The death of the red kin.., p.3
The Death of the Red King, page 3
II
Lauds
He drew me from the deadly pit.
(Psalm 39)
Around the time the Red King died so violently, the blood pouring out of a black wound in his chest, all forms of portents and omens were seen throughout the Kingdom: a sacred well in Berkshire bubbled blood; the weather grew foul; the moon turned to blood, and a comet appeared with straggling light as if it had sprouted a beard. According to the Chronicles: Satan stalked the land and appeared in woodlands and lonely wastes, warning both Saxon and Norman of the coming doom; how the Warrior of Hell had sprung into the world, spear poised, shield raised; how all the powers of hell had followed to plot the destruction of the Red King as it had been prophesied by Merlin the Warlock. I, Eadmer, read such omens, such accounts as I sat in that lonely chamber at St Augustine’s and studied what my master had collected from the different scriptoria, chanceries and libraries of monasteries, abbeys and cathedrals throughout the Kingdom. However, before I turn that dark corner let me say matters did not begin that way.
William Rufus was the younger son of little Mathilda of Boulogne, wife of the Bastard, the great Conqueror, William of Normandy. By primogeniture, neither the Crown nor the Duchy of Normandy belonged to Rufus. He had an elder brother, Richard, also killed whilst hunting in the New Forest, [a matter to which I will return later] as well as Robert Curthose or ‘Robert the Short’, the Crusader, amiable and reckless, who in the end lost everything, including his liberty. However, ‘In initio’ – in the beginning’ it was as follows: William the Bastard struck down Harold Godwinson at his God-given victory on Senlac Hill. For the next 21 years the Conqueror struggled to bring England under his sword whilst striving to fend off the hordes of two-legged wolves who fought to devour Normandy when his back was turned. Leading this pack was Philip I of France who had no love for the Bastard. In his latter years the Great Conqueror had aged. He had certainly changed from the athletic warrior. In appearance, the Conqueror was of medium height, of great muscular strength, his face had always been harsh but, by the year of his death, had turned sterner still. He had also grown a paunch as fat and heavy as a bulging wine-skin. Philip of France, stung by the Conqueror’s outstanding success, jibed that his opponent looked more like a woman in child-bearing than a soldier.
“By the Splendour and Resurrection of God,” the great Conqueror had retorted with one of his favourite oaths, “if that is the case, I’ll light a hundred thousand candles for my churching.”
In the war which followed, the Conqueror invaded the Vexin – that narrow strip of land which would have sped the Norman like a whirling shaft into the heart of Philip’s dominions and the city of Paris. During that fierce struggle, William burnt the city of Nantes, putting it to the torch, the fierce fire turning it into a living hell. William was parading through the smoke-charred ruins when his war-horse, stung by flying sparks, reared violently and the hard saddle-horn pierced the King’s huge belly like a dagger, inflicting a deadly wound. He was taken to Rouen. When the physicians were unable to staunch the wound or halt the putrefaction which followed, he was conveyed to the nearby monastic cell of St Gervaise. The Lord Jesus gave William the Bastard five weeks to prepare for his death, so he gathered his sons to divide his empire. His heirs arrived more concerned with their private interests than the common good, cunning messengers with twisted words had sown seeds of dispute in already fertile soil. William and Robert, the two eldest sons, were already enemies and had clashed in open warfare. William Rufus had supported his father when Robert, reckless and footloose, had rebelled against the crown. The Conqueror had no great love for Robert, albeit the apple of his mother’s eye, though in the end he left Normandy to Robert as a Dukedom fief. England was a different matter. To the dying King, England was a result of a conquest carried through by the murder of thousands of innocent people and every imaginable sin. The Bastard was unwilling to bequeath that Kingdom to anyone but God. However, he was finally persuaded to give it to Rufus, thinking that he would bring peace and glory to his new kingdom. To his youngest son Henry, the dying king left five thousand pounds in silver, though, according to the chroniclers, his father predicted that one day he would own everything. However, there again, that is the hidden talent of monastic writers, hindsight makes prophets of us all! In fairness, Henry also had seisin of his mother’s property in both Normandy and England. Once all this was completed, the Bastard immediately despatched Rufus to England bearing letters to Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury, ordering him to crown his son as quickly as possible. Wise advice! The wolves were already gathering, the kites and buzzards circling above the new King. William Rufus had not even left Normandy when messengers on the fleetest horses brought news of his father’s death. Rufus did not turn back but hurried on to England. He was spared the horror of his father’s burial at Caen when the already corpulent corpse, swollen by evil humours, was pushed into a sarcophagus too small for it. The cadaver burst like a rotten apple, fouled the air and drove mourners from the church. William the new King, more concerned with the living, reached England safely. First he rode, swift as an arrow, to Winchester to secure the treasury, seal it with his own insignia and swear its keepers to loyalty. Afterwards he hastened into London to bring the news of his father’s death to great Lanfranc who was almost shocked to his own death by the account of what had happened in Normandy.
On 26th September in the year of Our Lord, 1087, William the Red was crowned, christened and hallowed as King. The great men bowed before him and took the oath; all was completed and sanctified by Lanfranc. The crown-wearing confirmed William’s position, but what manner of man was the Red King? In appearance he was tough and pot-bellied with the muscular arms of an archer and the strong legs of a horse rider. He was broad-browed, with eyes of different colours, flecked with specks of light. His hair was yellow like wet corn, parted down the middle. He grew a moustache and beard, his jaw jutted out aggressively, his thick-set lips stumbled and stammered, but when he lost his temper, a frequent occurrence, he could shout and bawl a litany of curses as colourful as any uttered by his father. His most favourite oath was, “By the Holy face of Lucca”, although he often indulged in other blasphemies. Violent and swollen with anger, William Rufus could also be generous and jovial – especially with his soldiers. He was very vain, especially about his sense of dress. A chronicler tells a particular story illustrating this: once, when a chamberlain produced a new pair of boots for him, William enquired how much they had cost? “Three shillings!” the man replied. “You son of a whore! Since when does a king wear boots as cheap as that,” the Red King roared, “go and buy me some for a mark of silver.” When the chamberlain hurried off and returned with an even cheaper pair which he falsely claimed cost a mark, the King declared, “True, these are more fitting for a royal majesty!”
Such is the vanity of vanities of princes and yet, although he loved ostentation, jewellery and sumptuous feasts, the Red King’s greatest desire was the chase, so wolf-hunters and deer-men were constantly in his company. Of his courage or valour in war there can be no doubt. One example will suffice: in the year before he died, William was hunting in the New Forest just after the Whitsun celebrations, when a messenger arrived from Normandy bearing the news that Helias La Fleche, Count of Maine, had invaded William’s territories and was besieging Le Mans and how gallows had been set up to hang knights, sergeants and other servants of the King. William hastily broke the seal of the letter and read the details which simply confirmed what the messenger had said. Helias was besieging the King’s city of Le Mans, most of this had been put to the torch, with only the loyal garrison holding out in the central donjon. The King responded immediately. He had been sitting at a table enjoying a meal but sprang up, took his fleetest horse and galloped to the coast. Others followed, trying to persuade him to wait and summon an army. “Let’s find out. Who will follow me?” The King shouted back. “Do you think I won’t collect troops? If I know my men they’ll fly to me even across raging seas.” Despite the stormy weather and with only a few companions, the Red King reached the coast to find the wind contrary to a sailing and the sea very rough. He commandeered a ship and persuaded the reluctant captain to take them across, joking that he’d never heard of a king being lost at sea.
“Cast off sailor!” he shouted, “you’ll see the wind and sea will do all I want.” Guided through the storm by God, according to one Chronicle, the Red King safely reached the port of Touques where he was greeted by a crowd of curious locals. Seizing a local priest’s horse, William mounted, mustered troops and made his way to Le Mans, where he drove Helias out: an eloquent testament to the Red King’s personal courage.
Nevertheless, the King’s private life was scandalous, scarred by sins as red as blood and moral stains as dark as the blackest night. When the great Lanfranc was alive, the Archbishop acted as a rein on William’s natural passions, but once Lanfranc passed on to his immortal reward, the stallion ran free and loose. The Red King never had a lawful wife but enjoyed a host of concubines.
According to the Chronicles, as well as the evidence collected by my master, William gave himself up insatiably to obscene fornications and repeated adulteries. Stained with such sins, he set a damnable example of debauchery to his subjects. At the Red King’s court, young men grew their hair freshly combed like girls, and acted the part with roaming eyes and insidious gestures. They pranced about in girlish steps, their clothes luxurious, their shoes adorned with pointed and curled toes. Young courtiers aped women in the soft movements of their bodies and walked with mincing steps. The King brought in men who were weak, effeminate and violated the chastity of others. A band of transvestites, effeminates, and harlots of either sex transformed his court into a brothel of catamites rather than a place of majesty. Sodomy and adultery were rife. Improper fashions became common, with tight-fitting shirts and tunics, elegant robes and mantles boasting voluminous sleeves. In a word, men dressed like women. They wore their hair long at the back like whores, the centre parted, baring their foreheads like thieves, their abundant locks crimped and tendered, curled with tongs and caught up in a headband and covered with a cap. The weakness of the flesh was there for all to see. My master, Anselm – and I know this without consulting the Chronicles – bitterly opposed this. Before we went into exile, Anselm raised the vexed question of sodomy with the King in person. He demanded that both Crown and Church co-operate in convening a General Council to prevent the whole Kingdom from becoming no different from Sodom and Gomorrah. The King refused and this issue became another burning ember in the quarrel between Father Anselm and the Red King. My Master eventually retaliated. In his Lenten homilies for that year, he inveighed vehemently against such perverse practices. He refused to distribute the ashes on Ash Wednesday, or the Eucharist, to any courtier who persisted in their lewdness.
Beside his concupiscence, William was also greedy for wealth. When bishoprics, abbacies and other ecclesiastical offices fell vacant, the Red King refused to appoint or confirm a successor but delayed for as long as he could, so that the revenues of the Holy Mother Church were immediately diverted to his own bulging treasuries. When he did appoint, William chose from those beloved amongst his minions. The leader of his coven, a veritable imp of Satan, was Ranulf Flambard who advised the Red King on all his wicked policies, especially the ravishing of church revenues. Flambard was directly responsible for the Archbishopric of Canterbury being left vacant so the King could plunder its revenues for four barren years before God and his Saints intervened.
The Red King fell grievously sick at Gloucester in the year of Our Lord 1093 and vowed to reform if he were cured. God be praised he was and, in fulfilment of this pledge, Anselm was appointed as the Archbishop of Canterbury. However, once he’d recovered his health, the King returned to his wickedness as a dog to his vomit! He threw off the blessed Anselm’s counsels as one would a cloak and returned to his lecherous ways. Flambard encouraged him in such mischief. This minion of Satan was the son of Thurston, a village priest in the Norman diocese of Bayeux. In appearance Flambard was of medium height, short-headed with a powerful protuberant jaw, a sloping forehead and beetling brows over eyes which smouldered with all the fires of villainy. Ranulf had swiftly climbed the tree of preferment through artful flattery. He stoked the King’s vanity with the tinder of avarice and the torch of iniquity. He was bold, forthright and of ready wit. He was well named Flambard, a veritable fire, a tongue of flame shot out from the very blackness of hell. He was an invincible pleader in the courts. Extravagant in words and deeds, Flambard would defend the King’s rights as if defending a castle against avowed traitors. Flambard purchased ecclesiastical offices, including the Bishopric of Durham for £1000. He was hardly fitted for such high office, being a pastor more interested in the fleece than looking after the flock. He had a mistress, Aelfgifu of Huntingdon by whom he had a number of children. He later married her off to a burgess of that town, although Ranulf continued to lodge with her in his journeys up and down the kingdom. He loved nothing better than to tease men of God. On one occasion as Bishop of Durham, Ranulf forced the monks to eat with him in the Hall, where he not only provided the monks with meat, which was forbidden on fast days, but ordered it to be served by maids dressed unbecomingly in tight short clothes, their hair hanging free down their backs.
Many men hated Flambard, but his courage withstood them and pleased his master. In the year of Our Lord 1091 Ranulf was proclaimed King’s Chaplain and exercised regal authority during the Red King’s absence from the realm. In that very year, one of Ranulf’s vassals named Gerard, a member of his household who was as much dedicated to food, drink and lechery as his master, was suborned by Ranulf’s enemies in a plot to kidnap and kill the royal favourite. Disembarking from a small boat at the palace quayside near Westminster, Flambard met Gerard. He claimed to have been sent by Maurice, Bishop of London, who allegedly lay at death’s door in his manor at Stepney and wanted Ranulf to visit him. Not suspecting any evil, Ranulf boarded a boat with his notary and a few other servants. However, he became suspicious when Gerard steered down mid-river straight for the sea, where they reached a cog full of armed men waiting for their arrival. Ranulf, realising he was about to be kidnapped, threw his chancery ring overboard, his notary followed suit. He cast away the royal seals to prevent their use by the conspirators who could have been used them to approve writs and so release treasure. Ranulf and his companions were bundled aboard, imprisoned in the prow while his captors debated how to kill them.
Two sailors were chosen by lot to do the deed either by casting Ranulf overboard or dashing his brains out, in return they would have all his fine clothes. However the two sailors quarrelled over who should have Flambard’s mantle and this delayed matters until nightfall when a violent storm blew in from the south and the ship, much damaged, was driven back up the Thames. The crew now believed that they were stricken by God’s anger and the second-in-command offered Ranulf his support. He, in turn, called upon his traitorous vassal Gerard to observe his former loyalty and promised him lavish rewards if he spared his life. In the end the captain of the ship intervened. Terrified by Flambard’s authority and seduced by his promises, he agreed to liberate his captives. The ship returned to London, docking in the Thames. The captain even entertained Flambard at his house before realising the full danger of what he’d done and, collecting his possessions, fled abroad. Ranulf immediately left the house and called out the City Watch to defend him. When the Red King heard all this, he was delighted. Impressed by Ranulf’s courage, he became more devoted than ever to promoting him.
Another fiend of hell was Gerard, Royal Clerk, first made Bishop of Hereford, then Archbishop of York. Nothing proves William’s determination to reward members of his coven than Gerard’s personality. He was a man least suited to high office and certainly not dedicated to religion. Gerard the Clerk feared neither God nor man. He concentrated solely on one verse of scripture: “pay no heed for tomorrow”, for Gerard amassed wealth whenever he could. He had lived a depraved, debauched life ever since childhood. Once he was made Archbishop of York, he plotted to make his friends and servants communicants and servants of Satan. He ordered his chamberlain to bring him a pig and, when he did, the chamberlain was told to withdraw. He became suspicious, so he hid and spied on the Archbishop. He could scarcely believe what he saw and heard. Gerard talked to an invisible demon uttering unspeakable words, then saw him, on the demon’s instruction, carry the pig out to the palace lavatories and worship it. The chamberlain fled, but when recalled, Gerard ordered him to invite a large number of guests to a feast and from that pig make sufficient starters for the whole company so that everyone would partake of it. However, the chamberlain, now terrified, killed the pig, buried it in the palace grounds and prepared another for the banquet. The invisible demon informed Gerard and the chamberlain fled, beating off the swordsmen who were sent to arrest him. Gerard’s brother Peter was even worse. A royal chaplain, Peter openly confessed to being impregnated by a man and died of a monstrous growth. So evil was his reputation, he was buried outside the cemetery like a donkey, unworthy of consecrated ground.
The Red King’s relationship with his own two brothers, Robert and Henry, was equally dark and contemptuous. Both rebelled against him and both were crushed. Robert the elder was nicknamed Curthose because of his short stature. In manner he was mild and as changeable as a feather in the wind. Some chroniclers claim that the Red King and his brother Robert made a treaty in the year 1093 by which the Red King named his elder brother as his heir to England, but others dismiss this as mere fable. Robert was taken up with a passion for the Crusade preached by Pope Urban at Clermont, so in 1096 he mortgaged Normandy to William for five years in return for 10,000 marks which he used to travel to Outremer. Many men thought Robert would not return. However in 1099, Robert, for the first time in his life, surprised both his own household and family. He left the Holy Land and made his way slowly back to reclaim his inheritance. On the journey home he married Princess Sybil, daughter of the Count of Conversano and through her acquired a dowry, sufficient gold and silver, to buy his duchy back. Nevertheless, despite his service on behalf of the Cross, Robert seemed more desirous to go to bed than to war, so men held their breath and wondered what would truly happen. Prince Henry meanwhile, chastened by his earlier defeats, stayed close to his brother the King as he was a landowner possessing manors in Normandy and England. At the time Henry was 32 years of age and could only wait and see what God would provide.
