MINESTEAD AND RUFUS’S STONE.
[Illustration: Oaks in Boldrewood.]
About four miles off from Lyndhurst lie Minestead and Rufus’s Stone.
There are three or four different roads to them. The most beautiful,
though the longest, is over Emery Down, where, turning off to the left,
you pass the woods of Kitt’s Hill, and James Hill. Then crossing
Millaford Bridge, and skirting on each side of the road the beeches of
Holme Hill, and passing through Boldrewood, you make your way eastward
across the stream below the Withy Bed Hat, and go through the woods of
Puckpits and Stonehard.
Another road to the Stone is through Minestead by a footpath which
crosses Mr. Compton’s park, dotted with cottages, each with its garden
full in the summer and autumn of flowers—yellow Aaron-rods, pink
candy-tufts, colchicums, and marigolds, and tall sheaves of grey
Michaelmas daisies.
In the village stands “The Faithful Servant,” copied from the well-known
picture at Winchester College. A little farther on we ascend Stoneycross
Hill, the village orchards full of Mary-apples and Morrisses mingling
their blossoms, in the spring, with the green Forest oaks. As we reach
the top, suddenly there opens out one long view. On the north-east rise
the hills beyond Winchester; but the “White City” is hidden in their
valley. To the east lies Southampton, with its houses by the water-side;
and to the north, across the woods of Prior’s Acre, gleam the green
Wiltshire downs lit up by the sunlight.
Close to us, among its beeches, lies Castle Malwood, with its single
trench and Forest lodge, where tradition and poets say Rufus feasted
before his death; and down in the valley stands the Stone which marks
the spot where he is said to have fallen.
It will be as well to repeat the story, as told by the two Chroniclers
who give the fullest account, with all its omens and apparitions. The
King had gone to bed on the evening of the 1st of August, and was
suddenly awoke by a fearful vision. He dreamt that he was bled, and the
stream of blood, pouring up to heaven, clouded the very day. His
attendants, hearing his cries to the Virgin, rushed in with lights, and
stayed with him all that night. Morning dawned: and Robert Fitz Hamon,
his special friend, came to him with another dream, dreamt also that
very night by a foreign monk then staying at the court, who had seen the
King enter a church, and there seize the rood, tearing apart its legs
and arms. For a time the image bore the insult, but suddenly struck the
King. He fell, and flames and smoke issued from his mouth, putting out
the light of the stars. The Red King’s courage, however, had by this
time returned. With a laugh, he cried, “He is a monk, and dreams for
money like a monk: give him this,” handing Fitz Hamon a hundred
shillings. Still the two dreams had their effect, and William hesitated
to test their truth.[114] At dinner that day he drank more than usual.
His spirits once more returned. He defied the dreams. In spite of their
warnings, he determined to hunt. As he was preparing, his armourer
approached with six brand-new arrows. Choosing out two, he cried, as he
gave them to Walter Tiril, Lord of Poix and Pontoise, who had lately
come from Normandy, “The best arrows to the best marksman.” The small
hunting-party, consisting of his brother Henry, William of Breteuil,
Walter Tiril, and Fitz Hamon, and a few more, set out. As they are
leaving the courtyard, a monk from St. Peter’s Abbey at Gloucester
arrives. He gives the King a letter from Serlo, the abbot. It told how a
monk of that abbey had dreamt that he had seen the Saviour and all the
host of heaven standing round the great white throne. Then, too, came
the Virgin robed in light, and flung herself at the feet of her Son, and
prayed Him, by his precious blood and agony on the cross, to take pity
on the English; prayed Him, too, as He was judge of all men, and avenger
of all wickedness, to punish the King. The Saviour answered her, “You
must be patient and wait: due retribution will in time befall the
wicked.” The King read it and laughed. “Does Serlo,” he asked, “think
that I believe the visions of every snoring monk? Does he take me for an
Englishman, who puts faith in the dreams of every old woman?”[115] With
this the party once more sets out into the Forest, the woods still green
with all their deep summer foliage.
So they hunted all that noon and afternoon. The sun was now setting.
Tiril and the King were alone.[116] A stag bounded by: the King shot and
slightly wounded the quarry. On, though, it still bounded in the full
light of the setting sun. The King stood watching it, shading his eyes
with his hands. At that moment another deer broke cover. Tiril this time
shot, and the shaft lodged itself in the King’s breast.[117] He fell
without a word or groan, vainly trying to pull out the arrow, which
broke short in his hand.
Thus perished William the Red. Tiril leapt on his horse. Henry galloped
to Winchester, and the other nobles to their houses. One exception was
there. William of Breteuil, following hard upon Henry to Winchester,
honourably declared the rights of the absent Robert, to whom both Henry
and himself had sworn fealty. William’s body was brought on a cart to
the cathedral, the blood from his wound reddening the road.[118] There
the next morning[119] he was buried, unlamented, unknelled, and
unaneled.[120]
[Illustration: Rufus’s Stone.]
So runs the story as told by the Chroniclers. And to this day popular
tradition not only repeats their tale, but points to the places
associated with the event. Below our feet lies the lonely glen of
Canterton, where the King is said to have fallen. The oak from which, as
the legend runs, the arrow glanced, is long since dead, but a stone
marks its site, now capped over with a hideous cast-iron case.[121] In
the woods and in the village of Minestead still live some of the
descendants of Purkess, who is reported to have carried the bleeding
corpse in his charcoal-cart to Winchester along the road now known as
the King’s Road. Twelve miles away, on the extreme south-west boundary
of the Forest, close to the Avon, stands a smithy, on the site of the
one where, the legend says, Walter Tiril’s horse was shod, and which,
for that reason, to this day pays a yearly fine to the Crown: and the
water close by, where the fugitive passed, is still called Tyrrel’s
Ford. And Rufus lies in Winchester Cathedral, his bones now mixed with
those of Canute; and under a marble tomb, in the south aisle of the
presbytery, sleeps his brother Richard, slain also like himself in the
Forest.
So runs the story, unquestioned save here and there by some few faint
doubts.[122] As to the tradition, I think we may at once set aside its
testimony. The value of mere tradition in history weighs, or ought to
weigh, nothing. Here and there tradition may be true in a very general
sense, as when it says the Isle of Wight was once joined to Hampshire;
but it is never particular in its dates, and is ever in too much hurry
to compare facts. Tradition, as often as not, kills the murderer instead
of the murdered; and makes the man who built the place to have been born
there. Tradition is, in fact, the history of the vulgar, and the
stumbling-block of the half-learned.
We will look at the broader bearings of the case. The first thing which
strikes us is the fact that two other very near relatives of the Red
King, his brother and his nephew, also lost their lives by so-called
accidents in the New Forest. If we are to believe the Chroniclers, his
brother Richard met his death whilst hunting there, according to one
narrative, by a pestilential blast—surely, at the least, a very
unsatisfactory account;[123] though, by another version, from the
effects of a blow against a tree.[124] His nephew Richard was either
wounded by an arrow through the neck, or caught by the boughs of a tree
and strangled—a still more improbable death;[125] whilst, according to
Florence of Worcester, he was killed by the arrow of one of his own
knights.[126] We will only here pause to notice not only the extreme
improbability, but the contradictory statements in both cases, which
will not, of course, increase the value of the same evidence concerning
Rufus.[127]
And now we will examine the version of his death. History is at all
times subjective enough, but becomes far more so when written by
unfriendly Chroniclers, who have good reasons for suppressing the truth.
The story reads at the very first glance too much like a romance. In the
first place, we have no less than three dreams, which are always effects
rather than causes—after-thoughts rather than prophecies, well fitted to
suit the superstition of the times, and to deceive the crowd. Then, too,
we find the old device of the armourer craving the King to take six
brand-new arrows, by one of which at the hand of his friend he is fated
to fall on the very spot which his father had laid waste, and where he
is said to have destroyed a church.
It may of course be urged that all this is in accordance with what we
know of the eternal power of the moral laws, that the sins of the
fathers are ever visited upon the sons to the third and fourth
generations, and that time ever completes the full circle of
retribution. But the flaw is, that this special judgment is too special.
“Divine vengeance” and “judgment of God,” the Chroniclers cry out one
after another, and this is thought sufficient to account for three
so-called accidental deaths. The moral laws, however, never fall so
directly as they are here represented. Their influence is more oblique.
The lightning of justice does not immediately follow each peal of
suffering.
Leaving, however, the Chroniclers’ views to themselves, let us look
further at some of the facts which peep out in the narrative. Why, in
the first place, we naturally ask, if the King was shot by accident, did
his friends and attendants desert him? Why was he brought home in a
cart, drawn by a wretched jade, the blood, not even staunched, flowing
from the wound, clotting the dust on the road? Why, too, the indecent
haste of his funeral? Why, afterwards, was no inquiry as to his death
made? Why, too, was Tiril’s conduct not investigated? These questions
are difficult to answer, except upon one supposition.
Let us note, also, that they are all ecclesiastics, to whom the
revelations of the King’s speedy end had been made known, and that their
special favourite, Henry, succeeded to the throne in spite of his elder
brother’s right. It is, certainly, too, something more than singular
that when the banished Anselm should visit Hugh, Abbot of Cluny, that
the Abbot should tell him that during the past night he had seen William
summoned before God and sentenced to damnation, and that the King’s
death immediately followed: that further, on the next day, when he went
to Lyons, his chaplain should be twice told by a youth of the death of
William before it took place.[128] More than singular, too, are those
words of Fulchered, spoken so openly and so daringly, “The bow of God’s
vengeance is bent against the wicked; and the arrow swift to wound is
already drawn out of the quiver.”[129]
Either all these persons were prophets, or accessories to the murder,
or—for there is one more solution—the Chroniclers invented this portion
of the story. If we admit this last supposition, we cannot receive the
other parts of the narrative without the greatest suspicion. We have
almost a sufficient warrant to read them in an exactly opposite sense to
what they were intended to bear.
Let us remember, also, that Flambard, Rufus’s prime minister, who was
universally hated by the clergy, and who had lately banished Godric, of
Christchurch, into Normandy, was instantly stripped of his possessions
by Henry, and Godric reinstated, and the banished Anselm recalled; and,
lastly, and most important of all, that Tiril, who had just arrived from
Normandy, was a friend of Anselm’s,[130] and, further, that Alanus de
Insulis, better known as le Docteur Universel, who lived not long after
the event, actually says that in his opinion it was caused by
treachery.[131] Surely all these facts and coincidences point but one
way. All tend to show, as plainly as possible, that Rufus fell by no
chance, but by a conspiracy of his prelates, who held the crozier in
one, and the battle-axe in the other hand.[132] The cause of their
hatred is at once supplied by his refusing to pay St. Peter’s
pence—denying the Pope’s supremacy—banishing Anselm—promoting
Flambard—holding all the bishoprics and other offices which fell
vacant[133]—by his cruelties to their different orders at Canterbury and
Crowland, and throughout England, whose enmity died not with his death,
but made them believe that the tower of Winchester Cathedral fell
because they allowed him to be buried in its nave.
Reading, in the Chroniclers, the life of the Red King seems like rather
reading a series of plots against it, not by the English, who were too
thoroughly cowed to make the slightest resistance, but by his own
prelates and barons.[134] His uncle Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, headed the
first rebellion against him, as soon as he usurped the throne. William,
Bishop of Durham, his own Minister, conspired against him. Bishop
Gosfrith, with his nephew Robert, Earl of Northumberland, rebelled in
the west. Roger Montgomery rose on the Welsh Marches. Roger Bigod in the
eastern, and Hugo of Grentemesnil in the Midland Counties hoisted the
flag of revolt.[135] Such was England at the beginning of his reign. In
1096, his own godfather, William of Aldrey, justly or unjustly, was
accused of treason, and died on the gallows.[136] William, Count of Eu,
kinsman to the King, suffered a worse fate for the same crime. His
steward, William, also a kinsman of the King’s, was hung on a rood.
Eudes, Count of Champagne, forfeited his lands. Others not only shared
the same fate, but were deprived of their eyesight.[137] His northern
barons, headed by Robert of Mowbray, goaded to desperation by the Forest
Laws, rose in revolt. Roger of Yvery, son of the Conqueror’s favourite,
led the Midland barons, and was obliged to fly, and all his vast
estates, close to the New Forest, forfeited. Normandy, from whence Tiril
had just come, swarmed with outlawed enemies, both churchmen and laymen.
It was the nest where all the plots could be safely hatched.
Knowing all this, knowing, too, that the conspiracies became more
frequent as his tyranny increased, we can scarcely avoid coming to but
one conclusion as to his death.
It might suit the policy of the times to throw the guilt on Tiril, but
Tiril certainly did not shoot the arrow. We have his own most solemn
declaration to various people, and especially, not once but often, to
Suger, the well-known Abbot of St. Denis, when he had nothing to gain or
lose, that he had on the day of the King’s death not only not entered
that part of the Forest, but had not so much as even seen him.[138]
Tiril, however, was certainly implicated in the plot. His haste to leave
the country arose, probably, not so much from a wish to escape as to
convey the news of the success to Normandy: and popular tradition
mistaking the cause, with its usual inaccuracy, fixed on the wrong
person as the assassin. In after years, however, from some scruple of
conscience, he expiated his share in the murder by a pilgrimage to the
Holy Land.
Who shot the fatal arrow we know not, and, perhaps, shall never know. We
must not expect to get truth in history,—only, at the best, some faint
glimmering. All is here confusion and darkness. John of Salisbury, who
lived about the middle of the twelfth century, says it was as little
known who killed the King as who slew Julian the Apostate.[139] The very
spot where he fell is doubtful. One thing, however, seems certain, that
he was slain, not, as the Chroniclers say, because his father made the
New Forest, but through his own cruelties and excesses, by which he
outraged both friend and foe.
It is not single passages which alone leave this impression, but still
more the cumulative force of the evidence. The fact that all were
gainers by his death, and the general abhorrence of the tyrant, are in
themselves strong reasons. Not one, but all parties were bound together
against him by the strongest of covenants—hatred. The marked and bitter
prophecies, which would not have been uttered were not their fulfilment
ensured,—the suspicious silence on all important points,—the pretended
dreams and omens,—the abandonment of the body,—the want of any inquiry
into the cause of death,—the connection between the Church party and
Anselm with Henry I., and Anselm’s connection again with Tiril, all
serve to show the depth and darkness of the plot.
His life throws the best light on his death. Read by it, by the
extortions and atrocities which he committed, by the universal hatred in
which he was held, the conclusion is inevitable. Years of violence were
the prelude to a violent end. The many failures in open revolt seem only
to have taught the lesson of greater caution. And treachery at last
succeeded, where plain courage had so often failed.
Direct proof of the murder cannot be had, and must not be expected.
Every one was interested in keeping that a secret by which all alike
profited. To have declared it, would have covered the Crown with
disgrace, and stained the hands of the Church.
Their own absurdities and contradictions form the best refutation of the
common accounts. In details they are irreconcilable with each other.
According to one, the King was alone with Tiril; to another, with all
his attendants. One narrative declares that the arrow glanced from a
boar, a second from a stag, a third from a tree. Even if we accept them,
then either the power of prophecy lasted much longer than is commonly
supposed, or, as we have said, the clergy were accessories to the
murder;—we have no other choice. The last of these solutions is fatal to
the common belief; and very few persons would, I suppose, venture upon
the first. Nevertheless, the monk of Gloucester’s dream was not yet to
be fulfilled. The hour was not yet at hand for England’s deliverance. As
the Parliamentary party said in Charles the First’s time—“Things must
become worse before they can mend.” England had, therefore, to undergo a
tyranny for more than a century longer—till the evil became its own
cure. Good was at length accomplished. Out of all the woe and
wretchedness came the Bill of Rights and the Charta de Forestâ.
[Illustration: View from Castle Malwood.]