there that by God’s help he will be there to help them in eight days;

He then—​being in England, it must be remembered—​asks the nearest way to Le Mans. On the direct line which is shown him, there is a well-built house. He says that he will not for a hundred marks of silver turn a hundred feet out of the way. So he has the house pulled down, and rides over the site to Southampton—​not alone, in this version, but with a following;

Absurd as this story is, and utterly irreconcileable with the earlier versions, there is still a ring of William Rufus about it. And we may safely accept Southampton as the haven from which he set out. But the zeal for taking the straightest road which was so strong on him by land seems to have passed away by sea, as he goes not to Touques but to Barfleur, certainly not the nearest point for getting from Southampton to Le Mans. The story of the voyage is told in much the same way as in William of Malmesbury, the speech to the sailors standing thus;

Geoffrey Gaimar (Chroniques Anglo-Normandes, i. 32) makes the messenger bring a letter, which the King seemingly gives to Randolf Flambard to read; 651

He sends the messenger back with a letter; he rides to Southampton, orders a force to be got together to follow him, and himself crosses with a company of twelve hundred rich knights. Otherwise the tale is essentially the same. But it is worth noticing that Geoffrey, when he gets among sea-faring folk, uses two English words (the steersman we have already met with in his English garb in Domesday; see N. C. vol. v. p. 763);

Benoît (v. 40379) gives no details peculiar to himself; but he is worth comparing with the others as a piece of language;

But the central speech about a king being drowned is in much the same words as in the other riming versions;

This writer does not mention Southampton, Touques, Barfleur, or any particular port.

The doctrine that kings were never drowned might seem to be contradicted by the popular interpretation of the fate of the Pharaoh of Exodus. But the text certainly does not imply that the Pharaoh himself was drowned. On the other hand, there is somewhere the story of an Irish king who, setting out with his fleet, was met by Noah’s flood—​conceived seemingly as something like the bore in the Severn—​and was drowned. 652

It is worth while comparing this story of William Rufus with the behaviour of our next king of the same name in a case somewhat like this, when he too was sailing from England to the land of his birth. When William the Third was in danger in an open boat off the isle of Goree, we read (Macaulay, Hist. Eng. iv. 2);

“The hardiest mariners showed signs of uneasiness. But William, through the whole night, was as composed as if he had been in the drawing-room at Kensington. ‘For shame,’ he said to one of the dismayed sailors: ‘are you afraid to die in my company?’”

The difference between the two speeches is characteristic. But the parallel of Cæsar was seized on in both cases. Among the pageants when William entered the Hague (iv. 5), when the events of his own life were represented, this scene was shown;

“There, too, was a boat amidst the ice and the breakers; and above it was most appropriately inscribed, in the majestic language of Rome, the saying of the great Roman, ‘What dost thou fear? Thou hast Cæsar on board.’”

The Siege of Mayet.

I visited Mayet with Mr. Fowler and Mr. Parker in July, 1879, when we examined many other of the castles and sites of castles in that neighbourhood. But we could not pitch on the actual site of the siege of Mayet with the same confidence with which we fixed most of the sites of our present story. The evidence is by no means so clear as it is in the case of most of the Cenomannian towns and fortresses. There are in truth too many sites to choose from.

The small town of Mayet is not rich in antiquities. Its ancient church has been, first desecrated, and then swept away. Nor is the town itself immediately commanded by any fortress, like those of Fresnay, Beaumont, and Ballon. But two spots lie to the east of the town which cannot fail to have had some share in our history. A large house of the Renaissance, with portions of an earlier castle worked into it, stands at the foot of a low hill at some distance from the town, and with a good deal of swampy ground lying 653 between them. This boasts itself to be the site of the fortress where the second Cenomannian expedition of William the Red came to so strange and lame an ending. But there are no traces of eleventh-century work remaining, and the site itself is most unlike the site of an eleventh-century fortress. The hill immediately above the house, far lower than Ballon or any of its fellows, does make some feeble approach to the favourite peninsular shape, and fancy at least has traced, amid the havoc made by the plough, some faint signs of ditches and made ground. On the high ground on the other side of the swamp, less completely cut off from the town, rises a mound, of whose artificial construction and military purpose there can be no doubt, and where ancient objects of various kinds are said to have been found. But this mound seems far too small to have been the site of such a stronghold as the castle of Mayet appears in our story. Could we believe it to have been thrown up during William’s siege, as a besieging mound, like those of which we have so often heard, its interest as regards our story would be almost as great as if it were the site of the head castle itself. But it seems too far off for any purpose save that of keeping the garrison in check; if the besieged castle stood on the opposite hill or at its foot, the stress of the siege must have taken place at some point much nearer to its site. The siege of Mayet is so singular a story, and so important in the history of this war, that it is disappointing not to be able to fix its topography with any confidence. But it is unluckily true that he who traces out the siege of Mayet cannot do so with the same full assurance that he is treading the true historic ground which he feels at Ballon and Fresnay.

In the details of the siege I have strictly followed Orderic, save that I have ventured to bring in the very characteristic story of Robert of Bellême which is told by Wace. But it cannot well have had the effect which Wace (15074) attributes to it, that of causing the army to disperse, and so making the King raise the siege;

654 The order of events in Wace is really wonderful. After Robert has gone to the East, William Rufus reigns in peace, seemingly over Maine as well as Normandy. Helias seizes Le Mans; the news is brought to William; he sails to Barfleur; he recovers Le Mans (having on his road the singular adventure described in 14998 of Pluquet’s text, 9899 of Andresen’s); he besieges Mayet; he returns to Le Mans; he ravages the land; Helias is taken prisoner; he is brought before the King and released, and then William goes back to England to be shot by Walter Tirel.

William Rufus and the Towers of Le Mans Cathedral.

Was the bidding of William Rufus actually carried out in this matter? Did Bishop Hildebert pull down the towers or not? Unluckily Orderic tells us nothing about the story, and the language of the Biographer seems to me to be purposely obscure.

Hildebert himself mentions the matter in a passage which I quoted in the text (p. 298), in which he complains of the horrors of a voyage to England. He says (Duchèsne, iv. 248);

“Longum est enarrare quam constanti tyrannide rex Anglicus in nos sævierit, qui, temperantia regis abjecta, decreverit non prius pontifici parendum quam pontificem compelleret in sacrilegium. Quia etenim turres ecclesiæ nostræ dejicere nolumus,” &c.

One can make no certain inference from this, except that Hildebert was not disposed to pull down the towers when he wrote the letter, seemingly in England. The Biographer is fuller. I have quoted (see p. 298) the passages which describe the commands and offers of Rufus; we then read;

“Verumtamen Hildebertus magnis undique coartabatur angustiis, quia sibi et de regis offensione periculum, et de turris destructione sibi et ecclesiæ suæ imminere grande prævidebat opprobrium: propter quod a rege dilationem petebat, donec super his consilium accepisset. Qua vix impetrata, cernens sibi nequaquam esse utile in illis regionibus diutius immorari, breviter ad suam reversus est ecclesiam…. Interea præsul de præcepto regis vehementer anxius, de urbis incendio, de domorum et omnium rerum suarum 655 destructione, de civium expulsione; primo tamen de clericorum, quos violentia regis ab urbe eliminaverat, dispersione, mæstissimus, Dei omnipotentis clementiam jugiter precabatur, ut ab ecclesia et populo sibi commisso iram indignationis suæ dignaretur avertere.”

He then goes on to tell how wonderfully God saved them all by the sudden death of Rufus and the final coming of Helias. But he does not directly say whether the towers were pulled down or not. His way of telling the story might suggest the thought that the towers were pulled down, but that he did not like to say so.

To my mind the appearances of the building look the same way. We have seen that the towers of Howel were clearly at the ends of the transepts. Of the single tower now standing at the end of the south transept, the lower part is of the twelfth century; most likely the work of William of Passavant (see above, p. 636). The ruined building at the end of the other transept has columns and capitals of a much earlier character, agreeing with the work of Howel. A base of the same early kind as the single pair of piers spoken of in the nave (see above, p. 638) may be the work of Howel; it may be either a relic of Arnold’s foundations or a scrap of something much earlier. It has been objected that this ruined building does not seem to have been a tower. And I must allow that it must have been a tower of a somewhat unusual kind. But the appearances are quite consistent with the notion of a transept with aisles, and with its main body ending in an engaged tower.

If these ruins are not the remains of one of Howel’s towers, his towers must have stood nearer to the body of the church than the existing southern tower stands, and the ruins to the north-west must belong to the episcopal palace or some other building. If this be so, something of the interest of the place is lost, but the argument seems almost stronger. It would have been nothing wonderful if the later rebuilding of the transepts had swept away all trace of the work of the eleventh and twelfth century, so that the fabric should in no way show whether any Romanesque towers were ever pulled down or ever built. But it is not so. We see that a late Romanesque tower was built to replace one of the towers of Howel, while the other, according to this view, has 656 vanished without trace or successor. This would seem to point even more strongly than the other view to the belief that two towers were built, that both were pulled down, that afterwards one was rebuilt and the other not.

It is the business of the topographer of Le Mans rather than of the historian of William Rufus to settle what the remains at the end of the north transept are, if they are not the remains of Howel’s tower. But it may be noticed that Howel was a considerable builder or restorer in the adjoining palace (Vet. An. 298), and that the palace itself had a tower hard by the church. William of Passavant (Vet. An. 373) made certain arrangements about the three chapels of the palace—​Saint David’s itself has only two—​one of which is described as “tertia altior, quæ in turri sita ecclesiam cathedralem vicinius speculabatur.” In any case this group of buildings and ruins at the north-east corner of Saint Julian’s is one of the most striking to be found anywhere. There are these puzzling fragments of the days of the counts and bishops of our story; there is the mighty eastern limb of the present church, begun when Maine had passed away from all fellowship with Normandy and England, when Le Mans was the city of a Countess, widow of Richard, vassal of Philip. There is the northern transept, begun when Maine and Normandy were wholly swallowed up by France, finished at the very moment when Maine had again an English lord (Recherches, p. 122). And earlier than all, there is the Roman wall which the vast choir has overleaped, but which still remains outside the church. And, as if to bring together the earliest and the latest times, one of its bastions is strangely mixed up with work of an almost English character, which seems plainly to proclaim itself as belonging to the reign of Henry, Sixth of England and Second of France. Truly, setting aside exceptional spots like Rome and Athens, like Spalato and Trier and Ravenna, no city of Christendom is fuller of lessons, alike in art and in history, than the city of Helias, the birth-place of Henry Fitz-Empress.

657

The Death of William Rufus.

I have briefly compared the chief versions of the death of William Rufus, and the writers from whom they come, in Appendix U. in the fifth volume of the Norman Conquest. I will now go somewhat more fully into the matter.

I still hold, as I held then, that no absolute certainty can be come to as to the actor, intentional or otherwise, in the King’s death. Our only sure statement is to be found in the vague and dark words of the Chronicle, which look most like an intentional murder, but which do not absolutely imply it. If Rufus was murdered, it is hopeless to seek for any record of his murderer. We may guess for ever, and that is all. At any rate there can be no ground for fastening a charge of murder on Walter Tirel; for, if we except the dark hint in Geoffrey Gaimar (see p. 325), all those who make him the doer of the deed make it a deed done by accident. And the consent in favour of the belief that Rufus died by an accidental shot of Walter Tirel is very general and very weighty. It is the account of all our highest authorities, except the very highest of all. And even with the version of the Chronicle it does not stand in any literal contradiction. We have to set against it Walter’s own weighty denial (see below, p. 674), and the fact that there were other versions which named other persons. We have also to set against it the circumstance that, if Rufus did die by any conspiracy, never mind on whose part, it was obviously convenient to encourage belief in such a story as the received one. (See p. 326.) If there were anywhere English or Norman murderers, nothing could better serve their purpose, or the purpose of any who encouraged or sheltered them, than to attribute the deed to one who was French rather than either English or Norman, and to describe it as accidental on his part. And if, as one can hardly doubt, Walter Tirel was known to have been in the King’s near company on the day of his death, he was an obvious person to pick out for the character of the accidental slayer.

I can therefore do nothing but leave the doubtful story to the judgement of the reader. To that end I have given a summary 658 of the chief versions in the text. The account of the early part of the day, as given by William of Malmesbury (iv. 333), which I have followed in p. 327, fits in perfectly well with the account in Orderic (782 A), which begins only after dinner. Nor is there any difference, except in details of no importance, between the accounts of the King’s actual death as given by William and by Orderic (see p. 333). In both the King dies by a chance shot of Walter’s, but William makes the King and Walter shoot at two different stags, while in Orderic’s version they both shoot at the same stag. It is from William of Malmesbury that we get the graphic detail of the King sheltering his eyes from the sun’s rays. His whole account stands thus;

“Jam Phœbo in oceanum proclivi, rex cervo ante se transeunti, extento nervo et emissa sagitta, non adeo sævum vulnus inflixit; diutile adhuc fugitantem vivacitate oculorum prosecutus, opposita contra violentiam solarium radiorum manu. Tunc Walterius pulcrum facinus animo parturiens, ut, rege alias interim intento, ipse alterum cervum qui forte propter transibat prosterneret, inscius et impotens regium pectus (Deus bone!) lethali arundine trajecit. Saucius ille nullum verbum emisit; sed ligno sagittæ quantum extra corpus extabat effracto, moxque supra vulnus cadens, mortem acceleravit. Accurrit Walterius; sed, quia nec sensum nec vocem hausit, perniciter cornipedem insiliens, beneficio calcarium probe evasit.”

Orderic is shorter;

“Cum rex et Gualterius de Pice cum paucis sodalibus in nemore constituti essent, et armati prædam avide expectarent, subiter inter eos currente fera, rex de statu suo recessit, et Gualterius sagittam emisit. Quæ super dorsum feræ setam radens rapide volavit, atque regem e regione stantem lethaliter vulneravit. Qui mox ad terram cecidit, et sine mora, proh dolor! expiravit.”

Florence really adds nothing to the account in the Chronicle, except so far that he adds the name of Walter Tirel. He brings in the event with some chronological pomp, but he cuts the actual death of the King short. He is in a moralizing fit, and takes up his parable at much greater length than is usual with him;

“Deinde iv. non. Augusti, feria v., indictione viii., rex Anglorum Willelmus junior, dum in Nova Foresta, quæ lingua Anglorum 659 Ytene nuncupatur, venatu esset occupatus, a quodam Franco, Waltero cognomento Tirello, sagitta incaute directa percussus, vitam finivit, et Wintoniam delatus, in veteri monasterio, in ecclesia S. Petri est tumulatus. Nec mirum, ut populi rumor affirmat, hanc proculdubio magnam Dei virtutem esse et vindictam.”

He then goes on with a great deal of matter, much of which I have referred to in various places. He speaks of the making of the New Forest, of the death of young Richard, the natural phænomena of the reign, the recent appearances of the devil, and the iniquities of Randolf Flambard. It is here that he notices (see p. 335) that a church had once stood on the spot where the King died. Henry of Huntingdon too brings in the event with some stateliness, as the last act of a great drama. But he gives no special details, beyond bringing in, like Orderic, Florence, and William, the name of Walter Tirel;

“Millesimo centesimo anno, rex Willelmus xiii. regni sui anno, vitam crudelem misero fine terminavit. Namque cum gloriose et patrio honore curiam tenuisset ad Natale apud Glouecestre, ad Pascha apud Wincestre, ad Pentecosten apud Londoniam, ivit venatum in Novo foresto in crastino kalendas Augusti, ubi Walterus Tyrel cum sagitta cervo intendens, regem percussit inscius. Rex corde ictus corruit, nec verbum edidit.”

He then goes on to describe at length the evils of the reign, partly in his own words, partly in those of the Chronicle, and records what followed in a kind of breathless haste, keeping the Chronicle before him, but giving things a turn of his own;

“Sepultus est in crastino perditionis suæ apud Wincestre, et Henricus ibidem in regem electus, dedit episcopatum Wincestriæ Willelmo Giffard, pergensque Londoniam sacratus est ibi a Mauricio Londoniensi episcopo, melioratione legum et consuetudinum optabili repromissa.”

The object of piling facts on one another in this fashion is to bring the record of Henry’s promised reforms as near as may be to the picture of the evil doings of Rufus.

By the time that Wace wrote, there were several stories to be chosen from. The King gives arrows to his companions, and specially to Walter Tirel. They go out to hunt in the morning, contrary to the accounts both of Orderic and of William of Malmesbury (15164 Pluquet, 10069 Andresen);

660

He distinctly says that he does not know who shot the arrow, but that it was commonly said to be Walter Tirel, with some of the variations in detail which we have already seen, as for instance whether the arrow glanced from a tree or not;

The other French rimers are this time, though certainly less trustworthy than Wace, of more importance in one way, as showing that there was in some quarters, as there well might be in Normandy, a more charitable feeling towards the Red King than we find in the English writers. I have given in the text the substance of the accounts of Geoffrey Gaimar and Benoît de Sainte-More. The version of Geoffrey Gaimar (Chroniques Anglo-Normandes, i. 54) I do not remember to have ever seen referred to, except in M. Michel’s note to Benoît. It is so curious in its details that it is worth giving at length. It is absolutely impossible to believe it in the teeth of opposite statements of so much higher authority, yet it is strange if all its graphic touches are a mere play of fancy;

Geoffrey, it should be noticed, has nothing to say about dreams and warnings; the gab between the King and Walter Tirel seems in his version to take their place (see p. 322). But in the other account which deals kindly with Rufus, that of Benoît de Sainte-More (see p. 332), the warning dream, in this case assigned to the King himself, plays an important part. So also does Gundulf, the expounder of the dream. His presence is thus explained (40523);

We may note that Anselm, not yet canonized, is already called saint in a formal way.

The King is to hunt the next day in the New Forest; in the night he has the dream, which is told with a singular variation. He first sees the dead body of a stag on the altar; then it changes into that of a man (40560);

Gundulf, “li evesques, li sainz hom,” then preaches a sermon of some length, which the King listens to with unexpected docility; he promises amendment of life, and receives absolution; 662

In this version there is no special mention of Anselm and the synod; the exhortation of Gundulf is quite general. In the account given by Giraldus (De Inst. Prin. p. 174)—who, it must be borne in mind, has two dreams, one dreamed by the King, and another by a premature canon of Dunstable—​this is strongly brought out. The bishop, whose name is not given, exhorts the King at much less length than Gundulf does in the rimes of Benoît, and the promise of reformation stands thus;

“Cum episcopus consilium ei daret quatenus, convocatis illico episcopis regni sui et clero universo, eorundem consilio se Domino per omnia conciliaret, missisque statim nuntiis venerabilem sanctumque virum Anselmum Cantuariensem archiepiscopum, quem ea tempestate, quod libertates ecclesiæ tueri volebat, exulare compulerat, ab exilio revocaret, respondens rex se cum regni sui proceribus consilium inde in brevi habiturum.”

In Benoît’s version the King’s companions now urge him to go out to hunt. The description is very graphic;

He refuses for a while, and sets forth his troubled mind with some pathos;

He goes forth, and, as I have said in the text (p. 332), is shot by the arrow glancing from a tree. Benoît knew through what agency;

His speech to his accidental slayer is most pious; 663

In the earlier of Giraldus’ two stories, one which has much in common with this of Benoît, the arrow strikes the King accidentally, but there is nothing about its glancing from a tree. As he looks on William Rufus as the maker of the New Forest, he describes his going forth to hunt there with some solemnity;

“Protinus contra dissuasionem in prædictam forestam, ubi tot ecclesias destituerat, totosque fideles qui glebæ ibidem ab antiquo ascripti fuerant immisericorditer exheredaverat, venatum ivit. Nec mora, soluta per interemptionem contentione ubi deliquit, casuali cujusdam suorum ictu sagittæ letaliter percussus decubuit; miles enim directo in feram telo, nutu divino cælum pariter et telum regente, non feram eo sed ferum et absque modo ferocem, transpenetravit.” (Cf. the extracts in p. 337.)

Having got thus far, pretty nearly in Benoît’s company, Giraldus goes on to tell his other story which brings in the Prior of Dunstable. But Dunstable, in its own Annals, did not claim an earlier founder than Henry the First. We are therefore left to guess as to the origin of a story which speaks of the priory of Dunstable as already existing in the time of Rufus, and even as enjoying exceptional favour at his hands. The “miles quidam” of the former story here becomes Ralph of Aix, who is brought in after much the same fashion in which Walter Tirel is in those versions of the story which mention him.

These are the chief varieties in the story of the death of Rufus; but the tale is so famous, it has taken such a hold on popular imagination from that day to our own, that it may be well to do as we have done in some earlier cases, and to trace some of the forms which the story took in the hands of writers of later times.

The Hyde writer (302), who always has notions of his own about all matters, has nothing special to tell us about the death of Rufus—“Norman-Anglorum rex Willelmus,” in his odd style—​but the story of the dream takes a new shape. A monk in Normandy, in extreme sickness, sees the usual vision of the Lord and the suppliant woman, here called less reverentially “puella vultu sole speciosior,” 664 who complains of the evil doings of Rufus and asks for vengeance (“celerrimam de eo expetiit vindictam, asserens se a canibus ejus et lupis potius quam ministris diu esse laniatam”). He has a further dream about the sins of his own abbot, whom he rebukes, and causes a letter to be sent to the King. The King mocks, but less pithily and characteristically than he does in Orderic (“Quicumque sorti vel somniis crediderit, sicut semper vivet suspiciosus et inquietus, ita semper revertitur”). On this manifestation of unbelief follows the judgement (“Deus Omnipotens telum quod diu vibraverat misericorditer, tandem super regem projecit terribiliter”). He is shot casually in his hunting (“venatum pergens, venatus est, et ex improviso sagitta percussus;”—​where surely “venatus est” is meant to be passive). He dies without confession or communion; he is buried, and Henry reigns in his stead. Then, as a kind of after-thought, comes in the mention of Walter Tirel;

“Fertur autem quod eodem die venatum pergenti obtulit munus sagittarum quidam adveniens, quarum unam Waltero Tirello viro Ponteiensi in munere dedit secumque venire coegit. Denique silvam ingressi, dum gregem bestiarum accingunt et invicem trahunt, eadem sagitta, idem Walterus regem vicinus, ut aiunt, percussit et subito extinxit.”

The author of the “Brevis Relatio” (Giles, 11) cuts the actual death of Rufus very short, and mentions no particular actor, but he connects it in a somewhat singular way with the presence of Henry;

“Contigit vero postea ut Robertus comes Normanniæ Hierosolymam iret, totamque Normanniam fratri suo Willelmo regi Anglorum invadiaret, et tunc Henricus fratri suo omnino se conferret atque cum eo ex toto remaneret. Dum itaque cum eo esset post aliquantum temporis contigit ut quadam die rex Willelmus venatum iret, ibique, nescio quo judicio Dei, a quodam milite sagitta percussus occumberet. Quem statim frater suus Henricus Wintoniam referri fecit, ibique in ecclesia Sancti Petri ante majus altare sepulturæ tradidit.”

The introduction of Henry in the former part of the extract is the more remarkable, because the writer has either copied the account given by Robert of Torigny in the Continuation of William of Jumièges (viii. 9), or else he has borrowed from the same source. Robert’s words are;

665 “Igitur, sicut supra diximus, cum Robertus dux Normannorum anno ab incarnatione Domini mxcvi, Hierusalem perrexisset, et ducatum Normanniæ Willelmo fratri suo regi Anglorum invadiasset: contigit post aliquantum temporis, ut idem rex quadam die venatum iret in Novam forestam, ubi iv. nonas Augusti missa sagitta incaute a quodam suo familiari in corde percussus, mortuus est anno ab incarnatione Domini mc. regni autem sui xiii…. Occiso itaque Willelmo rege, ut præmisimus, statim frater suus Henricus corpus ejus Wintoniam deferri fecit ibique in ecclesia sancti Petri ante majus altare sepulturæ tradidit.”

The words which I have left out record the death of the elder Richard, the son of the Conqueror, in the New Forest—​the younger Richard, the son of Robert, is not mentioned—​and the belief that the deaths of the two brothers were the punishment of the destruction of houses and churches done by their father. One phrase is remarkable; “Multas villas et ecclesias propter eandem forestam amplificandam in circuitu ipsius destruxerat.” Here is nothing about Walter Tirel or any one else by name, and this is the more to be noticed, because in his own Chronicle, where he seems to have had before him the account of Henry of Huntingdon, who mentions Walter Tirel, he leaves out the name. Henry’s words are; “Ivit venatum in Novo foresto in crastino kalendas Augusti, ubi Walterus Tyrel cum sagitta cervo intendens, regem percussit inscius. Rex corde ictus corruit, nec verbum edidit.” This in Robert’s version becomes “Willelmus rex Anglorum in Nova Foresta, sibi multum dilecta, cum sagitta incaute cervo intenderetur, in corde percussus interiit, nec verbum edidit.” He then goes on to copy part of Henry of Huntingdon’s description of the doings of Rufus somewhat further on.

Among the monastic chroniclers and annalists, the History of Abingdon (ii. 43) seems to see in the Red King’s death a judgement on him for some dealings connected with the lands of that abbey. A man described as Hugo de Dun had, by the help of the Count of Meulan (“Comitis Mellentis Rotberti senioris ope adjutus”), got into his hands some lands of the abbey at Leckhampsted, as had also the better known Hugh of Buckland, Sheriff of Berkshire (“eo quod et Berchescire vicecomes et publicarum justiciarius compellationum a rege constitutus existeret”). The writer then goes on;

“Quadam itaque die rex Willelmus dum cibatus venatum exerceret, 666 suorum unus militum, quasi ad cervum sagittam emittens, regem e contra stantem sibique non caventem eadem sagitta in corde percussit. Qui mox ad terram corruens exspiravit.”

The legend received at Saint Alban’s (Gesta Abbatum, i. 65) seems to have rolled together the dream of the monk at Gloucester and the revelation of William’s death to the abbot of Clugny (see p. 343). Anselm at Clugny has a vision in which many of the saints of England bring their complaints against King William before the tribunal of God. Then the story takes a local turn;

“Iratus Altissimus respondit,--Accede, Anglorum protomartyr. Et accedente Albano, tradidit Deus sagittam ardentem, dicens; vindica te, et omnes sanctos Angliæ, læsos a tyranno. Accipiens autem Albanus sagittam de manu Domini, projecit eam in terram, quasi faculam, dicens; Accipe, Satan, potestatem in ipsum Willelmum tyrannum. Et eadem die, mane, obiit rex transverberatus per medium pectoris sagitta. Dixit autem arcitenenti, Trahe, diabole. Erat tunc temporis, episcopo Wolstano defuncto, episcopatus Wygorniæ nimis afflictus sub manu regis, et multæ aliæ ecclesiæ, sedente tunc Paschali papa.”

I do not know why the Saint Alban’s writer should have specially mentioned the church of Worcester, which certainly had a Bishop (see vol. i. p. 542) at the time of William’s death. But neither should I at p. 43 of this volume have mentioned Saint Alban’s among the churches vacant at that time. For the four years’ vacancy which followed the death of Paul was ended in 1097 by the election of Richard. “Determinata lite quæ in conventu exorta fuerat inter Normannos, qui jam multiplicati invaluerunt, et Anglos, qui, jam senescentes et imminuti, occubuerant” (Gest. Abb. i. 66). Here is a glimpse of the internal state of the convent which would be most precious if it came from a writer of the year 1097, but which must be taken for what it may be worth in the mouth of Matthew Paris or one whom he followed. This abbot Richard was on good terms with Rufus as well as with his successor (“Willelmi Secundi et Henrici Primi regum, amicitia familiari fultus, multos honores et possessiones adeptus est, et adeptas viriliter tuebatur”). Presently we get a second shorter entry of the Red King’s death;

“Tempore quoque hujus abbatis Ricardi, Willelmus rex—​immo tyrannus—​ultione divina, obiit sagittatus.”

667 The Winchester Annals which really should, just as much as the Hyde writer, have given us something original at such a moment, have nothing more to tell us than that “hoc anno rex a sagitta perforates est in Nova Foresta a Waltero Tirel et sepultus in ecclesia Sancti Swithuni Wintoniæ.” The Margam Annals merely mark that “hoc anno interfectus est rex Angliæ Willelmus junior, rex Rufus vulgo vocatus, non. Augusti, anno regni sui xiii. cum esset annorum plus xl.” This reckoning falls in with what I said in vol. i. p. 141, and N. C. vol. iii. p. 111. Dunstable, which is so strangely dragged into the tale by Giraldus, and Bermondsey, which has some special things to record during the reign, have nothing fresh to tell us, only Dunstable mentions Walter Tirel and Bermondsey does not. Osney and Worcester merely copy the usual story. Thomas Wykes has been quoted already. Roger of Hoveden simply copies Florence. Ralph the Black and Roger of Wendover at least give a little variety by copying the account in William of Malmesbury. It is not till we get to the English and French rimers, Robert of Gloucester and Peter Langtoft, that we come to anything worthy of much notice or anything showing any imagination. Robert of Gloucester tells the story of the dream, attributing it to a monk, but not saying of what monastery. The appearance on the altar loses perhaps somewhat of its awfulness when it is made into the ordinary rood of the church.

This is surely no improvement on the older version of the story. Robert does not forget the bodily appearances of the devil recorded by Florence, but at his distance of time he does not draw the national distinction which the earlier writer drew;

He then goes on to tell the story, clearly after William of Malmesbury, but everywhere with touches of his own. They have the interest of being in any case the earliest detailed account, true 668 or false, of the story in our own tongue. Thus the account of the King’s not going to hunt before dinner takes this shape;

The actual account of his death stands thus;

Peter of Langtoft (i. 446) has some touches of his own. Among other things, the days of the week have got wrong, in order to bring in a precept as to the proper observance of the weekly fast-day. We also get a purely imaginary Bishop of Winchester;

This last line, fittingly according to the belief of William’s own time, is wanting in some manuscripts.

From the writer known as Bromton we might have looked for some new form of the legend, but he gives us (X Scriptt. 996) only the usual story about Walter Tirel, with a rhetorical character of William and an account of his evil doings. One or two expressions however are remarkable;

“In quodam loco ubi priscis temporibus ecclesia fuerat constructa, et tempore patris sui cum multis aliis ecclesiis, et quatuor domibus religiosis, et tota illa patria in solitudinem redacta, vitam crudelem fine miserrimo terminavit. Jure autem in medio injustitiæ suæ inter feras occiditur, qui ultra modum inter homines ferus erat. Nam stabilitis contra malefactores silvarum, forestarum, et venationis, legibus duris, zelotepia sua agente, custos boscorum et ferarum pastor communiter vocabatur.”

To Knighton’s curious account I have referred already (see p. 333). But he tells the story twice. His first version (X Scriptt. 2372) contains nothing remarkable; the second (2373) is quite worth notice. He attributes to Rufus the making of the New Forest, which he describes in words which are not, as far as one can see, copied from any of the usual sources. He enforced the forest laws with great harshness, “quod pro dama hominem suspenderet, pro lepore xx.s. plecteretur, pro cuniculo x.s. daret.” Then the last scene is brought in with some solemnity; but the age which he assigns to the Red King is quite impossible;

“Igitur, ut ante dictum est, iii. nonarum Augusti, per Cistrensem [sic] anno gratiæ MC. regni sui xiii. ætatis liii. venit in novum herbarium suum, scilicet novam forestam, cum multa familia stipatus, 670 venandi gratia set sibi gratia dura. Cum arcubus et canibus stetit in loco suo, et quidam miles sibi nimis familiaris Walterus Tyrel nomine, prope eum ex opposito loco, ut moris est venantium, cæterique sparsim unusquisque cum arcu et sagitta in manu expecteoli [sic] pro præda capienda. Interea accidit miræ magnitudinis cervum præ cæteris præstantiorem regi appropinquare, videlicet inter regem et dictum militem, at rex tetendit arcum volens emittere sagittam, credens se interficere cervum, set, fracta corda in arcu regis, cervus, de sonitu quasi attonitus, restitit circumcirca respiciens, et inde rex aliqualiter motus dixit militi ut cervum sagittaret. Miles vero se sustinuit. At rex objurganter cum magno impetu præcepit ei, dicens, ‘Trahe, trahe, arcum ex parte diaboli, et extendas sagittam, alias te pœnitebit,’ At ille emisit sagittam, volens interficere cervum, percussit regem per medium cordis, et occidit eum, ibidemque expiravit. Walterus evasit, nemine insequente. Rex vero vehitur apud Wyntoniam super redam caballariam impositus. In cujus sepultura luctus defuit. Omnes gaudium de ejus morte arripiunt, adeo quod vix erat quispiam qui lacrimam emiserit, sed omnes de morte ejus lætati sunt.”

This is well told; but how much more men knew about the matter at the end of the fourteenth century than they did in the last year of the eleventh.

To turn to foreign writers, the Annales Cambriæ say simply that “Willelmus rex Angliæ, a quodam milite suo cervum petente sagitta percussus, interiit”—​or, in another manuscript, “Willelmus rex Anglorum, improviso ictu sagittæ a quodam milite in venatu occubuit.” The difference is to be noted. The Brut records the death of William the Red, King of the Saxons (Gẃilim Goch, brenhin y Saeson), and says that “as he was on a certain day hunting, along with Henry, his youngest brother, accompanied by some of his knights, he was wounded with an arrow by Walter Tyrell, a knight of his own, who, unwittingly, as he was shooting at a stag, hit the king and killed him.”

The Annales Blandinienses in Pertz, v. 27, record how “secundus Willelmus rex Anglorum in venatione ab uno milite suo ex improvisu sagitta vulneratus obiit; cui successit Henricus frater suus.” The Saint Denis History (Pertz, ix. 405) has a further touch; “Willelmus Rufus, rex Anglorum, venationi intentus sagitta 671 incaute emissa occiditur. Cui Henricus frater ejus velocissime successit, ne impediretur a Roberto fratre suo, jam de Hierosolimitana expeditione reverso.” Another writer in the same volume (ix. 392), Hugh of Fleury, has a remarkable account, quite in the spirit of the English writers, but seemingly not directly copied from any of them;

“Rex Anglorum Guillelmus, magnifici regis Guillelmi successor et filius, dum venationem exercet in silva quæ adjacet Vindoniæ urbi, a quodam milite sagitta percussus interiit. Ille tamen miles qui sagittam jecit illum inscientem percussit. Cervam quippe sagittare parabat, sed sagitta retrorsum acta regem insperate percussit, et illum inopinabiliter interemit. Quod divino nutu contigisse non dubium est. Erat enim rex ille armis quidem strenuus atque munificus, sed nimis lasciviens et flagitiosus. Verum antequam interiret, magnis sibi signis præostensis, si voluisset, corrigi debuisset. Nam dum sibi subitus, peccatis suis exigentibus, immineret interitus, in eadem insula in qua manebat sanguinis unda fœtida per spatium unius diei emanavit, ipso præsente, quod dicebatur ejus portendere mortem. Ipso etiam tempore apparuerunt alia signa stupenda in eadem insula, quibus, sicut jam dictum est, terreri et vitam suam corrigere debuisset. Quæ juventa stolidus et honore superbus contempsit, et semper incorrigibilis mansit. Unde Dei justo judicio subite et intempestiva morte preventus occubuit. Cui successit frater ejus junior Henricus, vir sapiens atque modestus.”

Hugh of Flavigny, whom we have already had often to quote, adds (Pertz, viii. 495) one detail which I do not think appears elsewhere. The King goes to see the well which sent up blood (the event is wrongly put under 1099);

“Anno inc. dom. 1099 obiit Urbanus papa, successit Paschalis. Obiit etiam Willelmus junior rex Anglorum. Quo etiam anno in Anglia fons verum sanguinem olidum et putentem manare visus est. Ad quod spectaculum cum fere tota insula cucurrisset, insolita rei novitate stupefacta, rex præfatus advenit et vidit, nec tamen ei profuit vidisse. Autumabat vulgus promiscuum portentum istud mortem regis portendere, quod etiam ei dicebatur a referentibus; sed homo secularis et in quem timor Dei non ceciderat, voluptatibus carnis et superbiæ deditus, divinorum præceptorum contemptor et adversarius, qui tamen satis regii fuisset animi, si non 672 Deum postposuisset fastu regni inflatus, nec cogitabat se moriturum.”

He carries on this vein a little further, and then gives the account of his death;

“Quia Deum deseruit, sanctam ecclesiam opprimens et eam sibi ancillari constituens, a Deo quoque derelictus est; in silva quæ adjacet Wintoniæ civitati, dum venationem exercet, sagitta a quodam percussus, quo lethali vulnere decidit et exanimatus est, pœnitentia et communione carens, et apud eamdem urbem sepultus.”

The Angevin chroniclers record the death of Rufus without comment or detail. The Biographer of the Bishops of Le Mans (Vet. An. 309), who looks at the matter chiefly with reference to Bishop Hildebert, moralizes at some length; but his statement of fact is no more than this;

“Dum quadam die in silvam venandi gratia perrexisset, ab uno ex militibus qui secum ierant sagitta percussus, interiit.”

This is really hardly more than the few words of the English Chronicler. Alberic of Trois Fontaines, from whom we might have looked for something, merely copies William of Malmesbury and others. Gervase of Tilbury (ii. 20, Leibnitz, i. 945) mentions another agent in the death-blow;

“Defuncto patre successit Guillelmus primogenius in regnum, vir impius, ecclesiarum persecutor, immisericors circa imbelles, qui archiepiscopum Cantuariensem plurimum persecutus, ab angelo percutiente peremtus, Guintoniæ sepultus est, sub infamiæ perpetuo monumento.”

As for Walter Tirel, he has his place in ordinary memory so thoroughly as the slayer of William Rufus and as nothing else, that it is rather hard to take in that his position as the slayer of William Rufus is very doubtful, while there are undoubted, though meagre, notices of him in other characters. We have already seen him entertaining Anselm in one of his Picard dwellings. The fullest account of his family comes from Orderic, who, when he is commenting on the laxity of the Norman clergy and bishops in his time, gives us the story of Walter’s father (574 D). Dean Fulk was a pupil of Bishop Ivo of Chartres, and inherited a knight’s fee from his father. Then we read how “illius temporis ritu, nobilem 673 sociam nomine Orieldem habuit, ex qua copiosam prolem generavit.” Walter was one of a family of ten, seemingly the youngest of eight sons. He was “cognomento Tirellus,” clearly a personal and not a hereditary or local surname.

If the Dean of Evreux kept proper residence, his son would be Norman natione, whatever he was genere; but most accounts of Walter connect him with France rather than with Normandy. Abbot Suger, who knew him personally, speaks of him (Duchèsne, iv. 283 C) as “nobilissimus vir Galterius Tirellus.” In Florence (1100) he is simply “quidam Francus, Walterus cognomento Tirellus.” William of Malmesbury (iv. 333) says that, on the day of the King’s death, he was “paucis comitatus, quorum familiarissimus erat Walterius cognomento Tirel, qui de Francia, liberalitate regis adductus, venerat.” His possession of Poix appears from Orderic, 782 A, where he is described as “de Francia miles generosus, Picis et Pontisariæ dives oppidanus, potens inter optimates et in armis acerrimus; ideo regi familiaris conviva et ubique comes assiduus.” Walter Map (De Nugis Cur. 222) calls him “miles Achaza juxta Pontissaram Franciæ,” which I suppose means Achères. (But in Orderic, 723 B, we have another Walter and also a Peter brought into connexion with Achères.) Walter’s connexion with that district suggests that the King had bought him over to his side, or had taken him prisoner during the campaign in the Vexin. Geoffrey Gaimar (Chron. Anglo-Norm. i. 51) dwells on his possession of Poix;

His marriage comes from Orderic (783 A); “Adelidam filiam Ricardi de sublimi prosapia Gifardorum conjugem habuit, quæ Hugonem de Pice, strenuissimum militem, marito suo peperit.”

The question now comes whether Walter Tirel appears in Domesday. There is in Essex (41) an entry, “Laingaham tenet Walterus Tirelde. R. quod tenuit Phin dacus pro ii. hidis et dimidia et pro uno manerio.” This comes among the estates of Richard of Clare, and I suppose that “R.” in the entry should be “de R.” as in 674 several others. If this be our Walter Tirel, his estate was not very great, and he did not hold as a tenant-in-chief. One cannot make much out of the extract from an East-Saxon county history in Ellis, ii. 394. Lappenberg (ii. 207) has more to say about this entry and other bearers of the name of Tirel. It cannot much matter that “der Name Tirrel ist in der Liste der Krieger zu Battle Abbey.” It is of more importance when he refers to the Pipe Roll of Henry (56), where we read, “Adeliz uxor Walteri Tirelli reddit compotum de x. marcis argenti de eisdem placitis de La Wingeham.” This comes in Essex, and I suppose that the “Laingaham” of Domesday and the “La Wingeham” of the Pipe Roll are the same place. If so, the two entries, combined with the notice in Orderic, look very much as if they all belong to one Walter and one Adelaide. If this be so, Walter Tirel was a landowner in England, though on no great scale; and whatever was his own case, his wife or widow was living and holding his land in 1131.

Walter’s denial of any share in the King’s death comes from the personal knowledge of Abbot Suger (Duchèsne, iv. 283); “Imponebatur a quibusdam cuidam nobilissimo viro Galterio Tirello, quod eum sagitta perfoderat. Quem cum nec timeret, nec speraret, jurejurando sæpius audivimus, et quasi sacrosanctum asserere, quod ea die nec in eam partem silvæ in qua rex venabatur, venerit, nec eum in silva omnino viderit.”

John of Salisbury in his Life of Anselm, c. xii (Giles, v. 341), refers to this denial on the part of Walter. He speaks of the fate of Julian, likening Anselm to Basil, and goes on; “Quis alterutrum miserit telum, adhuc incertum est quidem. Nam Walterus Tyrrellus ille, qui regiæ necis reus a plurimis dictus est, eo quod illi familiaris erat et tunc in indagine ferarum vicinus, et fere singulariter adhærebat, etiam quum ageret in extremis, se a cæde illius immunem esse, invocato in animam suam Dei judicio, protestatus est. Fuerunt plurimi, qui ipsum regem jaculum quo interemptus est misisse asserunt; et hoc Walterus ille, etsi non crederetur ei, constanter asserebat.” He adds a comment which might be taken in two senses; “Et profecto quisquis hoc fecerit, Dei ecclesiæ suæ calamitatibus compatientis dispositioni fideliter obedivit.”

The very confused story which makes William Rufus the maker of the New Forest, and Walter Tirel the adviser of the deed, comes 675 from Walter Map’s account (De Nugis, 222) of the death of William Rufus, where a good many things are brought close together; “Willielmus secundus, rex Angliæ, regum pessimus, Anselmo pulso a sede Cantiæ, justo Dei judicio a sagitta volante pulsus, quia dæmonio meridiano deditus, cujus ad nutum vixerat, onere pessimo levavit orbem. Notandum autem quod in silva Novæ Forestæ [cf. N. C. vol. iv. p. 841], quam ipse Deo et hominibus abstulerat, ut eam dicaret feris et canum lusibus, a qua triginta sex matrices ecclesias extirpaverat, et populum earum dederat exterminio. Consiliarius autem hujus ineptiæ Walterus Tyrell, miles Achaza juxta Pontissaram Franciæ, qui, non sponte sua sed Domini, de medio fecit eum ictu sagittæ, quæ feram penetrans cecidit in belluam Deo odibilem.” “Exterminium” must of course be taken, not of a massacre, but of a mere driving out. Giraldus too (De Inst. Princ. 173) attributes the making of the New Forest and the driving out of the people to William Rufus;

“Hic Novam in australibus Angliæ partibus Forestam, quæ usque hodie durat, primus instituit; multis ibidem ecclesiis, in quibus divina ab antiquo celebrari obsequia et ipsius præconia sublimari, desertis omnino et destitutis multisque ruricolis et glebæ ascriptis a paternis laribus et agris avitis miserabiliter profugatis et proscriptis.”

We have seen already (see p. 337) how this confusion was further improved in the thirteenth century at the hands of Thomas Wykes, and what rhetorical use of it was made later still by Henry Knighton.

As usual, so-called local tradition knows a vast deal about the matter. The exact place where Rufus fell is known, and is marked by a stone. The tree from which, in some versions, the arrow is said to have glanced, is also known, and its site, or a successor, may be seen. It is of course impossible to say that these things are not so; but one knows too much of the utter worthlessness of the modern guesses which commonly pass for local tradition to attach much value to such stories. I have been on the spot; but, when there is no real evidence to fix the event to one spot rather than another of a large district, it is another matter from tracing out the signs of real history at Le Mans and at Rochester, at Bamburgh and at Saint Cenery. There is also a wild story about 676 a payment made by some neighbouring manor as a penalty, because some one shod Walter’s horse instead of stopping him. The payment is doubtless real enough; the alleged cause for it shows a knowledge of details beyond that of Knighton or Geoffrey Gaimar. The critical historian, after making his way through all these tales, can only come back to the safe statement of the English Chronicler with which he set out.

The Burial of William Rufus.

Some of the accounts of William’s burial have been already mentioned in the text, or in the last Note. It may have been noticed that some of them seem anxious to claim for Henry a share in the burial of his brother. The singular narrative of Geoffrey Gaimar (i. 56), where he follows up his attempt to make out a late repentance for Rufus by giving him a specially solemn and Christian burial, has been given in brief in the text. The barons and the rest are mourning, when Gilbert of Laigle bids them stop (“Taisez, seigneurs, pur Jhésu Xpist”) and turn to burying their master. Then the story goes on;

After some more lamentations, they set out on their journey and reach Winchester;

This is a pretty story enough; but we may be sure that all its other details are as mythical as the part assigned to the dead Bishop Walkelin. The only question of any importance is whether there is any contradiction between the two more important narratives, that of Orderic and that of William of Malmesbury in the place where he is directly telling the story. The Chronicler and Florence simply mention the burial without detail or comment. The account of William of Malmesbury is the shorter of the two. The King has been shot, and Walter Tirel has fled. Then the story goes on (iv. 333);

“Nec vero fuit qui persequeretur, illis conniventibus, istis miserantibus, omnibus postremo alia molientibus; pars receptacula sua munire, pars furtivas prædas agere, pars regem novum jamjamque circumspicere. Pauci rusticanorum cadaver, in rheda caballaria compositum, Wintoniam in episcopatum devexere, cruore undatim per totam viam stillante. Ibi infra ambitum turris, multorum procerum conventu, paucorum planctu, terræ traditum.”

Orderic (782 D) tells very much the same story;

“Mortuo rege, plures optimatum ad lares suos de saltu manicaverunt, et contra futuras motiones quas timebant res suas ordinaverunt. Clientuli quidem cruentatum regem vilibus utcunque pannis operuerunt, et veluti ferocem aprum, venabulis confossum, de saltu ad urbem Guentanam detulerunt. Clerici autem et monachi atque cives, duntaxat egeni, cum viduis et mendicis, obviam processerunt, et pro reverentia regiæ dignitatis in veteri monasterio Sancti Petri celeriter tumulaverunt.”

The words of William of Malmesbury, it will be noticed, are quite general. They do not assert the usual religious ceremony, but neither do they exclude it. It is Orderic who in a marked way asserts the popular excommunication. His words are;

678 “Porro ecclesiastici doctores et prælati, sordidam ejus vitam et tetrum finem considerantes, tunc judicare ausi sunt, et ecclesiastica, veluti biothanatum, absolutione indignum censuerunt, quem vitales auras carpentem salubriter a nequitiis castigare nequiverunt. Signa etiam pro illo in quibusdam ecclesiis non sonuerunt, quæ pro infimis pauperibus et mulierculis crebro diutissime pulsata sunt. De ingenti ærario, ubi plures nummorum acervi de laboribus miserorum congesti sunt, eleemosynæ pro anima cupidi quondam possessoris nullæ inopibus erogatæ sunt.”

Here is no contradiction; only Orderic asserts a very remarkable feature in the case of which William takes no notice. To me it seems more likely that William of Malmesbury, whose business it clearly was (see above, p. 491) to make out as good a case for William Rufus as he could without asserting anything positively false, should leave out a circumstance which told so much against the King, than that Orderic, or those from whom he heard the story, should invent or imagine it. On the other hand, the very fact that the story of the popular excommunication is so very striking and solemn and in every way befitting does make us tremble the least bit in admitting it as a piece of authentic history.

We must not however forget that William of Malmesbury in a later passage (v. 393) does seem to imply that the burial of Rufus was accompanied by the ordinary ceremonies. In recording the election of Henry, he says that it happened “post justa funeri regio persoluta.” But it may fairly be doubted whether an obiter dictum of this kind is entitled to the same weight which would undoubtedly have belonged to a direct statement in his regular narrative. The words are, after all, somewhat vague, and if we compare this passage in William of Malmesbury with the entry in the Chronicle, it sounds very much as if it were merely a translation in a grander style of the simple words “syðþan he bebyrged wæs.” The same feeling as that which is expressed in Orderic’s account comes out in a singular passage of the Saxon Annalist (Pertz, vi. 733); “Willehelmus rex de Anglia sagitta interfectus est. Heinricus vero frater ejus in eodem loco pro remedio animi sui volens monasterium constituere, prohibitus est. Apparuit enim ei, et duo dracones ferentes eum, dicens, nichil sibi prodesse, eo quod suis temporibus omnia destructa essent, quæ antecessores sui in honorem Domini construxerant.”

679 I suppose that there need be no difficulty about the “clientuli” of Orderic as compared with the “rusticani” of William, though the word “clientuli” by itself might rather have suggested some of the King’s inferior followers. But one is amazed to find Sir Francis Palgrave (iv. 686, 687) telling us the name of the churl who brought in the body, “a neighbouring charcoal-burner, Purkis.” And he goes on to say;

“We are not told that Purkis received any reward or thanks for his care. His family still subsists in the neighbourhood, nor have they risen above their original station, poor craftsmen or cottagers. They followed the calling of coal-burners until a recent period; and they tell us that the wheel of the Cart which conveyed the neglected corpse was shown by them until the last century.”

I have often heard of this local legend about Purkis, but really so palpable a fiction ought not to have found its way into the pages of a scholar like Sir Francis Palgrave. There are some stories which need no argument against them, but which the evidence of nomenclature at once upsets. Purkis is on the face of him as mythical as Crocker and Crewis and Copleston—​I am not sure whether I have remembered the first two names right, and it is not worth turning to any book to see. By the way in which the story is told, one would fancy that Purkis is meant for a surname, and it may be that those who believe in him think that he was baptized John or Thomas. In inventing legends it is at least better to invent legends which are possible. If any one chooses to say that the cart was driven by Godwine or Æthelstan, we cannot say that it was not.

It is after this that Orderic goes on to speak of the classes of people who did mourn for the Red King, and how gladly they would have done summary vengeance on his slayer, if he had not been far out of their reach;

“Stipendiarii milites et nebulones ac vulgaria scorta quæstus suos in occasu mœchi principis perdiderunt, ejusque miserabilem obitum, non tam pro pietate quam pro detestabili flagitiorum cupiditate, planxerunt, Gualteriumque Tirellum, ut pro lapsu sui defensoris membratim discerperent, summopere quæsierunt. Porro ille, perpetrato facinore, ad pontum propere confugit, pelagoque transito, 680 munitiones quas in Gallia possidebat expetiit, ibique minas et maledictiones malevolentium tutus irrisit.”

The Election of Henry the First.

The details of the accession of Henry come chiefly from Orderic (782 D), though, oddly enough, he does not record the election in so many words. But there can be no doubt as to the fact of a regular, though necessarily a very hasty, election. The words of the Chronicle are distinct; “And syðþan he bebyrged wæs þa witan þe þa neh handa wæron, his broðer Heanrig to cynge gecuran.” So Henry of Huntingdon; “Henricus, ibidem in regem electus.” Florence strangely slurs over the election, saying only, “successit junior frater suus Heinricus.” William of Malmesbury (v. 393) is quite distinct;

“In regem electus est, aliquantis tamen ante controversiis inter proceres agitatis atque sopitis, annitente maxime comite Warwicensi Henrico, viro integro et sancto, cujus familiari jamdudum usus fuerat contubernio.”

Here we hear only of “proceres;” but we get the important facts of the division among the electors, and of the special agency of the Earl of Warwick, which falls in with the notice of Orderic (783 B) that the Count of Meulan accompanied the King-elect to London. The Beaumont brothers act together. But Orderic, in his zeal to describe the picturesque scene between Henry and William of Breteuil, leaves out any distinct record of the election. It is however implied in the words which follow the passage quoted in p. 347;

“Tandem, convenientibus amicis et sapientibus consiliariis, hinc et inde lis mitigata est, et saniori consultu, ne pejor scissura fieret, arx cum regalibus gazis filio regis Henrico reddita est.”

The assembly which settled the matter, and which gave up the royal treasury to Henry, was beyond all doubt the assembly which, according to William of Malmesbury, elected Henry king. It was only to a king or king-elect that they would decree the surrender of the treasure. Indeed one might be tempted to make a slight 681 change in the order of events as told by Orderic. One is tempted to suspect that the assembly voted the election of Henry, that he went, armed with this vote, to demand the treasure, and that it was then that William of Breteuil withstood him. This however is simply conjecture. But there can be no doubt as to the election of Henry by such an assembly as could be got together at the moment. Nor do I see any reason to doubt Orderic’s story as to the scene between Henry and William of Breteuil. At all events, Orderic has made it the occasion of putting forward some very sound constitutional doctrine, which is just as valuable, even if any severe critic should reject the story as a fact.

I have spoken elsewhere (see N. C. vol. v. p. 845) of two tales in Matthew Paris with regard to Henry’s accession, of which Thierry made a characteristic use. I have nothing to add to what I said then.

There can, I think, be no doubt that the celebrant at Henry’s coronation was Maurice Bishop of London. The Chronicler, Florence, Orderic, and Henry of Huntingdon, all mention Maurice and no other prelate, though of course some other bishops would take a secondary part in the ceremony. The Archbishop of York would have been the regular celebrant during the vacancy of Canterbury; but, as Thomas died so soon afterwards, the natural inference is that he was too sick to come. And indeed, if he was in his own province, he could not, even if he had been in the best of health, have come to Westminster at such short notice. Even Thomas Stubbs does not claim the consecration of Henry for his namesake, unless indeed he means (X Scriptt. 1707) to insinuate it in a very dark way. He mentions the vacancy of Canterbury after the death of Lanfranc, and adds;

“Ex antiquo tamen extitit consuetudo inter duos Angliæ metropolitanos, ut altero defuncto alter in provincia defuncti archiepiscopalia faceret, utpote episcopos consecrare, regem coronare, coronato rege natalis domini, paschæ et pentecostes majorem missam cantare. Hæc interim fecit Thomas archiepiscopus, nec quisquam episcoporum erat qui hæc in sua ipsius diocesi præsente archiepiscopo præsumeret.”

He then mentions the bishops whom Thomas consecrated, Hervey 682 of Norwich—​that is, Herbert of Thetford—​Ralph of Chichester, and Hervey of Bangor. If he had really thought that Thomas had crowned a king, he would surely have said so distinctly. I can therefore attach no importance to the strange statement of the two Ely writers (Anglia Sacra, i. 613; Stewart, Liber Eliensis, 284) that Henry was consecrated by Maurice, but crowned by Thomas (“a Mauritio Lundoniensi episcopo in regem est consecratus, sed a Thoma Eboracensi coronatus”). But the distinction between consecration and coronation may be worth the attention of ritual students.

It was an easy mistake of a Welsh writer (see the Brut, 1098, that is 1100) to transfer the election from Winchester to London; “From thence [Winchester] he went to London, and took possession of it, which is the chiefest and crown of the whole kingdom of England [Lloeger]. Then the French and Saxons [Ffreinc a Saeson] all flocked together to him, and by royal council appointed him king in England [vrenhin yn Lloeger].”

The Objections to the Marriage of Henry and Matilda.

Our two fullest accounts of this matter are those of Eadmer and of Hermann of Tournay (D’Achery, ii. 894, see above, p. 600). Eadmer’s is the account, not only of a contemporary, but, we cannot doubt, of an eye-witness. Hermann wrote in another land, long afterwards, when the wars of Stephen and Matilda and the pleadings in the papal court (see N. C. vol. v. p. 857) had called men’s minds back to the story of the marriage of Matilda’s parents. His memory, as we see, failed him as to details. He did not remember either of the names of Eadgyth-Matilda; he mistakes her brother David for her father; he makes her (D’Achery, ii. 894) the mother of both the sons of Henry who were drowned in the White Ship. It is quite plain that his remembrance of what he had heard from Anselm forty or fifty years before was coloured by later ways of looking at things.