The Death of the Red King

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

In 1100, King William II died in a tragic accident... or was it murder? In The Death of the Red King, acclaimed historian Paul Doherty investigates the suspicious death of William II in a masterful 'faction' - a mix of both fact and fiction. Concentrating on both old and new evidence, Paul Doherty explores the highly suspicious elements surrounding the death of King William II of England, nicknamed "Rufus the Red King". Through the eyes of the great philosopher Anselm, a secret admirer of the Red King, a far more chilling interpretation of his death is put forward that challenges everything we think we know. What readers are saying about Paul Doherty: 'An interesting look at a little known real-life mystery ' 'The book is interesting, well written, fact and fiction coming easily together to form a well-argued case' ' Doherty proves that he is a scholar as well as a writer of novels'

Release date: June 11, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 200

Sample

ANSELM (1022-1109) – Monk of Bee, Theologian, Philosopher, Archbishop of Canterbury (1093-1109).

EADMER – Close friend and ally of Anselm and his successor Ralph. The author of outstanding histories: The History of Our Own Time and his Life of Anselm.

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR (‘The Bastard’) (1027-1087) – Son of Duke Robert and his mistress Arlette. Duke of Normandy and, after the battle of Hastings 1066, King of England.

MATHILDA (d.1083) – Wife of William the Conqueror.

ROBERT CURTHOSE – Son of the Conqueror. Duke of Normandy, Crusader. Completely out-manoeuvred by his brothers, William and Henry.

WILLIAM (‘Rufus’) (c.1058-1100) – The Red King, son of the Conqueror and Mathilda. King of England.

HENRY I (d.1135) – King of the English, brother to the Red King, son of the Conqueror.

MATHILDA (‘Edith’) (1080-1118) – Wife/Queen of Henry I, daughter of Malcolm III of Scotland and Margaret, descendant of the Saxon royal line.

LANFRANC (d.1089) – Benedictine monk. Archbishop of Canterbury. Close confidant of the Conqueror, patron and friend of Anselm.

HAROLD GODWINSON – A member of the powerful Godwin family. He seized the Crown after the death of the Confessor. He was defeated and killed at Hastings (1066).

RANULF FLAMBARD (d.1128) – Bishop of Durham. Chief Minister of William Rufus deposed and imprisoned by Henry I for a while.

WALTER TIREL – Lord of Poix. Owner of Langham in Essex. Husband of Adelicia de Clare.

ROBERT DE BEAUMONT (d. 1118) – Count of Meulan. One of the Conqueror’s companions, Chief Councillor to William the Red King and Henry I.

HENRY DE BEAUMONT – Earl of Warwick, brother of the above.

FITZHAIMO (d. 1108) – Norman baron, powerful in the southwest and along the Welsh March.

SERLO OF GLOUCESTER – Benedictine Monk, formerly of Avranches and Sees. Abbot of St Peter’s, Gloucester. Serlo sent warning to William the Red King of his impending doom.

HELIAS LA FLÉCHE – Count of Maine. Opponent of William the Red King.

The Sons of Ephraim, armed with the bow.

(Psalm 77)

My master does not like to talk of demons. Anselm of Bee, Archbishop of Canterbury, smiles and hides his face when any of the good brothers talk about devilish horns and eyes which spark and burn like fiery coals through the darkness of this world. Anselm gently reminds me that Lucifer, the Morning Star before he fell from Paradise, was a great-winged spirit of living flame.

“Two wings,” Anselm commented, “one of love, the other of intellect. Lucifer fell, my dear Eadmer –” Anselm pushed his face closer, “– because he relied solely on the wing of intellect.”

We were talking in the herbarium of St Augustine’s Abbey in Canterbury. A beautiful warm summer’s day, bathing in its golden glow the full-bloomed shrubs and flowers. Across the herb garden drifted the different sounds of the Abbey: the choir practising in the church nave, chanting some melodious psalm; the ringing of a distant bell; the patter of sandaled feet; the clatter of pots from the butteries and kitchens. Nearby old Brother Regnaut dozed on his bench, in the shade of a beautiful copper beech planted in the centre of the herbarium, its branches spread out to shield the shoots from the glare of the sun. The old man was talking to himself, as he often did, about the blood-soaked battlefield at Senlac. In his glory days Regnaut had been a house-carl in the retinue of Harold Godwinson. He had been present that far-off sombre October day, when the arrows fell like hail and the Saxon shield wall buckled and broke. Godwinson had staggered back with an arrow in his face and the Conqueror had broken through with mace, sword and axe, shattering bone and brain in showers of blood. A day when dreams had died and new ones were born. That was a lifetime away. Regnaut, after the battle, had become a lay-brother to house his soul and shrive his sins. Now he sat snug, fitfully dreaming amidst the summer flowers, lulled to sleep by the psalms of chanting monks. He’d wake soon enough to smack his lips at the prospect of mead-cup or a flagon of frothy ale. Poor Regnaut! On that day, the Feast of Mary Magdalene, Father Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, ‘Legatus a latere’ of his Holiness in Rome, pointed at the snoring lay-brother.

“A generation gone,” he murmured, “all gone to God. Godwin’s flaxen-haired, warrior son, Harold; William the bastard. And yet. . .” Anselm paused, bony fingers grasping his stomach.

I gazed helplessly back. Father Anselm is truly dying; he is weakened by some malady within, a malignancy of the humours. Many years have passed. What? Some 74 since his birth at Val d’Aosta? In that time, like some fiery comet, Anselm has seared the skies of our souls. Anselm the theologian, the politician, the mystic, the contemplative, the recluse, the monk, the archbishop, the defender of the Church, the scourge of kings and, for me, close friend, spiritual father – and I to him? Eadmer, his faithful secretary. Father Anselm has aged. This certainly shows in his narrowed face beneath matted, white hair yet he remains luminous-eyed and merry-mouthed, still deeply involved in problems of logic, philosophy and theology, those great loves which absorb his keen intellect. He continues to wrestle with such problems delineated in his ‘De Casu Diaboli’, trying to reconcile the mysteries of God’s full knowledge with man’s free will. On that particular day Father Anselm had decided to resolve another problem, one from our past. He leaned on my arm and pointed his walking stick towards the flowering arbour at the end of the herbarium walk.

“Let’s go there,” he murmured, “so we won’t disturb Brother Regnaut. I feel tired, Eadmer, tired by my journeys, my fighting, my thinking.” He stared up at the sky. “Soon,” he added as we edged along the path, “I will be summoned to attend the Easter Court of the Lord Jesus and yet,” he sighed as he sat down in the arbour, “one doom, one death –”, he paused to cough, “– still weighs heavily on me.” He continued as if talking to himself. “Soon, in ten days, his anniversary occurs once again. I have already begun to chant the Requiem Masses.” Anselm sat, one vein-streaked hand half raised, staring intently towards the Abbey church.

“Requiem dona eis Domine . . .” he murmured. “Eternal rest grant to him O Lord and let perpetual light shine upon him . . .”

“Father, about whom are you talking?”

“Why, Brother, the King!” He laughed softly, “William the Red – Rufus.”

“The Red King!” I gasped. I recalled what I had written in my own History of Recent Events in England. About how we had both reacted to the news of the Red King’s sudden and brutal death in the New Forest on the sun-filled evening of 2nd August, the morrow of Lammas, in the year of Our Lord, 1100. At the time Father Anselm and I were sheltering in exile at Lyons after my master’s bitter quarrel with that same King.

“What did you write of the Red King’s death?” Anselm asked gently. “You know, in that passage where you describe the death of old Pope Urban and the accession of his successor, Paschal. Read it again for me, Eadmer.”

I picked up my leather chancery sack, opened it, and took out my own History of Recent Events in England. I leafed through the freshly-scrubbed, clearly-written pages until I found the passage Anselm had asked for.

“‘Meanwhile’,” I commenced reading, “‘a rumour spread through the various countries that Pope Urban had died. In fact, he’d died before he’d received a reply to Anselm’s case which he was expecting from the King of England. When the Pope’s death came to the ears of King William, he exclaimed: “The hatred of God rest upon whoever cares a rat for that!”’” I continued reading my finger following the words. ‘“The King went on to ask, “But the new Pope, what sort of man is he?” When he received the reply how, in some aspects, the new Pope was like Archbishop Anselm – ’” I glanced up. My master was nodding gently to himself. I returned to the manuscript “‘– the King replied, “By the Face of God, if he’s like that, he is no good, so let him keep strictly to himself, for the Pope shall not get the upper hand of me this time, to that I take my oath! I’ve gained my freedom and I shall do freely as I like.” William the Red King believed that not even the Pope of this whole world could have any jurisdiction in his Kingdom unless it was by his permission, but how he behaved after this is not the place to write of here, as I must hasten on to deal with other matters . . .’”

I paused as if listening to the buzz of the bees as they plundered the flowers.

“Continue,” Anselm whispered.

“‘But the King’,” I read, returning to the manuscript, “‘was not long allowed to enjoy the liberty of which he had boasted. Less than a year elapsed before he lost it altogether, being struck down by an unexpected and sudden death. On the second day of the following August, after having breakfast –’” I glanced up, “–I wrote that at the time, but I now realise I was wrong, William went hunting much later. Anyway,” I continued, “‘he rode out to the forest to hunt, and was there struck by an arrow which pierced his heart. Impenitent and unshriven, he died instantly and was immediately forsaken by everyone. Now, whether as some say, that arrow struck him in its flight or, as the majority declare, he stumbled and, so falling right upon it, met his death, is a question we do not think necessary to raise. It is sufficient to realise that, by the judgement of God, William, King of England was stricken down and slain.’”

“So pride comes before a fall.” Anselm rested his hands on his walking stick and stared at a small fountain carved in a shape of a sea monster which stood at the far end of the herbarium.

“Continue, Brother,” he urged, “read what you wrote when we received the news.”

I leafed over a page and found the place. I deliberately turned to a passage just before that and, although I heard Anselm tut-tut, I insisted on reading it.

“The King’,” I declared, “‘proceeded step-by-step so far in his evil ways as those who were present with him by day and by night bear witness. The Red King never got up in the morning, or went to bed at night, without seeming a worse man than when he last went to bed, or got up. So, since the King refused to be disciplined by ill fortune, or to be led to right doing by good fortune, but continued to brunt his raging fury to the detriment of all good men, the Just Judge, by a death sharp and swift, cut his life from this world.’”

“Very good, very good,” Anselm whispered, “but that passage, Eadmer, read it to me.”

“In the second year after he’d come from Rome to Lyons, which was the third year of our exile, Father Anselm was spending three days at the monastery of ‘La Chaise Dieu’. Two monks came to him, one from Canterbury, the other from Bee, bringing news of the death of King William, about whom I have already spoken. This news came as a great shock to Father Anselm. He was so overcome that he wept most bitterly. We were greatly surprised to see him so affected, but he, his voice broken – ’” I ignored the sob from beside me, “‘– declared the very truth from which no servant of God can rightly stray, that if it had been possible to choose, he would have much preferred that he himself had suffered this death rather than the King.’”

I closed the manuscript and stared down the sun-filled path. Anselm sat, head bowed, sobbing quietly to himself. I don’t know whether he was praying for himself or for the Red King but, now and again I caught the words “Miserere, have mercy”.

“Listen, Brother, and listen well.” Anselm lifted his head. “William the Red King was much despised by clerics and monks –” he paused, chewing his lower lip, “– but he was like any good tree in God’s orchard bearing all kinds of fruit, some rotten –”, he turned and stared at me, “– some ripe to fullness. Every man born of woman has to die: kings, princes, priests – we are no more than grass in the field, here today, gone tomorrow, yet we all live in God’s eyes.”

“So Father . . .?”

Anselm edged closer still, staring down at the fountain, “Was that particular tree,” he asked slowly, “cruelly hewed before its time?”

“Father,” I interrupted, “why now?”

“Silentium et Sapientia,” Anselm responded. “Silence and wisdom are close brothers. Over the years I have striven to be silent and wise yet I have reflected deeply. Accordingly I have, my dear Brother –”, he patted me on the arm, “– invited them all here. They’ll arrive soon.”

“Who, Father, who are you talking about?”

“Let me state my hypothesis,” Anselm replied. “Eight summers ago, in the year of Our Lord’s birth 1100, on Thursday, 2nd August, William the Red King, late in the evening, not in the morning as you’ve written, Eadmer, decided to go hunting in the New Forest – that vast tract of woodland covering almost an entire shire; a place of goblins and elves. The Forest, or so say the Chronicles, is a dark, green, velvet mantle which hides marshes, swamps and quagmires. According to local lore, the Hidden Ones, the People of the Night who held this Kingdom long before the Romans came, shelter there. It is the home and castle of the tusked boar and the sharp-antlered deer.” Anselm put his stick down and pressed his hands together. “Thickets so dense, brambles so sharp, you’d think the ancient gods had built it as a final fortress to protect themselves, and yet,” he added, “they also say – the chroniclers, the gossips of our time – that the New Forest was really the work of William the Bastard. He destroyed villages, hamlets, cottages and even churches, because the Conqueror and his sons loved the red deer more than any children.”

“Is that true, Father?”

“Perhaps.” Anselm turned, light blue eyes scrutinising me. His severe face was lined and grey, but those eyes, seemed like those of a young man questioning everything he saw.

“What are you implying, Father?”

“William the Red King, son of the great Conqueror and Queen Mathilda, was killed on that Lammas morrow.” He glanced away.

“An accident!” I retorted. “A mere accident! Walter Tirel, Lord of Poix, a visitor from Poitou in France, was hunting with the Red King when the sun was setting. Walter loosed a shaft and, by mere chance, hit the King. Tirel was a royal friend, a boon companion of the Prince he accidentally killed.”

“Has Tirel said that?”

I went to answer but held my peace. My master enjoyed that unique skill, of posing a simple question which demands careful reflection before any reply. Eleven years earlier, when Anselm and William the Red King had quarrelled over the power of the Pope to appoint bishops, as well as Anselm’s rights as Archbishop of Canterbury, matters came to an abrupt head. My master was visited by a delegation of royal emissaries led by Robert Beaumont, Count of Meulan. They approached my master to remonstrate with him over his obduracy towards the King. He responded with one simple question – how did his loyalty to the Bishop of Rome conflict with his loyalty to the King?

If they’d replied it did, they would have to prove it, whilst Anselm in his defence, would have merely quoted Scripture and the canons of the church with which they could not disagree. On the other hand, if they’d said his loyalties didn’t conflict, Anselm would have merely asked why then were they bothering him? They couldn’t answer his question then and, 11 years later, still could not muster a suitable reply. It was the same in that herb garden with the grey paving stones baking under the sun, the bees hunting lazily amongst the flowers, above which white-winged butterflies floated like the souls of little children.

“And Tirel?” he insisted.

“Father,” I replied, “you know Sir Walter. He has dined with you. . .”

“Has he ever said,” Anselm persisted, “has he ever confessed to that accident?”

“It was God’s will,” he groaned in exasperation, “that the Red King be punished for his sins, his hideous crimes against Holy Mother Church.”

“So Brother,” Anselm teased, “God willed Rufus to commit such crimes with the full knowledge that he would punish him.”

I glared in mock anger at my master. He just laughed, a soft, merry sound like that of a boy at a funny . . .