Appendix (part 2)

He speaks of him again in the letter “de Contemptu Mundi” (p. 299), where he gives a glowing description of the splendour of his court, and speaks of him as “ipse quasi pater et deus omnium æstimatus,” and as “justitiarius totius Angliæ et ab omnibus summe formidatus.” He then goes on to quote him as an example, like so many others, of the uncertainty of earthly prosperity. He tells how he was troubled before his death by law-suits brought by some inferior justiciar, and then records his death at Woodstock. He adds, “Fuit autem Robertus præsul mitis et humilis, multos erigens, nullum deprimens, pater orphanorum, deliciæ suorum.” Further on (p. 305) we learn that Robert Bloet had a son named Simon, who was born before he was Bishop, but whom he made Dean of Lincoln while he was very young. Simon’s prosperity and unhappy end are also among the instances which are to lead to “contemptus mundi.” He is thus brought in;

“Decanum nostrum Simonem non prætereo, qui filius Roberti præsulis nostri fuit; quem genuerat dum cancellarius Willelmi magni regis esset. Qui, ut decebat, regaliter nutritus, et adhuc impubis decanus noster effectus, in summam regis amicitiam et curiales dignitates mox provectus est.”

We may be sure that it was the existence of this son which caused Bishop Robert to be reproached with looseness of life. Yet Simon may very likely have been born in lawful wedlock, though it is hardly safe to assume with Mr. Dimock that he certainly was. But, when Robert had once become an object of monastic dislike, stories grew as usual; it was found out that his tomb in Lincoln minster was haunted. So says the so-called Bromton (X Scriptt. 988), who is copied by Knighton (2364);

“Episcopatum Lincolniensem, per mortem sancti Remigii vacantem, Roberto cognomento Bloet cancellario suo, viro quidem libidinoso, dedit, qui prædictam ecclesiæ dedicationem Lincolniensis postea segniter explevit. Hic demum apud Wodestoke a latere regis recedens obiit et exenteratus est, cujus viscera apud monasterium de Eynesham quod ipse fundaverit, cetera apud Lincolniam sunt humata, ubi satis constabat loci custodes nocturnis umbris esse agitatos, quousque ille locus missis et eleemosynis piaretur.”

The reputation which Bishop Robert left behind him at Lincoln we learn from Giraldus and John of Schalby in the seventh volume of Dimock’s Giraldus. Giraldus himself (p. 31) brings him in as “prudentia et probitate conspicuus.” He records his gifts to his church, and his doubling the number of its prebends. From a Lincoln point of view, he highly approves of the translation of the monks of Stow to Eynsham; but he seems not to like the separation of Ely from the diocese of Lincoln (see N. C. vol. v. p. 229), and he speaks of Robert’s “inconsiderata largitio” and “alia sui deliramenta” in charging his see with the gift of a mantle of sable, worth a hundred pounds, to the King. John of Schalby (195) copies Giraldus, but abridges him, and leaves out some of his epithets both of praise and blame.

The death of Bishop Robert in 1123 is recorded by several of our writers, but there is no account so graphic as that in our own tongue. The King is riding in his deerfold at Woodstock with the two bishops, Robert of Lincoln and Roger of Salisbury, on either side of him. The three ride and talk. The Bishop of Lincoln suddenly sinks, and says to the King, “Lord King, I die (Laferd kyng, ic swelte).” The King gets down from his horse, lifts him in his arms, and has him carried into the house, where he soon dies (“Se king alihte dune of his hors, and alehte hine betweox his earmes, and let hine beran ham to his inne, and wearð þa sone dead”). Does this “inne” mean the King’s own house at Woodstock, or any separate quarters of the Bishop, like the “hospitium” of Anselm at Gloucester and elsewhere?

There is something odd in the Bishop’s last words being given in English. The King knew that tongue, and the Bishop may very likely have done so; but we can hardly fancy that they spoke it to one another.

The name “Bloet,” according to M. de Rémusat (Anselme, 160), is the same as “blond.”

NOTE AA. Vol. i. p. 553.

The Mission of Abbot Geronto.

I am not aware that this mission of the Abbot of Dijon has hitherto found any place in any narrative history of the times of William Rufus. And I confess that it is not without a certain misgiving that I bring it in. It is certainly remarkable that our own writers should with one consent pass by an event of this kind; but it would be yet more amazing if it were sheer mistake or invention on the part of the foreign writer who records it. It is one of those cases in which, without any actual contradiction, it is very hard to bring a certain statement into its right place. There is nothing in the story told by Hugh of Flavigny which is really inconsistent with the narrative of Eadmer; our only difficulty is how it came that, if these things happened, Eadmer, who could not fail to have known of them, did not think them worthy of any place in his very minute narrative. This difficulty we must get over how we can. Otherwise the evidence of Hugh of Flavigny is in a certain sense as good as that of Eadmer himself. He stood to Abbot Geronto in much the same relation in which Eadmer stood to Anselm. In his narrative, Geronto is sent by the Pope on a mission to Normandy and England, and Hugh himself, a monk of Geronto’s monastery, comes with him. For the mere facts therefore of Geronto’s mission Hugh is as good a witness as Eadmer; but, as a foreigner on a short visit, he could not be expected to have the same thorough knowledge of English affairs as Eadmer, or any other English, or even Norman, writer. There is to us at least something very strange in his tone towards Anselm, or rather in the lack of any mention of Anselm at all. He never speaks of him by name, and the only fact which he records of him is the very strange one which I have mentioned in p. 535, that at some time, seemingly at the reception of the pallium, Anselm took an oath to the Pope, with a reservation of his duty to the King. One hardly sees how far he means to blame Anselm. The person chiefly blamed is Cardinal Walter; Anselm comes in, in a strange casual way, between the King and the Cardinal.

I have given the whole or nearly the whole of Hugh’s story in the foot-notes to those parts of the text which are founded upon his account. He goes on a little later in his story (Pertz, viii. 495, 496) to record the death of William Rufus, and to say something more about English affairs in general. It is plain that his friends in England found him perfectly ready to believe the wildest tales that they chose to tell him. At the same time, the tales that they did tell him are such as could hardly have come into any man’s head to tell, except in the reign of William Rufus. It is Hugh of Flavigny who tells us those specially amazing stories to which I have referred in vol. i. p. 544 and p. 503. He has also (496) some odd notices of the dogs of the city of London, which were small, but very fierce, and which gathered together by night in front of Saint Paul’s church, so that no one could dare to pass by. He has also a good deal to say about those natural phænomena of the reign of which we have heard a good deal from other writers. He tells the story of the storm which visited the church of Saint Mary-le-bow, with some further embellishment, that “quadros super muri altitudinem sitos, supra quos tectum stabilitum erat, usque ad septem milliaria evolare fecit.” And while two servants of the church were sleeping in one bed, a beam was driven down between them into the earth without doing them any harm, except nearly frightening them to death; “In eadem etiam ecclesia jacebat quidem ædituus cum alio quodam in lecto uno, et inter medium eorum, cum jacerent distante inter se spacio, una trabium vento acta per medium lecti terram intravit, ut vix summitas ejus appareret, nec læsit jacentes, nisi quod timore pene exanimati sunt.”

Hugh’s Chronicle, in two books, reaches from the Christian æra to the year 1102. He was born at Verdun in 1065. He was a monk, first at Verdun, then at Flavigny in the diocese of Toul, then at Dijon, and lastly Abbot of Flavigny. Jarento or Geronto—​I hardly know how to spell his name—​was in the close confidence of Gregory the Seventh and his successors. There is a letter of Anselm’s (iii. 87) addressed to Geronto; but it contains nothing bearing on his mission to England. It is all concerned with the affairs of certain monks at Dijon and Chartres.

NOTE BB. Vol. ii. p. 9.

The Embassies between William Rufus and Malcolm in 1093.

The fullest and clearest narrative of the transactions between William Rufus and Malcolm which led to their rupture at Gloucester in 1093 comes from the Chronicle, while some particular points are given at greater length by Florence. In the Chronicle the story runs thus;

“Ða æfter þisson sende [se] cyng of Scotlande and þære forewarde gyrnde þe him behaten wæs, and se cing W. him steofnode to Gloweceastre and him to Scotlande gislas sende, and Eadgar æþeling æfter, and þa men syððan ongean, þe hine mid mycclon wurðscipe to þam cynge brohtan. As þa þa he to þam cynge com, ne mihte he beon weorðe naðer ne ure cynges spæce ne þæra forewarde þe him ær behatene wæron, and forði hi þa mid mycclon unsehte tohwurfon.”

Here we have very clearly an embassy of complaint sent by Malcolm to William—​an invitation or summons, whichever it is to be called, to the Gemót at Gloucester sent by William to Malcolm and accompanied by hostages for his safety—​a second embassy from William to Malcolm, with Eadgar at its head, in whose company Malcolm’s ambassadors went back to Scotland and Malcolm himself came to England. All this is cut short by Florence, who however distinctly affirms the going to and fro of some embassies, while it is from him that we get the date and a fuller account of what happened at Gloucester. His narrative stands thus;

“Rex Scottorum Malcolmus, die festivitatis S. Bartholomæi Apostoli [24 Aug.], regi Willelmo juniori, ut prius per legatos inter eos statutum fuerat, in civitate Glaworna occurrit, ut, sicut quidam primatum Angliæ voluerunt, pace redintegrata, stabilis inter eos amicitia firmaretur; sed impacati ab invicem discesserunt; nam Malcolmum videre aut cum eo colloqui, præ nimia superbia et potentia, Willelmum despexit.”

Colloqui is the technical word which we so often come across. The meeting of the two kings would have been a colloquium or parliament. It is from Florence again that we get all the technical law. His account goes on thus;

“Insuper etiam illum [Malcolmum] ut secundum judicium tantum suorum [Willelmi] baronum, in curia sua rectitudinem ei faceret, constringere voluit; sed id agere, nisi in regnorum suorum confiniis, ubi reges Scottorum erant soliti rectitudinem facere regibus Anglorum, et secundum judicium primatum utriusque regni, nullo modo Malcolmus voluit.”

William of Malmesbury (iv. 311) loses the fact of the embassies and the summons in a cloud of words;

“Multis controversiis utrobique habitis, et fluctuante propter utrorumque animositatem justitia, Malcolmus ultro Gloecestram venit, æquis duntaxat conditionibus, multus pro pace precator.”

With regard to more modern discussions, I do not know that I can do more than give the reader the same references which I gave in N. C. vol. v. p. 120. But Mr. Robertson (i. 144 note) certainly has reason when he says that “it does not follow that Malcolm spoke feudal Latin because Florence wrote it.” One would be glad to have the actual words in French, English, or, more precious than all, Irish. (This sets one thinking what languages Malcolm may have spoken. We know that he understood English, whether he learned it at the court of Eadward, or afterwards from his wife. In one or other of those schools he would most likely also pick up French. Margaret herself may also have learned High Dutch, and possibly Magyar, from her parents.) But I can make nothing of Mr. Robertson’s strange comment that “it is singular to mark how nearly all the English authorities accuse Malcolm of ‘a breach of faith’ because he resented the conduct of William, whilst they pass over without notice the glaring ‘breach of faith’ on the part of their own king.” Who charges Malcolm with any breach of faith, except William of Malmesbury in the almost casual passage, iii. 250? And what more could he wish the Chronicler and Florence to say against William Rufus than what they do say? Mr. Robertson’s criticism is more to the purpose when he attacks the words of William of Malmesbury, iv. 311; “Nec quicquam obtinuit, nisi ut in regnum indemnis rediret, dedignante rege dolo capere quem virtute subegisset.” He remarks that “the safe-conduct and the hostages detract something from this much vaunted magnanimity, but Malmesbury would sacrifice a good deal for the sake of a well-turned period.” It is certainly hard to see what William had done to Malcolm which could be called “virtute subegisse;” but Mr. Robertson fails to notice that this particular scruple is characteristic of William Rufus. Careless of his faith in so many other cases, he is always careful to observe a safe-conduct.

NOTE CC. Vol. ii. p. 16.

The Death of Malcolm.

The last invasion of England by Malcolm was clearly made in reprisal for the treatment which he had received at Gloucester. The words of the Peterborough Chronicler are very remarkable. They seem to describe a war which is acknowledged to be just in itself, but which is carried on with needless cruelty;

“And se cyng Melcolm ham to Scotlande gewænde. Ac hraðe þaes þe he ham com he his fyrde gegaderode.”

Most of the other writers fail to bring out the connexion both of time and of cause and effect between the scene at Gloucester and the invasion which led to Malcolm’s death at Alnwick. Perhaps we may count Matthew Paris, the zealous panegyrist of Malcolm, as an exception. He has nothing to tell us about Malcolm’s coming to Gloucester; but, having mentioned William’s sickness there, which he wrongly places in 1092, he goes on (i. 43);

“Eodem anno pius rex Scotorum Malcolmus, cujus actus in benedictione vivunt immortales, cum non immerito contra tirannum Willelmum II. regem sibi injuriantem guerram movisset, interceptus est subito et, positis insidiis, interemptus.”

So in a later passage (i. 47) he speaks of Robert of Mowbray overcoming Malcolm “proditiose.” Moreover several even of the English writers seem to imply that there was something treacherous about the way in which Malcolm met his death. The words of the Chronicler are, “hine þa Rodbeard se eorl of Norðhymbran mid his mannan unwæres besyrede and ofsloh.” And directly after he describes the grief of Margaret on hearing “hyre þa leofstan hlaford and sunu þus beswikene.” William of Malmesbury mentions the death of Malcolm twice, and in rather different tones. The first time (iii. 250) he seems to jumble up together Malcolm’s two invasions, leaving out all about the meeting at Gloucester. He had said that through the whole reign of the Conqueror Malcolm “incertis et sæpe fractis fœderibus ævum egit,” and adds;

“Filio Willelmi Willelmo regnante, simili modo impetitus, falso sacramento insequentem abegit. Nec multo post, dum fidei immemor superbius provinciam inequitaret, a Roberto de Molbreia comite Northanhimbriæ, cum filio cæsus est.”

In the second place (iv. 311), after describing the meeting at Gloucester, he adds; “Idem proxima hyeme, ab hominibus Roberti comitis Humbrensium, magis fraude quam viribus occubuit.” No one would think from this that Malcolm had gone back to Scotland, got together his army, and invaded Northumberland. It would rather suggest the idea that he was attacked on his way back from Gloucester. And this comes out more strongly in the very confused account of Orderic, 701 C. He mixes up the events of 1091 and 1093. After the first conference by the Scots’ water, the two kings go quietly together into England; then we read;

“Post aliquod tempus, dum Melcoma rex ad sua vellet remeare, muneribusque multis honoratus a rege rediret pacifice, prope fines suos Rodbertus de Molbraio, cum Morello nepote suo et militibus armatis occurrit, et ex insperato inermem interfecit. Quod audiens rex Anglorum, regnique optimates, valde contristati sunt, et pro tam fœda re, tamque crudeli, a Normannis commissa, nimis erubuerunt. Priscum facinus a modernis iteratum est. Nam sicut Abner, filius Ner, a Joab et Abisai, de domo David pacifice rediens, dolose peremptus est, sic Melcoma rex, de curia Guillelmi regis cum pace remeans, a Molbraianis trucidatus est.”

This is one of those sayings of Orderic by which we are now and then fairly puzzled. He gets hold of a scriptural or classical parallel, and seems to be altogether carried away by it. It is hard to see the likeness between the cases of Malcolm and Abner; but it is harder to see why the deed is in a marked way attributed to “Normanni,” who seem to be distinguished from the “rex Anglorum regnique optimates.” In what sense were Morel and Robert of Mowbray Norman, in which the King and the great mass of the “optimates” were not Norman just as much?

Confused as these two last accounts are, they still suggest that there was something about the way in which Robert and Morel contrived the death of Malcolm which William Rufus would have looked on as not quite consistent with the character of a “probus miles.” The one word “beswikene” in the Chronicle doubtless goes for more than any amount of Latin rhetoric, though its force is a little weakened by its not occurring in the actual narrative of Malcolm’s death, but in the account of Margaret’s grief at hearing of it, at which point most of our writers put on more or less of the tone of hagiology. But the only writer who gives us any details is Fordun (v. 20), in a passage which professes to come from Turgot, on which see the remarks of Mr. Hinde in his Simeon, p. 261. In his story we read how Malcolm,

“Cum maximam prædam ex Anglia, more solito, ultra flumen These, de Clefeland, Richemond, et alibi sæpius adduceret, castrumque de Aylnwick, sive Murealden, quod idem est, obsideret, obsessosque sibi rebellantes oppido affligeret, hi, qui inclusi fuerant, ab omni humano excludebantur auxilio.”

The besieged, having no other chance, take to treachery. One man offers himself to go on the desperate venture; he makes his way to the Scottish camp, and asks for the King;

“Quærentibus causam inquisitionis dixit, se castrum regi traditurum, et in argumentum fidei claves ejusdem in hasta sua coram omnibus portavit oblaturus. Quo audito rex, doli nescius, incaute a tentorio inermis exiliens et minus provide, occurrit proditori; at ille, quæsita opportunitate, inermem regem armatus transfixit, et, latibula silvæ vicinæ festinanter ingressus, eorum manus evasit.”

Then follows the death of the King’s son Eadward;

“Turbato igitur exercitu, dolor dolorem accumulat: nam Eadwardus regis primogenitus a Northumbris lethaliter vulneratur.”

He dies three days later “apud Eardwardisle foresta de Jedwood,” and was buried at Dunfermline “juxta patrem.”

It is really impossible that this can be a genuine bit of Turgot. There is nothing anywhere else about a siege of Alnwick, and Mr. Hinde pertinently raises the question whether there was anything at Alnwick to besiege. At any rate, it is strange that the defenders of Alnwick, or anybody else whom Malcolm might come across in Northumberland, should be called “rebellantes” against him. There is a very mythical sound about the alleged form of Malcolm’s death. In the Tapestry (see N. C. vol. iii. p. 240) keys are handed to a victorious besieger on the point of a spear; but it is from the walls of the besieged place, and they are received in the like sort. They surely would not be presented in this way in the King’s own camp. And, if Malcolm was killed in this way, how came Eadward to be mortally wounded? Mr. Hinde adds;

“The ridiculous tale of the person who pierced the king’s eye, receiving from that exploit the designation of ‘Piercy, quod Anglice sonat perforare oculum,’ is interpolated in some MSS. of Fordun. This story must necessarily have been invented after the Percy family became the possessors of Alnwick, and so gave point, if not probability, to the fiction.”

I suspect that Malcolm was killed in some ambush or in some other way unlike open battle. Then sympathy for Margaret called up—​except at Durham and other parts more nearly concerned—​sympathy for Malcolm. Then the Chronicler, in this state of mind, used the harsh word “beswikene,” and so a tale of actual treachery grew up. The version in Fordun gives us the story in the form of a detailed legend; in Orderic the tale itself is still vague; but the events which went before are so altered as to make any attack on Malcolm treacherous. In that version, he is going home from the King’s court in the King’s peace. In the true version, he is invading England, perhaps on just grounds in his own eyes, certainly on grounds which made his invasion by no means wonderful. Still resistance to him was a rightful operation of war, unless there was any actual treachery in the form which the attack took. That such there was we have no direct evidence; but there must have been something or other to account for the tone of so many writers. Florence is colourless; so is Henry of Huntingdon.

The Hyde writer, as usual, takes a line of his own. He speaks (301) of “quidam Robertus Northamhumbrorum comes, vir dives et potens, qui regem Scotorum Malcolmum, patrem Matildis reginæ, bellando cum toto pene exercitu interfecit.” It is not unlikely that the fact that Malcolm was not only the husband of the sainted Margaret, but also the father of the popular Queen Eadgyth-Matilda, won for him a measure of sympathy after his death which he had not enjoyed while he was alive. Indeed we get this relation distinctly set forth by the Continuator of William of Jumièges (viii. 8), who after recording the life-long imprisonment of Robert of Mowbray, adds, “Dictum est a pluribus, hanc talionem sibi redditam fuisse, quia regem Scotiæ, patrem videlicet nobilissimæ Mathildis postea reginæ Anglorum, dolose peremerat.”

Alnwick, as the place of Malcolm’s death, and of the capture of another Scottish king in the next century, awakens a certain amount of real interest beyond the range of mere legend and misapplied sentiment. The late Mr. Hartshorne wrote with a strange feeling of devotion towards anything that did profess and call itself Percy; but he gives us the facts. All that need be known about Alnwick will be found in his papers in the Archæological Institute’s second Newcastle volume, p. 143. Robert of Veci appears in Domesday in several shires as far north as Lincoln, but of course we cannot track him in the unsurveyed parts of Northumberland. Of the original Percy we have heard something in various parts in N. C. vol. iv. pp. 215, 295, 789; vol. v. p. 773. The second set of Percies, those of Louvain, got to Alnwick by a grant from Bishop Antony Beck in 1309 (Hartshorne, ii. 150, 152). Very little can be made of the Alnwick Chronicle printed in Mr. Hartshorne’s Appendix. What can we say to a “William Tisonne” who dies on the English side at Senlac, and who is the brother of Richard Tisone who founds chapels in the year 1000, as his father “Gisbright” founded abbeys before him? In this story the first Norman lord of Alnwick is Ivo of Veci, who is described as “miles de secretariis,” whatever that may mean, to the Conqueror, and he gets Alnwick along with the daughter of the slain William Tisonne. Alnwick may quite possibly have passed to a Norman lord by marriage with an English heiress, but assuredly her father was not called William and did not bear an hereditary surname, and it is much to his credit if, in the teeth of his Earl, he found his way to the great battle from a point so far north as Alnwick.

NOTE DD. Vol. ii. p. 28.

The Burial of Margaret.

I do not wish to commit myself to any view as to the authorship of the writings attributed to Turgot. It is sometimes, as I have more than once remarked, hard to believe that the passages which are worked into the text of Fordun, and which are printed at the end of the Surtees Simeon as Turgot’s writing, can really come from a contemporary writer. Still, whether Turgot’s or not, they contain fragments of real information for which, in the great meagreness of our notices of Scottish matters, we may well be thankful. In this case, it is from one of these passages that we learn for certain, what we might for ourselves have been inclined to guess, that Margaret, so deeply reverenced in England then and in Scotland in later times, was not popular in Scotland in her own day. Of her death, as we have seen, we have several accounts, the fullest and most trustworthy being in her own Life by Turgot. Again, we have several notices, though somewhat meagre ones, of the national Scottish movement which placed Donald on the throne. But it is only from one of these other bits of Turgot (if it be Turgot) that we could find out that the two things had anything to do with one another, and that the first thing which the national party did was to attempt to disturb the burial of the holy Queen. There is nothing of this in the Life, a fact which may possibly mark the difference between Turgot writing hagiography, though I believe truthful hagiography, and the same Turgot writing ordinary history. In the former character, he does not invent or pervert; he simply leaves out an unpleasant fact which in the other and humbler character he records.

The account of Margaret’s burial in the Life (Surtees Simeon, p. 254) stands thus;

“Corpus ipsius honorabiliter, ut reginam decebat, involutum, ad Sanctæ Trinitatis, quam ipsa construxerat, ecclesiam deportavimus, ibique, sicut ipsa jusserat, contra altare et sanctæ crucis (quod ibidem erexerat) venerabile signum, sepulturæ tradidimus.”

These words cannot come directly from Turgot himself, who was not there, but from the priest (see p. 27) who told him the story. Again, Turgot’s readers would most likely understand that by the church of the Holy Trinity was meant the church of Dunfermline. Otherwise one might easily read the passage as implying that Margaret was buried in the same place in which she died, though no name is given for either. It is from the other account (Fordun, v. 21) that we learn that the death happened at Edinburgh and the burial at Dunfermline. Here we get a picture of Donald at the head of the insurgents or patriots, or whatever we are to call them, entering Edinburgh by one gate, while the body of Margaret is carried out by the other. The story runs thus;

“Cum adhuc corpus sanctæ reginæ esset in castro [puellarum] ubi illius felix anima ad Christum quem semper dilexerat migravit, Donaldus Rufus vel Bane, frater regis, ejus audita morte, regnum multorum manu vallatus invasit, et prædictum castrum, ubi regis justos et legales sciebat heredes, hostiliter obsedit. Sed quia locus ille natura sui in se valde munitus est, portas solummodo credidit custodiendas, eo quod introitus aut exitus aliunde non de facili pateat. Quod intelligentes qui intus erant, docti a Deo, meritis, ut credimus, sanctæ reginæ, per posticum ex occidentali plaga sanctum corpus deferebant. Ferunt autem quidam, in toto itinere illo nebulam subnubilam omnem familiam illam circumdedisse, et ab omnibus aspectibus hostium miraculose protexisse, ut nec itinerantibus terra vel mari nihil obfuit, sed ad optatum prospere locum, ecclesiam scilicet de Dunfermlyn, ubi nunc in Christo requiescit, sicut ipsa prius jusserat, pervenientes deportarunt.”

In the story of the mist we may clearly see a natural phænomenon set down as a miracle (see Robertson, i. 156). But there seems no reason for doubting the general outline of the story, namely, that Margaret was unpopular with the party headed by Donald, and that they would have gladly disturbed her burial. By comparing this story with the Life we see how easy it is to leave out an important part of a tale without bringing in anything that contradicts it.

NOTE EE. Vol. ii. p. 31.

Eadgyth-Matilda.

That the daughter of Malcolm and Margaret who afterwards became the wife of Henry the First by the well-known name of Matilda was baptized by the name of Eadgyth, rests wholly on the authority of Orderic, who mentions it twice. After recording the death of Malcolm (702 A), he gives an account of his daughters;

“Duas filias, Edith et Mariam, Christianæ, sorori suæ, quæ Rumesiensis abbatiæ sanctimonialis erat, educandas, sacrisque litteris imbuendas miserat. Illic diutius inter monachas enutritæ sunt, et tam litteratoriam artem quam bonorum observantiam morum edidicerunt, nubilemque ætatem pertingentes, solatium Dei devotæ virgines præstolatæ sunt.”

And directly after he calls her “Mathildis quæ prius dicta est Edith.” It is a point on which Orderic was likely to be well informed, as he is always careful and scrupulous in matters of nomenclature, and often helps us to double names, as we have seen in the case of Mark Bohemond. And the name Eadgyth is much more in harmony than Matilda with the other names of Margaret’s children. Orderic however does not mention the implied change of name where one might have looked for it, namely where he records her marriage in 784 A. She is there only “generosa virgo nomine Mathildis;” but in recording her death (843 B), he again says “Mathildis regina, quæ in baptismate Edit dicta fuit.” M. Francisque Michel, in his note on Benoît, iii. 344, refers also to the Waverley Annals, 1086, for the earlier name; but there is nothing of the kind there. There is Eadward and Eadgar, but not Eadgyth. Is one English name held to be as good as another, even when a confusion of sex is involved?

In Eadmer, Hist. Nov. 56, where he describes the discussions which went on before the marriage of Henry the First, we get Eadgyth’s own story. She was brought up by her aunt Christina, of whom we have already heard (see N. C. vol. iv. p. 695, where I carelessly spoke of Christina as abbess), in the abbey of Wilton—​it should surely be Romsey. She was not a nun, nor designed to be one, but she was compelled by her aunt to wear the veil to shelter her from the violence of the Normans. Whenever her aunt’s back was turned, she tore it from her head, and trampled upon it, for which the stern nun gave her niece a good deal of blows and bad language;

“Cum adolescentula essem, et sub amitæ meæ Christianæ, quam tu [Anselmus sc.] bene nosti, virga paverem, illa servandi corporis mei causa contra furentem et cujusque pudori ea tempestate insidiantem Normannorum libidinem nigrum panniculum capiti meo superponere, et me illum abjicientem acris verberibus et nimis obscœnis verborum conviciis sæpe cruciare simul et dehonestare solebat. Quem pannum in ipsius quidem præsentia gemens ac tremebunda ferebam, sed mox ut me conspectui ejus subtrahere poteram, arreptum in humum jacere, pedibus proterere, et ita quo in odio fervebam, quamvis insipienter, consueveram desævire.”

Then her father comes, sees her with the veil, tears it from her head, and says that he does not mean her to be a nun, but to be the wife of Count Alan (“Pater meus cum me, quemadmodum dixi, velatam forte vidisset, furore succensus, injecta manu velum arripuit, et dissipans illud, odium Dei imprecatus est ei qui mihi illud imposuit, contestans se comiti Alano me potius in uxorem quam in contubernium sanctimonialium prædestinasse”).

Here we are not told how she came under her aunt’s care, nor what became of her after her father’s death. And there is something odd in the general reference to the “Normans,” unless it is meant as part of the outburst of special English feeling in the later months of the year 1100. Another version, instead of Normans in general, attributes the danger to a particular Norman whom we should hardly have looked for. This version is to be found in a most singular story, to which I have slightly referred in the text (see p. 32) and also in N. C. vol. v. p. 169, in the Narratio Restaurationis Abbatiæ S. Martini Tornacensis (D’Achery, ii. 893). The story is brought in at the same point at which it is brought in by Eadmer, at the time when Eadgyth—​if that is to be her name—​is sought in marriage by King Henry. The writer, Hermann, Abbot of Saint Martin’s, says that he had heard the story as a young man from Anselm himself. As Eadmer reports Eadgyth’s own statement, Hermann reports the statement of the abbess—“abbatissa in cujus monasterio puella illa fuerat nutrita.” If any trust can be put in the uncertified list of abbesses of Romsey in the Monasticon, ii. 507, the head of the sisterhood at that time would seem to have been an English Æthelflæd. The maiden herself also is without a name, and her brother is confounded with her father. She is “puella quædam, filia David regis Scotiæ.” The Abbess’s story is that the Scottish King entrusted his daughter to her care, not to become a nun, but simply for education (“Rex David pater ejus mihi eam commendavit, non ut sanctimonialis fieret, sed ut solummodo in ecclesia nostra propter cautelam cum ceteris puellis nostris coætancis suis nutriretur et literis erudiretur”). When the girl is about twelve years old (“cum jam adolevisset,” which is explained afterwards to mean “duodennis”), the Abbess hears that king William (defined as “rex Willelmus, domini mei regis Henrici germanus”) has come to see her (“propter eam videndam venisse”). In the case of any decent king such a visit would surely have been neither scandalous nor wonderful. The King is at the abbey-gate with his knights, and asks to have it opened. The Abbess fears that he may conceive some bad purpose towards the maiden, but hopes that he will respect her if she wears the monastic veil. She therefore persuades Eadgyth to wear the veil for the time;

“Hæc audiens, nimiumque perterrita, ne forte ille, ut juvenis et rex indomitus, qui omne quod animo sibi occurrisset illico facere volebat, visa pulcritudine puellæ aliquam ei illicitam violentiam faceret, qui tam improvisus et insperatus propter eam videndam advenisset, in secretius cubiculum eam introduxi, rem ei sicut erat aperui, eaque volente velum unum capiti ejus imposui, quatenus eo viso rex ab illicito complexu revocaretur.”

The King goes into the cloister, as if to look at the flowers “quasi propter inspiciendas rosas et alias florentes herbas”). He sees Eadgyth with the veil, and goes away, showing, according to the Abbess, that his visit had been on her account only (“mox ut eam vidit cum ceteris puellis nostris velum capite gestantem, claustro exivit et ab ecclesia recessit, aperte ostendens se non nisi propter eam venisse”). Within a week King David came; seeing his daughter with the veil on her head, he was very angry; he tore it from her head, trampled it under-foot, and took his daughter away.

As the Abbot’s memory clearly failed him on one point, it may have failed him in others. This is, as far as I know, the only time in history or legend in which William Rufus is brought into connexion with the name of any woman. It may well be that Abbess Æthelflæd—​if that was her name—​did not know the secrets of the Red King’s court, and reckoned him among ordinary, instead of extraordinary, sinners.

The accounts of Orderic and Hermann assert, and that of Eadmer seems to imply, that Eadgyth at least, most likely Mary also, was sent to be brought up by their aunt when they were quite children. But there is something a little odd in the appearance of Malcolm both in Eadmer and in Hermann, where he is spoken of as if it were an every-day thing for a King of Scots to show himself at Romsey. We may here perhaps help ourselves to a date. The visit of Malcolm must surely have been when he was in England in 1093. Eadgyth then, according to Hermann, was about twelve years old. Now, it seems from William of Malmesbury (iv. 389) that she had a godfather whom we should hardly have looked for in the person of Duke Robert. When could Robert have been godfather to a daughter of Malcolm and Margaret? Surely when he was in Scotland in the autumn of 1080 (see N. C. vol. iv. p. 671). That was therefore the time of Eadgyth’s birth; she would then be under thirteen when her father came into England. (Since this note was printed, I see that M. Gaston Le Hardy, p. 41, takes this date for granted.)

The fact that Malcolm and Margaret themselves sent their daughters into England seems to dispose of the account in Fordun (v. 21; see p. 30), according to which their uncle Eadgar somehow contrived to bring them to England after the death of their parents. The only way in which the two versions could be reconciled would be by supposing that, when Malcolm, according to Hermann, took Eadgyth away from Romsey, he took her back to Scotland.

In Eadgyth’s own statement in Eadmer, she says that her father meant her to marry Count Alan. So Orderic (702 A) says;

“Alanus Rufus Britannorum comes Mathildem, quæ prius dicta est Edith, in conjugem sibi a rege Rufo requisivit; sed morte præventus non obtinuit.”

Mr. Robertson (i. 152) makes merry over this passage, and takes the opportunity to sneer at Orderic. How, he asks, could Alan, who outlived Eadgyth-Matilda and died in 1119—she died in 1118—have been prevented by his own death from marrying her? He objects also that Alan married the second time (see N. C. vol. iv. p. 647) in 1093, “before Matilda could have sought refuge in England.” He adds, “Alan, however, was once a suitor for the hand of Matilda, but to her own father Malcolm (according to her own words), not to Rufus,” and goes on to tell about Orderic’s “gossip,” “infinity of error,” and what not. But though Orderic has made a slight slip, Mr. Robertson’s own error is much greater. There can be little doubt that the Alan meant is not the Alan of Britanny who married first Constance the daughter of the Conqueror and then Ermengarde of Anjou, but Alan the Black the second lord of Richmond (see N. C. vol. iv. p. 294, and Mrs. Green, Princesses, i. 25), a much more likely husband for the Scottish King to think of for his daughter. Now this Alan died in 1093, just about the right time. Orderic has put Rufus instead of Niger, which is about the extent of his offence—​perhaps confounding Alan the Black with his brother Alan Fergeant, the first lord of Richmond. But Mr. Robertson quite forgot that Malcolm sent his daughters into England long before 1093. Thierry (ii. 152) saw clearly which Alan it was.

William of Malmesbury (v. 418) has a singular passage, where he tells us that “Matildis, filia regis Scotorum, a teneris annis inter sanctimoniales apud Wiltoniam et Rumesium educata, literis quoque fœmineum pectus exercuit. Unde, ut ignobiles nuptias respueret plusquam semel a patre oblatas, peplum sacratæ professionis index gestavit.”

But who could look on a marriage with Count Alan as “ignobilis”?

NOTE FF. Vol. ii. pp. , , , .

Tynemouth and Bamburgh.

The history of Tynemouth, and of Saint Oswine in relation to Tynemouth, comes largely from the Life of Saint Oswine in the Miscellanea Biographica published by the Surtees Society. This is the work of a monk of Saint Alban’s who went to Tynemouth in 1111. There are also several Saint Alban’s documents printed in the Monasticon, iii. 312. There is a large history of Tynemouth by Mr. W. S. Gibson, from which much may be learned, though the valuable facts and documents have largely to be dug out of a mass of irrelevant matter.

According to the Saint Alban’s writer, Eadwine built a wooden church at Tynemouth, and there his daughter Rosella took the veil. The name is strange enough, but we may perhaps see a confused tradition of a British name, when we read that “locus ubi nunc cœnobium Tinemuthense est, antiquitus a Saxonibus dicebatur Penbalcrag, i.e. caput valli in rupe. Nam circa hunc locum finis erat valli Severiani.” This building must be the same as that which is referred to in the Life, p. 11; “Delatus est ad ostium Tynæ fluminis, locum videlicet ab incolis regionis ob imminentis rupis securitatem ab hostibus celebrius frequentatum. Sed ob reverentiam gloriosæ Virgini Mariæ inibi exhibitam tenerius amatum, ibique sepultus est in oratorio ejusdem Virginis, quod constructum erat ad aquilonem fluminis.” He goes on to tell how Oswald rebuilt the wooden church of stone, and how the monastery was more than once destroyed by the Danes. The Saint Alban’s writer (Mon. Angl. iii. 312) speaks more specially of the Danes. The biographer carries us at once to the time of Tostig;

“Memoria sancti martyris Oswini, obsoleta et penitus deleta, funditus ab hominum notitia evanuit. Jacuitque per multa annorum curricula gleba sancti corporis sub abjectiori cespite tumulata et usque ad tempora Thostii comitis et Ægelwini præsulis Dunelmi, incuriæ pariter et ignorantiæ neglectu, debita veneratione est fraudata.”

The writer has a curious remark to account for the neglect of the saint; “Genti prædictæ nunc fideles, nunc infideles principabantur, et juxta principum instituta, varia divinus cultus in subjectarum plebium studiis sensit dispendia.” This is doubtless true of Deira, hardly so of Bernicia, where no heathen prince reigned, though passing heathens did a good deal of damage.

He then gives a long account of the invention of the saint’s body, which came about through the vision of a monk named Eadmund. Judith, according to the character which she bears elsewhere (see N. C. vol. ii. p. 391), appears as “devota Deo famula,” “præpotens et devota femina,” “veneranda comitissa.” Of Tostig we are told that he succeeded Siward, “non testamenti beneficio, sed sancti regis Ædwardi dono regio.” He is described as beginning the new church which the monks of Saint Alban’s afterwards finished (p. 15); “Cujus tamen fundamenti initia, ut dicitur, comes Thostius jecerat, a fundamentis ædificaverunt.” But his deposition and death seem to be looked upon as a judgement for not being present in person at the invention (“Quia prædixtus comes Thostius interesse sanctæ inventioni in ditione sua factæ noluit, eodem anno culpis suis exigentibus ab Anglorum regno expulsus,” &c.), the exact date of which is given, March 15, 1065. It is added, “Thostio comite proscripto, hæreditas ejus devoluta est ad fiscum regium.”

Simeon in his History of the Church of Durham, iv. 4, puts the acts of Tostig and of Waltheof together under the head of Northumbrian earls; “Ecclesiam sane sancti Oswini in Tinemuthe, jamdudum donantibus Northymbriæ comitibus, monachi cum adhuc essent in Gyrvum possederant, unde etiam ipsius sancti ossa ad se transferentes in ecclesia sancti Pauli secum non parvo tempore habuerunt, quæ postmodum ad priorem locum retulerunt.” He then goes on to record the confirmation by Earl Alberic, who “hoc donum renovavit, ipsamque ecclesiam cum suo presbitero ecclesiæ sancti Cuthberti perpetuo possidendam adjecit.”

It would seem that the fall of Tostig hindered the completion of his church, and that at the time of Waltheof’s grant it was still without a roof; for he goes on to say, “Quæ cum jam per quindecim annos velut deserta sine tecto durasset, eam monachi culmine imposito renovarunt, et per tres annos possederunt.” On receiving the confirmation of Alberic, a monk with a good Danish name was sent to put things in better order (Simeon, Gesta Regum, 1121); “Ex capituli totius sententia monachus noster Turchillus illuc mittitur, qui renovato ecclesiæ ipsius culmine, per multum tempus habitavit ibidem.”

I have referred to the charter of Waltheof and to the entry in Simeon (Gesta Regum, 1080) in N. C. vol. iv. p. 666. It is printed, along with a charter of Bishop William confirming it, dated April 27, 1085, in the time of Earl Alberic, whose confirmation is recorded, in the Surtees book called Historiæ Dunelmensis Scriptores Tres, pp. xviii, xix. The signatures to both are nearly all English, with the single exception of two to the charter of Waltheof. These are Gilbert, the nephew (see N. C. vol. iv. p. 665) of Bishop Walcher, and an unknown Walter. We meet with several other men that we know, as Morkere’s father Ligulf and his brother Uhtred, and Leofwine, written “Leobwinus,” the Dean of Durham. We notice also “Ernan Biscope sune,” and three Englishmen with the knightly title “Alwinus miles,” “Wlstanus miles,” and “Kinewlfus miles,” but I do not understand “signum Aldredi comitis.” Earl Ealdred, the common grandfather of Waltheof and young Morkere, had been murdered long ago, as the sons of Carl found to their cost. The story is told again in Simeon, Gesta Regum, 1121.

The next stage in the story is the taking away of Tynemouth from the church of Durham. It is amusing to contrast the ways in which this story is told at Durham and at Saint Alban’s. Simeon, in the chapter just quoted, tells us that Earl Robert made the gift to Saint Alban’s “propter inimicitias quæ inter episcopum et ipsum agitabantur” (cf. Gesta Regum, 1121). The cause of their ill-will, a dispute about lands, comes out in the next chapter. Roger of Wendover (ii. 39), who is copied by Matthew Paris (Hist. Ang. i. 41, and Chron. Maj. ii. 31), tells us how Earl Robert—“vir quidem Deo devotus,” Matthew says—​gave Tynemouth to Saint Alban’s “divina inspiratione tactus.” The Gesta Abbatum (i. 57) add that it was done “regis et archiepiscopi Lanfranci benevolentia.” It would seem that under Durham rule Tynemouth had been simply an impropriate church, while in the hands of Saint Alban’s it became a cell. The judgement on Abbot Paul is recorded in the Durham History, iv. 4. The Gesta Abbatum, which record much about him, both good and evil, say nothing about this. The Life of Oswine, p. 15, gives a full account of the ceremony of the translation of Saint Oswine, with the date. Bishop Randolf of Durham was there, Abbot Richard of Saint Alban’s, and “Abbas Salesberiensis Hugo,” where we may see (see Mon. Angl. iii. 495) the old confusion (see N. C. vol. iv. p. 799) between Salisbury and Selby.

Tynemouth then, at the time when the revolt of Robert of Mowbray began (see p. 47), was already a monastery and a cell to Saint Alban’s, though the monks of Durham still held that they had been wrongfully deprived of it. But it appears from the narrative that, besides the monastery, there was also a castle. The account in the Chronicle is, “And þone castel æt Tinemuðan besæt oððet he hine gewann, and þæs eorles broðer þærinne and ealle þa þe him mid wæron.” Florence says, “Rex exercitu de tota Anglia congregato, castellum prædicti comitis Rotberti, ad ostium Tinæ fluminis situm, per duos menses obsedit; et interim, quadam munitiuncula expugnata, ferme omnes meliores comitis milites cepit, et in custodia posuit; dein obsessum castellum expugnavit, et fratrem comitis, et equites, quos intus inveniebat, custodiæ tradidit.” Florence seems to me to have confounded the sieges of Tynemouth and of the New Castle. By the “castellum ad ostium Tinæ” he would seem to mean the New Castle, and by his “munitiuncula” he would seem to mean the Earl’s fortress at Tynemouth. Now what was the relation between the castle and the monastery? As things now stand, castle and monastery are one. That is to say, the deserted church—​or more strictly the two deserted churches, monastic and parochial, once under one roof (see Archæological Journal, vol. xxxvii. p. 250, No. 147, 1880)—standing on the northern promontory is now surrounded by military buildings and the great gate-house. I get my notion of the early arrangements of Tynemouth from several old plans collected by Mr. Gibson. There is one which seems to be of the sixteenth century, and, as the names are written in a curious mixture of English, Latin, and Italian, it struck me that it might be the work of an officer of those Italian mercenaries who were employed in the civil wars of Edward the Sixth. This is the only one which distinctly shows “the Castle,” on the southern promontory, though all mark that point as taken in within the lines of defence. It seems to me that the southern promontory must have been the site of the original castle, and that the name of Castle has shifted to the great gate-house, which fairly deserves it.

With regard to the order of the sieges, Orderic, who gives us so full an account of the siege of Bamburgh, tells us nothing about the others. I gather from the words of the Chronicle that the New Castle, which we find in the King’s hands directly after, was the point which was first taken; “Sona þes þe he þider [to Norðhymbran] com, he manege and forneah ealle þa betste of þes eorles hirede innan anan fæstene gewann, and on hæftene gedyde.” Florence, as I have said, seems to have misunderstood the words of the Chronicler, and to have confounded Tynemouth and the New Castle. This last would surely be, as the Chronicle implies, the first point of attack after the army entered Northumberland in the sense which that word now bears. Next in the narrative of the Chronicle follows the siege and capture of Tynemouth, and then the great siege of Bamburgh. Of this famous fortress I found something to say long ago in N. C. vol. i. p. 410, where Bamburgh appears as marking one stage in the art of fortification. Bæda (iii. 16) witnesses that the place took its name “ex Bebbæ quondam reginæ vocabulo;” so also the Northumbrian writer copied by Simeon of Durham, 774;

“Bebba civitas urbs est munitissima, non admodum magna, sed quasi duorum vel trium agrorum spatium, habens unum introitum cavatum, et gradibus miro modo exaltatum. Habet in summitate montis ecclesiam præpulcre factam, in qua est scrinium speciosum et pretiosum. In quo involuta pallio jacet dextera manus sancti Oswaldi regis incorrupta, sicut narrat Beda historiographus hujus gentis.”

The reference here is to Bæda, iii. 6, where he tells the story of Oswald’s bounty and the prophecy of Aidan, and adds how his hand and arm, cut off after his death in the battle by Penda, “in urbe regia quæ a regina quondam vocabulo Bebba cognominatur, loculo inclusæ argenteo in ecclesia sancti Petri servantur, ac digno a cunctis honore venerantur.” So again, iii. 12, where Bamburgh is simply “regia civitas.” He goes on to speak of the well; “Est in occidente et in summitate ipsius civitatis fons miro cavatus opere, dulcis ad potandum et purissimus ad videndum.” Florence also refers to the origin of the name; with him it is “Bebbanbyrig, id est, Urbs Bebbæ reginæ;” and Orderic (704 A) draws a little picture of the spot; “Munitissimum castrum, quod Babbenburg dicitur, obsederunt. Et quoniam illa munitio inexpugnabilis erat, quia inaccessibilis videbatur propter paludes et aquas, et alia quædam itinerantibus contraria, quibus ambiebatur, rex novam munitionem ad defensionem provinciæ et coartationem hostium construxit, et militibus, armis, ac victualibus implevit.” This last fact, the making of the Malvoisin, is recorded by the Chronicler and Florence, both of whom give the name. The Chronicler says; “Ac þa þa se cyng geseah þæt he hine gewinnan ne mihte, þa het he makian ænne castel toforan Bebbaburh and hine on his spæce Malueisin het, þæt is on Englisc yfel nehhebur, and hine swiðe mid his mannan gesætte, and syððan suðweard for.” So Florence; “Ante Bebbanbyrig in quam comes fugerat, castellum firmavit, id que Malveisin nominavit, et in illo militibus positis, in Suthymbriam rediit.” We may here note the way in which the Chronicler assumes French as the language of William Rufus, and also Florence’s somewhat archaic way of speaking of “Suthymbria,” where the Chronicler says simply “suðweard.” It is something like his mention of West-Saxonia in 1091 (see vol. i. p. 305).

The Malvoisin was clearly such a tower as we often hear of, temporary and of wood, but still not moveable, as is implied in Florence’s word “firmavit.” But the name seems afterwards to have been transferred to moveable towers; see Du Cange in Malveisin, where he refers to the passage about the siege of Dover in Roger of Wendover, iii. 380; “Misso prius ad patrem suum propter petrariam, quæ ‘Malveisine’ Gallice nuncupatur, qua cum machinis aliis Franci ante castrum locata muros acriter crebris ictibus verberabant.” In his account of the siege of Bamburgh (ii. 46) Roger says, “Cum castellum inexpugnabile advertit, ante castellum illud castellum aliud ligneum construxit, quod Malveisin appellavit, in quo partem exercitus sui relinquens inde recessit.” Matthew Paris copies this in the Chronica Majora in the Historia Anglorum, i. 48; his words are, “Ante castellum illud aliud sed ligneum construxit, ad præcludendum illis exitum, quod patria lingua Maleveisine appellavit.” Viollet-le-Duc (Military Architecture of the Middle Ages, 24, Eng. trans.) seems to imply that moveable towers were known earlier than this time, but he seems (p. 30) to bring the petraria from the East.

As for the details of the siege, the Chronicler and Florence tell us nothing till we come to the escape of Robert from Bamburgh. It is Orderic who gives us the picture of the state of mind of Robert and his companions, which, if it belongs to any period of the siege, must belong to the time before the King went southward. We see the loyal troops busily working at the making of the Malvoisin;

“Conscii autem perfidiæ et fautores eorum detegi verentes conticuerunt, et metu exsangues, quia conatus suos nihil valere perpenderunt, regiis cohortibus immixti, ejus servitium, cujus exitium optaverant, prompte aggressi sunt. Interea, dum rex in armis cum agminibus suis ad bellum promptus constaret, et chiliarchos ac centuriones, aliosque proceres Albionis, cum subditis sibi plebibus, operi novæ munitionis indesinenter insistere compelleret, Rodbertus de propugnaculis suis contrarium sibi opus mœstus conspiciebat, et complices suos alta voce nominatim compellebat, ac ut jusjurandum de proditionis societate conservarent, palam commonebat. Rex autem cum fidelibus suis hæc audiens ridebat, et conscia reatus publicati mens conscios et participes timore et verecundia torquebat.”

Then the King goes away; in Orderic’s phrase, “rege ad sua prospere remeante, et de moderamine regni cum suis amicis solerter tractante,” a rather odd description of the war in Wales. Now comes Robert’s escape from Bamburgh. Orderic, who seems to have no clear idea of any place except Bamburgh, merely says that Robert, “longæ obsidionis tædio nauseatus, noctu exilivit, et de castro in castrum migrare volens in manus inimicorum incidit.” The Chronicle is fuller; “Ða sona æfter þam þe se cyng wæs suð afaren feorde se eorl anre nihte ut of Bebbaburh towardes Tinemuðan, ac þa þe innan þam niwun castele wæron his gewær wurdon, and him æfter foran and onfuhton and hine gewundedon, and syððan gelæhton, and þa þe mid him wæron sume ofslogan sume lifes gefengon.” But it is from Florence that we get the detailed account. His story runs thus;

“Post cujus discessum, comiti Rotberto vigiles Novi Castelli promisere in id se permissuros illum intrare, si veniret occulte. Ille autem lætus effectus, quadam nocte cum xxx. militibus ut id perageret exivit. Quo cognito, equites qui castellum custodiebant illum insequentes, ejus exitum custodibus Novi Castelli per nuntios intimaverunt. Quod ille nesciens, die dominica tentavit peragere cœpta, sed nequivit, deprehensus enim erat. Eapropter ad monasterium S. Oswini regis et martyris fugit, ubi sexto die obsessionis suæ graviter in crure est vulneratus dum suis adversariis repugnaret, quorum multi perempti, multi sunt vulnerati, de suis quoque nonnulli vulnerati, omnes sunt capti; ille vero in ecclesiam fugit, de qua extractus, in custodia est positus.”

Here now comes the obvious difficulty as to the way in which the Earl could have got into the monastery at Tynemouth after the castle had been taken. The Chronicler indeed does not necessarily imply that he got into Tynemouth at all. The fight which he describes might have happened somewhere else and not at Tynemouth. And if any one chooses to move the site of Robert’s resistance and capture from Tynemouth to some unknown spot, there is only the statement of Florence against him. That Robert was taken, and taken after a stout resistance, is plain.

With Robert’s capture, Orderic ends his story, as far as military operations are concerned. “Captus a satellitibus regis, Rodbertus finem belli fecit.” In a very general way this is not untrue; it was the capture of Robert which brought about the end of the war. But it is odd that he should have left out the striking story of the captive Earl being brought under frightful threats before the castle which his wife was defending. This stands out clearly in the Chronicle; “Ða þa se cyng ongean com, þa het he niman þone eorl Rotbeard of Norðymbram, and to Bæbbaburh lædan, and ægðer eage ut adon, buton þa þe þærinne wæron þone castel agyfan woldan. Hine heoldan his wif and Moreal, se wæs stiward and eac his mæg. Ðurh þis wearð se cartel þa agyfen.” Florence translates this.

Lastly comes the great difference of all as to Earl Robert’s last days. The Chronicler and Florence merely record his imprisonment at Windsor, without saying how long it lasted. Florence says only, “Comes forti custodiæ mancipandus ad Windlesoram est ductus,” followed by the passage about Morel quoted in p. 55. He says nothing about the many accusations brought by Morel, or about the special summons of all the tenants-in-chief to the trial, of which the Chronicler speaks (see p. 56). The Chronicler, after recording them, says; “And þone eorl Rotbert hét se cyng to Windlesoran lædan, and þær innan þam castele healdan.” This is consistent with any later destiny, with release and monastic profession or with lifelong imprisonment. This last is asserted by several authorities. Thus Orderic (704 A) says; “Rodbertus…. fere triginta annis in vinculis vixit, ibique scelerum suorum pœnas luens consenuit.” He then sets forth the sad state of his wife; “Mathildis uxor ejus, quæ cum eo vix unquam læta fuerat, quia in articulo perturbationis desponsata fuerat, et inter bellicas clades tribus tantum mensibus cum tremore viri thoro incubuerat, maritali consolatione cito caruit, multisque mœroribus afflicta diu gemuit.” The Continuator of William of Jumièges (viii. 8), who has nothing to say about Matilda, equally bears witness to Robert’s lifelong imprisonment; “Captus a militibus Willelmi regis, ipsoque jubente in ipsis vinculis diutius perseverans; regnante jam Henrico rege, tandem in ipso ergastulo deficiens mortuus est.” So William of Malmesbury, iv. 319; “Captus et æternis vinculis irretitus est.”

On the other hand, there clearly was a story according to which Robert was released some time or other, and died a monk at Saint Alban’s. It is somewhat remarkable that there is no mention of this in any of the chief writings of Matthew Paris, neither in the Historia Major nor the Historia Anglorum, nor the Lives of the Abbots. But we find the story implied in the extract from his Additamenta in the Monasticon, iii. 312; “Ibidem [at Tynemouth] monachos congregavit de domo sancti Albani, tanquam ab electissima domo inter omnia cœnobia Angliæ, ubi etiam se vovit monasticum habitum suscepturum, et sepulturam in loco memorato. Quæ omnia, Deo sibi propitio, feliciter consummavit.” So in the Abbreviatio Chronicorum (Hist. Angl. iii. 175), a marginal note is added to the name of Earl Robert; “Sepultus est apud sanctum Albanum.” But, oddly enough, the most distinct statement that he became a monk comes, not from any Saint Alban’s writer, but from one manuscript of the “De Regibus Saxonum Libellus” at the end of the Surtees Simeon, p. 214. King Henry keeps Robert of Mowbray some while in prison; then “rogatu baronum suorum eundem resolvens, concessit illi mutare vitam habitumque sæcularem. Qui ingressus monasterium Sancti Albani sub professione monastica ibidem vitam finivit.”

The story about Matilda’s second marriage and divorce comes from Orderic. His story runs thus; “Vir ejus, ut dictum est, in carcere vivebat, nec ipsa, eo vivente, secundum legem Dei alteri nubere legitime valebat. Tandem, permissu Paschalis papæ, cui res a curiosis enucleata patuit, post multos dies Nigellus de Albineio ipsam uxorem accepit, et pro favore nobilium parentum ejus, aliquamdiu honorifice tenuit. Verum, defuncto Gisleberto de Aquila fratre ejus, vafer occasionem divortii exquisivit, eamque, quia consanguinei sui conjux fuerat, repudiavit, et Gundream, sororem Hugonis de Gornaco, uxorem duxit.” If all this happened at all, it must have happened between 1099 and 1118, the years which mark the reign of Paschal.

Matilda of Laigle could not well have been the sister of William the Chaplain to whom Bishop Herbert Losinga writes his third letter (Ep. Herberti, p. 5). He there says; “De matrimonio sororis vestræ non aliud respondeo vobis, quam id quod præsens ex ore meo audivistis, suo videlicet ut vivente viro, secundum evangelium et secundum sanctorum canonum usum, alii viro nubere non potest.” But the person spoken of could hardly have been thinking of such a marriage, unless she had some special excuse, like this of Matilda.

The second wife of Nigel appears both as “Gundrea” and as “Gundreda.” There is a great deal about her husband Nigel and her son Robert, the founder of Byland Abbey, in the Monasticon, v. 346–351. The marriage of Nigel and Gundreda took place after Tinchebrai, and as King Henry gave Nigel the castle of Mowbray, and much else in Normandy and England which had belonged to Earl Robert, their son Roger called himself Roger of Mowbray. Such a description was likely to lead to confusion, and it may have led some to fancy that later bearers of the name of Mowbray had something to do with the famous Bishop and Earl of our story. The artificial Percy is indeed connected with the real one by grandmothers; but the artificial Mowbray was purely artificial. This Roger of Mowbray appears also in the Continuator of William of Jumièges, viii. 8, who tells us that Nigel himself became a monk at Bec.

As Walknol has been casually mentioned in the text (p. 47) there may be some interest in a document in the Cartulary of Newminster published by the Surtees Society, p. 178. The date must be after 1137, the date of the foundation of Newminster. The number of English names, and specially the two bearers of scriptural names who are sons of English-named fathers, illustrate points of which I have often had to speak;

“De terra de Walknol in castro. Johannes filius Edwyni fabri, salutem. Sciatis me concessisse, dedisse, et hac præsenti carta mea confirmasse, Bartholomæo filio Edricii illam terram totam quæ jacet in australi parte cimiterii capellæ beati Michaelis, in longitudine a curtillo Eadmundi clerici usque ad terram quæ fuit Johannis Stanhard, et in latitudine a cimiterio capellæ beati Michaelis usque ad antiquam communem viam subtus versus austrum. Habendum et tenendum eidem Bartholomæo et hæredibus suis de me et hæredibus meis et assignatis in perpetuum, libere, quiete, et pacifice, pro duabus marcis arg. quas michi dedit idem Bartholomæus in manu in mea magna necessitate.”

NOTE GG. Vol. ii. p. 79.

The Conquest of Glamorgan.

I gave a note to the conquest of Glamorgan in the Appendix to vol. v. of the Norman Conquest, p. 820. I look, as I did then, upon the account in what I find it convenient to call the later Brut as thoroughly legendary in its details, though I am perhaps inclined to put rather more faith in the general story than I was then. And I am not so much inclined as I was then to draw the same wide distinction as Mr. Floyd draws between the expeditions led by the King himself and those which partook more or less of the character of private adventure. There was doubtless a difference, when it was King William who called the whole force of England to his standard, and when it was only either Earl Hugh or Robert Fitz-hamon who set out on an expedition on his own account. But both processes were parts of the same general undertaking. Whatever individual lords conquered, they conquered with the King’s approval, to be held by them as his vassals and subjects. He himself stepped in only on great occasions, when the Welsh seemed to be getting too strong for the local lords. The same general work must have been going on all over the country. The only strange thing is that the conquest of Glamorgan, of whose general results there can be no doubt, and of which we have so very full a legendary account, is left out altogether in every really trustworthy history.

Jestin ap Gwrgan must be accepted as a real man, on the strength of his real sons and grandsons (for his sons see N. C. vol. v. p. 821); but that is all that can be said of him. We can hardly carry our faith so far as Mr. John Williams ab Ithel, the Editor of the Brut in the Chronicles and Memorials, who asks us (xxiii) to “consider the great age of the prince of Glamorgan when he died. He is said to have married his first wife A.D. 994”—​it is perhaps prudent to mention the æra—“and to have died at the age of 111, according to others 129.” We Saxons do not venture to believe in the kindred tales of our own Harold and Gyrth. But we learn from Mr. Williams himself, at the very beginning of his Preface, that “the voice of Tradition would not lead us to suppose that the ancient Britons paid any very particular attention to the study of chronology previous to the era of Prydain, son of Aedd the Great, which is variously dated from the year 1780 to 480 before the nativity of Christ.” If centuries went for so little in the days of Prydain, it is not wonderful that decades did not go for much in the days of Jestin. Nor are we surprised to find that Mr. Williams knew the exact number of the descendants of Jestin, who were, like those of Attila, “pene populus.” All that we can say of Jestin’s story, in relation to Robert Fitz-hamon and his companions, is that there is no trustworthy evidence either for or against the story of his invitation to the Norman knights, but that the tale has a legendary sound, and that the date is in any case wrong. If we should be inclined, according to one or two indications (see p. 84), to place the conquest of Glamorgan several years earlier, perhaps even before the death of the Conqueror, we are only carried away yet further from the perfectly certain date of the death of Rhys ap Tewdwr. All that we can say is that the general story may be true, but that the list of settlers given in the later Brut (72 to 75) is largely due to family vanity. The Stradling family, for instance, had nothing to do with the original conquest.

The best account of the whole matter is to be found in Mr. Clark’s first paper on “The Land of Morgan,” in the Archæological Journal, xxxiv. 11. I cannot however admit with him (p. 18) that “it seems probable that to the early Vikings, and not to the later settlements of Flemings or English, is due the Teutonic element which prevails in the topography of lower Pembroke and Gower.” I am quite ready (see p. 95) to admit a certain Scandinavian element; but the Flemish settlement in Pembrokeshire is undoubtedly historical (see N. C. vol. v. p. 855), while we have fair legendary evidence for making the settlement in Gower West-Saxon (see p. 103). The name of Worm’s Head given to the great promontory of Gower, in marked distinction to the Scandinavian Orm’s Head in North Wales, goes a long way to show that the Teutonic settlers in Gower were either Flemish or Saxon, and not Scandinavian.

NOTE HH. Vol. ii. p. 115.

Godwine of Winchester and his son Robert.

I gave a short note to the history of Robert son of Godwine in N. C. vol. v. p. 819. On going again more minutely through the story, I am even more struck than before by the singular way in which different notices of Robert and Godwine hang together. It is one of the best cases that I know of the argument from undesigned coincidences. Besides the interest of the story in itself, it teaches us, like many other stories, how, if we work with a proper caution, we may dig truth out of quarters where we should hardly have looked for it, and it may specially suggest matter for thought as to the value of those pieces of Scottish history which one hardly knows whether to call the writings of Turgot or Fordun, or of any one else. I suspect that, if we simply read the story of Godwine and Robert as it stands in Fordun, we should be inclined to cast it aside altogether. The story undoubtedly has a legendary air, and the details of the single combat are likely enough to have received some legendary colouring even at the time. Some might even be a little startled at the appearance of Englishmen of knightly rank at the court of William Rufus. But we see from Domesday on the one hand, and from William of Malmesbury on the other, that Godwine and Robert were real men, and we see that the part which they play in Fordun’s story is exactly in accordance with their real position.

I have mentioned elsewhere (see N. C. vol. iv. p. 571; vol. v. p. 819) that there was a Godwine holding lands in Hertfordshire of the Ætheling Eadgar. We also have in two places in William of Malmesbury (iii. 251; iv. 384) notices of “Robertus Anglus,” “Robertus filius Godwini miles audacissimus,” who goes to the crusade with the Ætheling, and who does the exploits which I have spoken of in p. 122. Now if circumstantial evidence is ever good for anything, one can hardly doubt that the Godwine of Domesday is the same as the Godwine of William of Malmesbury and as the Godwine of Fordun, and that the Robert son of Godwine in Fordun is the same as the Robert son of Godwine in William of Malmesbury. The three accounts are wholly independent, but all bring Godwine and Robert into connexion with Eadgar. It is almost inconceivable that Fordun’s story should be mere invention, when it makes men of whom so little is known act exactly in character with the little that is known of them.

In the account in Fordun (ii. 22, Surtees Simeon 263), Ordgar, “Orgarus,” is described in the one text as “miles degener Anglicus,” in the other as “miles de genere Anglico,” which is clearly the better reading.

The name of Ordgar appears only twice in Domesday. In Oxfordshire, 161, Ordgar, a king’s thegn, holds two hides of the worth of forty shillings. He had two slaves on his domain, and half a carucate was held by two villains or churls. We then read, “Godwinus libere tenuit.” This is pretty sure to be our Ordgar, and it may very well be our Godwine, though we can say nothing for certain about so common a name. If they are the same, here is great likelihood, though no proof, that Godwine may have had other ground for willingness to fight Ordgar, besides his loyalty to the Ætheling. Ordgar, on the other hand, appears in Somerset, 93, as holding a hide which had passed to Robert of Courcelles, and which, with a good deal more, was held by Anschitil. Ordgar was not the only Englishman who, among the endless forfeitures and grants—​to say nothing of ordinary sales, bequests, and exchanges, which went on T. R. W. as well as T. R. E.—​lost in one part of England and gained in another.

In Fordun’s story Eadgar is described as “clito Eadgarus, viz. genere gloriosus, nam sic ipsum nominabant.” “De genere gloriosus,” it will be marked, is a more literal translation of “Clito” than it is of “Ætheling.” William is inclined to hearken to Ordgar, “quia Eadgarus de regia stirpe fuerat progenitus, et regno, jure Anglico, proximus.” We then read, “nec incerta de Eadgaro jam poterat esse sententia, si crimen impositum probari potuisset.” Eadgar is in great trouble for fear of not finding a champion, when Godwine steps forward; “Miles de Wintonia, Anglicus natione, genere non ignobilis, nomine Godwinus, veteris parentelæ ipsius non immemor, opem se præstiturum in hac re tam difficili compromisit.”

The two knights now go forth, as I have described in the text, and we have a significant comment on the lack of English patriotism shown by Ordgar;

“Hinc etiam calumniatorem cum justa animadversione increpat, qui Anglicus genere existens naturæ videretur impugnator, quem enim ut dominum venerari debuerat, utpote de jure generis existens cui se et omnia sua debuisset.”

Then come the details of the combat. We hear no more of Godwine after his victory and reward, which last is thus told; “Superati hostis terras et possessiones hereditario jure rex ei concederet possidendas.” “Hereditario jure” most likely simply means, as usual, that the land was to go on to Godwine’s heirs. It need not refer to the probable fact that part at least of Ordgar’s lands had once belonged to Godwine.

Robert first appears in Fordun, v. 25, on the march to Scotland (see p. 119). He is introduced as “quidam miles, Anglicus genere, Robertus nomine, filius antedicti Godwini, paternæ probitatis imitator et hæres.” Then come his exploits and adventures in Britain, as I have told them in the text. Afterwards must come his crusading exploits as described by William of Malmesbury. In the earlier of his two accounts (see p. 122) one might almost have thought that King Baldwin had no companion except Robert. The second passage, which gives them four other companions, has therefore the force of a correction; “Rex … quinque militibus comitatus, in montana rependo, insidiantes elusit. Militum fuit unus Robertus Anglus, ut superius dixi; cæteros notitiæ nostræ fama tam longinqua occubuit. Ille cum tribus comprehensus est; unus evasit cum rege.” Another point which is worth notice is that the period of the crusade at which Robert is brought in exactly agrees with the story of his doings in Scotland and Northumberland. A man who had difficulties with Flambard after he became bishop in 1099 could not have been with the first crusaders at Antioch and Jerusalem; he might have been quite in time to help Baldwin at Rama.

It would be worth the while of some Hertfordshire antiquary to see whether anything can be made out as to the descent of the lands held by Godwine, or as to any descendants of him and Robert. But I saw a little time back a newly published history of that county, which was eloquent about the grandmothers of various obscure persons of our own time, but which had not a word to say about the champion of Eadgar or the comrade of Baldwin.

NOTE II. Vol. ii. p. 133.

The Expedition of Magnus.

The expedition of Magnus, which, by leading him to the shores of Anglesey, had a not unimportant bearing on English affairs, is not spoken of at any great length by our own writers. The Chronicler does not name the Norwegian king; but he does not fail to mention the death of Earl Hugh of Shrewsbury, and, what was practically its most important result, the succession of his brother Robert. His words are; “And Hugo eorl wearð ofslagen innan Anglesege fram ut wikingan and his broðer Rodbert wearð his yrfenuma, swa swa he hit æt þam cynge ofeode.” Florence is fuller;

“Eo tempore rex Norreganorum Magnus, filius regis Olavi, filii regis Haroldi Harvagri, Orcadas et Mevanias insulas cum suo adjecisset imperio, paucis navibus advectus illuc venit. At cum ad terram rates appellere vellet comes Hugo de Scrobbesbyria, multis armatis militibus in ipsa maris ripa illi occurrit, et, ut fertur, mox ab ipso rege sagitta percussus … interiit.”

Florence, it will be seen, here makes the same confusion between the names Hardrada and Harfagra which he made in 1066, and which so many others made beside him. To the account in William of Malmesbury, iv. 329, I have referred in p. 134. He alone it is who mentions the presence of the younger Harold in the fleet of Magnus. His words, which I quoted in p. 124, seem to come from the same source as the account in Florence; but he gives the story a different turn by distinctly making Magnus design an attack on England;

“Jam Angliam per Anglesiam obstinatus petebat; sed occurrerunt ei comites, Hugo Cestrensis et Hugo Scrobesbiriensis; et antequam continentem ingrederetur, armis eum expulerunt. Cecidit ibi Hugo Scrobesbiriensis, eminus ferreo hastili perfossus.”

Henry of Huntingdon would seem to translate the Chronicle; but he makes a confusion as to the persons by whom Earl Hugh was slain; “Hugo consul Salopscyre occisus est ab Hibernensibus. Cui successit Robertus de Belem frater ejus.”

If we could suppose that the Archdeacon of Huntingdon had paid so much attention to British affairs, we might fancy that he confounded the fleet of Magnus with the wikings from Ireland whom Cadwgan and Gruffydd hired a little time before. See p. 128.

The Welsh writers naturally tell the tale as part of their own history. The Earls have come into Anglesey; then comes Magnus. There are two different accounts in two manuscripts of the Annales Cambriæ; that which the editor follows in the text runs thus;

“Francis in insula morantibus, Magnus rex Germaniæ cum exercitu venit in insulam volens. Sed ei nolenti Franci ei occurrentes se invicem sagittis salutaverunt, hi de terra, illi de mari, alter comes sagitta in facie percussus occubuit. Quo facto, Magnus abivit.”

The other manuscript reads;

“Francis in insula morantibus, Magnus rex Germaniæ ad insulam Mon venit et prœlium cum consulibus commisit; sed alter consulum vulneratus in facie cecidit; alter vero cum majoribus insulam dereliquit. Postea vero Magnus rex insulam Mon repente reliquit.”

The Brut says;

“The French entered the island, and killed some of the men of the island. And whilst they tarried there, Magnus, King of Germany, came, accompanied by some of his ships, as far as Mona, hoping to be enabled to take possession of the countries of the Britons. And when King Magnus had heard of the frequent designs of the French to devastate the whole country, and to reduce it to nothing, he hastened to attack them. And as they were mutually shooting, the one party from the sea, and the other party from the land, Earl Hugh was wounded in the face, by the hand of the King himself. And then King Magnus, with sudden determination, left the borders of the country.”

It will be seen that both versions of the Annals call Magnus “rex Germaniæ.” In the text of the Brut he is “Magnus brenhin Germania.” Another manuscript, worse informed as to his name, better informed as to his kingdom, calls him “Maurus brenhin Norwei.” This odd description of a Norwegian king as king of Germany has been met with before in the Brut, 1056; but it is not found in the Annals for that year. But it must have been by a kindred flight that the annalist in 1066 called Harold Hardrada “rex Gothorum.”

Our fuller accounts of the course of Magnus come from Orderic, from the Manx Chronicle, and from the Saga of Magnus Barefoot (Johnstone, 231; Laing, iii. 129). Orderic, as we have seen, looks upon the expedition as being directly designed against Ireland. The Norwegian writer mentions Ireland only quite incidentally. Magnus plunders in Ireland, as everywhere else, on his way to Man, but the object of the expedition is clearly marked as being Man and the other islands which were so closely connected with it, a connexion which is also most strongly set forth in the pompous words of Orderic (767 D). We can have little doubt in accepting the Manx writer’s version of the history of his own island, rather than that of the Norwegian writer, to whom the internal affairs of the island were of no great interest, or the wild statement of Orderic (see p. 141) that Man was at this moment a desert island. On the other hand, the Saga is the best authority for the actual voyage of Magnus, though it is the Manx writer who preserves the fact or legend of the irreverent dealings of Magnus towards his sainted kinsman. As to what happened in Anglesey, I have already quoted the accounts of the English and Welsh writers, and the Manx chronicler does not go into any greater detail;

“Ad Moiniam insulam Walliæ navigavit, et duos Hugones comites invenit in ea; unum occidit, alterum fugavit, et insulam sibi subjugavit. Wallenses vero multa munera ei præbuerunt, et valedicens eis ad Manniam remeavit.”

The detailed accounts of the death of Earl Hugh come from the Saga and from Orderic. Orderic, it must be remembered, is writing on a subject of special interest to him, on account of his close connexion from childhood with the house of Montgomery. On the other hand, as we have seen (see p. 143), he does not well understand the geography, and seems to fancy that Dwyganwy was in Anglesey. But it will be at once seen that he conceives the death of Earl Hugh in a quite different way from the author of the Saga. In Orderic’s story, though there is a great deal of preparation for fighting, there is no actual fighting at all, except the one shot sent from the bow of the Norwegian King. His version stands thus;

“Quadam vero die, dum supra littus indigenæ turbati discurrerent, seque contra Nordicos, quos in navibus suis sævire contra Anglos videbant, præpararent, Hugo comes, equum calcaribus urgens, cœtus suos congregabat, et contra hostes, ne sparsim divisi invaderentur, principali rigore coercebat. Interea barbarus Nordwigena, ut comitem agiliter equitantem prospexit, instigante diabolo stridulum missile subito direxit, egregiumque comitem, proh dolor! percussit. Qui protinus corruit, et in fluctibus maris jam æstuantis exspiravit. Unde dolor ingens exortus est.”

This really seems hardly possible, and the Welsh account, as well as the Norwegian, distinctly records fighting and shooting of arrows on both sides. The Saga gives us the details, both in prose and verse. The shooting of the King and the other archer is described in prose as I have told it in p. 144, and both the death of Earl Hugh and the general picture of the battle are given in vigorous verse from the minstrelsy of Biorn Cripplehand (Biörn inn Krepphendi). Besides the verses which Laing translates, the Saga gives others from another poet, Gisl, who vigorously describes the fight between the King and those whom he calls the Welsh Earls (Valsea Jarla), meaning doubtless rather Gal-Welsh than Bret-Welsh;

“Margan hŏfdo

Magnuss lidar
Biortom oddi
Baugvang skotit.
Vard hortoga
Hlif at springa
Kapps vel skiput
Fyrer konongs darri.
Bodkenner skaut
Badom hŏndum
Allr va hilmis
Herr prudliga
Stucku af almi
Þeims iŏfr sueigdi
Hvitmylingar
Adr Hugi felli.”

The relations between Magnus and the Irish King Murtagh are very puzzling. Orderic must have made some mistake when he attributes the expedition of Magnus to a dispute with an Irish king whose daughter he marries and sends back again (767 C, D). This must surely be a confusion between Magnus himself and his son Sigurd, who, according to the Saga, did marry the Irish king’s daughter. But it is possible that Orderic’s story about the Irish princess being sent back again, because her father did not fulfil the marriage contract, may be true of Sigurd, though not of his father. We should thus better understand the transactions which go on a little later about the marriage of a daughter of Murtagh, seemingly the same, to Arnulf son of Earl Roger (see p. 442). The Manx writer has nothing to say about these marriages, but he fills up the space between this expedition of Magnus and that in which he fell with some very strange dealings between Magnus and Murtagh. Magnus sends his shoes to the Irish king, bidding him bear them on his shoulders in public as a sign of subjection to their owner (“Murecardo regi Yberniæ misit calceamenta sua, præcipiens ei ut ea super humeros suos in die natalis Domini per medium domus suæ portaret in conspectu nunciorum ejus, quatinus intelligeret se subjectum esse Magno regi”). The Irish are naturally angry; but their king takes matters more quietly. He would willingly not only carry the shoes but eat them, sooner than a single province of Ireland should be laid waste. So he did as he was bid (“rex, saniori consilio usus, non solum, inquit, calceamenta ejus portare, verum etiam manducare mallem, quam Magnus rex unam provinciam in Ybernia destrueret. Itaque complevit præceptum et nuncios honoravit”). The Irish writers of course know nothing about the shoes; but the Chronicon Scotorum records a year’s peace made in 1098 between Murtagh and Magnus (“Magnus ri Lochlainne”). The Manx chronicler also goes on to say that a treaty followed the ceremony of the shoes, but that the ambassadors of Magnus gave such a report of the charms of Ireland, that he determined to invade it again in breach of the treaty.

This brings us to the date of the last expedition of Magnus. The Chronicon Scotorum records the death of Magnus (“Magnus ri Lochlainne ocus na Ninnsit”) in 1099 in an attack on Ulster. But this date must be too early. The Norwegian account places the second expedition of Magnus nine years after his accession in Norway (Laing, iii. 143, Johnstone, 239). This would fix its date to 1102. This is the date commonly given, with 1103, as the year of his death. The Manx writer places the death of Magnus six years after his first expedition (“regnavit in regno insularum sex annis,” p. 7), which would put his death in 1104. But he gives 1102 as the date of his successor in the island kingdom, Olaf the son of Godred Crouan (see p. 137). He was, it seems, at the English court; “Quo [Magno] mortuo, miserunt principes insularum propter Olavum filium Godredi Crouan, de quo superius mentionem fecimus, qui tunc temporis degebat in curia Henrici regis Angliæ filii Willelmi, et adduxerunt eum.”

The date of 1102 exactly falls in with the account of the attempt of Robert of Bellême to obtain help from Magnus in that year (see p. 442). For this I have followed the account in the Brut (1100; that is 1102). But it would seem that the Welsh writer was mistaken in saying that Magnus “sent over to Ireland, and demanded the daughter of Murchath for his son; for that person was the chiefest of the Gwyddelians; which he joyfully obtained; and he set up that son to be king in the Isle of Man.” His death is recorded in the next year, 1101 (1103), when “Magnus King of Germany” (“Vagnus vrenhin Germania”) is made to invade Britain and be killed by the Britons, who are said to have come “from the mouths of the caves in multitudes like ants in pursuit of their spoils.” Another manuscript for “Prydein” reads “Llẏchljẏn,” that is Denmark, which does not make matters much better. The followers of Magnus are called in the one manuscript “Albanians” (“yr Albanóyr”), meaning doubtless Scots; in the other manuscript they are men of Denmark (“gwyr Denmarc”). The Annales Cambriæ do not mention the dealings between Robert of Bellême and Magnus; but there is an entry under 1103; “Magnus rex apud Dulin [Dublin?] occiditur.”

The death of Magnus in his second Irish expedition is told with great detail in the Saga (Johnstone, 239–244; Laing, iii. 143–147). Orderic also tells the story in p. 812. The Irish, according to this account, call in Arnulf of Montgomery to their help; but, when Magnus is killed, the Irish try to kill Arnulf and his Norman companions. Murtagh now takes away his daughter from Arnulf, and marries her, according to the irregular fashion of the country, to a kinsman (“ipsam petulantem cuidam consobrino suo illicite conjunxit”). But twenty years later, Arnulf, by that time an old man, is reconciled to Murtagh, marries his daughter, and dies the next day. This carries us beyond the range of my story, and I must leave Irish, Norwegian, and Norman enquirers to see to it. It concerns me more that it is now that Orderic mentions the great treasure which Magnus had left with a rich citizen of Lincoln. (See p. 134.) The Lincoln man seems to have thought that the death of the Norwegian king gave his banker a right to his money; but King Henry thought otherwise, and took the twenty thousand pounds to his own hoard.

NOTE KK. Vol. ii. pp. , , .

The Relations between Hildebert and Helias.

There is a remarkable difference of tone between Orderic and the Biographer of the Bishops of Le Mans in their way of speaking of Helias. That the Count should be blamed for making Bishop Howel a prisoner (see p. 198) is in no way wonderful; the thing to be noticed is the way in which he several times speaks of Helias during the episcopate of Hildebert; still more remarkable is the way in which Hildebert speaks himself. Orderic always puts the acts of Helias in the best light; the Biographer, during certain parts of his story at least, seems well-pleased to throw in any little insinuation against him. Perhaps the strangest case of all is the way in which he leaves out all mention of the double appointment to the see of Le Mans on the death of Howel (see p. 211), and of the action of Helias in that matter. One would have thought that, even from an ecclesiastical point of view, the story told more for Helias than against him. He put forth a claim which any other prince of his time would have equally put forward; he withdrew it in a way in which very few princes of his time would have withdrawn it. But the Biographer (see p. 297) lets us into the fact that there had been an opposition to Hildebert’s election in the Chapter itself. Could his enemies have been special partisans of Helias, and supporters of his candidate? If so, it is rather strange, though quite possible, that they should have been the accusers of Hildebert to Rufus, when the charge brought against him was that of being a confederate with Helias.

The Biographer is quite loyal to Helias during the campaign of 1098. He brings out prominently (see p. 213, note) the cause of the war, namely the election of Hildebert by the Chapter and his acceptance by the Count, without any regard to the alleged claims of the Norman Dukes. Helias was in fact fighting on behalf of Hildebert. When Helias is taken prisoner, he raises a wail—“proh dolor” (see above, p. 223)—which almost reminds us of Florence’s wail over the death-wound of Harold. He brings out strongly the Red King’s wrath against Hildebert, as shown in his ravages at Coulaines (see p. 234). He brings out also, what Orderic does not mention, the friendly relations between Hildebert and Helias which are shown in the negotiations which led to the Count’s release (see p. 238). We may perhaps infer that, during this stage, the friendship between the Count and the Bishop remained unbroken, and that the Biographer remains the Count’s friend so long as the Bishop does.

During the campaign of 1099 the Biographer’s tone becomes quite different. He has not a word to say about the zeal of the citizens of Le Mans on behalf of Helias, which comes out so strongly in Orderic, and after him in Wace (see p. 279). He rather implies that they fought against him. The enemies who meet him at Pontlieue are “milites regis cum populo” (see p. 278, note 2). It is quite possible that, as the Normans had military possession of the city, its levies may have been made, even against their will, to take their place in the Norman ranks, and the presence of such unwilling allies may have very likely helped to bring about the Norman defeat. Still the insertion of the words without any comment or qualification gives the Biographer’s story a different turn from that of Orderic. Yet the Biographer himself after all allows that Helias entered Le Mans with the good-will of the citizens, when he allows (see p. 297) the accusers of Hildebert to say “quando Helias comes consentientibus civibus civitatem occupavit.” He next leaves out the fact recorded by Orderic (see p. 297) that, before William Rufus had crossed the frontier, Hildebert met him and was received to his peace, on affirming that he had no share in the enterprise of Helias. There is nothing wonderful in this. It is a case which often happens. The original cause of a war is forgotten, and the fault of the original enemy is forgiven, when a new enemy has given fresh offence. William was so wroth at Helias for seizing Le Mans, that he forgot any quarrels of earlier date. If Hildebert was clear on that score, William could pass by all that had gone before. He was therefore at this moment ready to forgive Hildebert in his wrath against Helias. But the old enemies of Hildebert in the Chapter were ready, for the sake of the old grudge, to turn against Helias. The chances are that Hildebert had nothing to do with the return of Helias, but that the towers of the cathedral were turned by Helias to military uses. Hildebert most likely deemed—​and, as events proved, more wisely than either the Count or the citizens—​that the enterprise of Helias was rash, and therefore unjustifiable. This would turn him, at least for the time, into an enemy of Helias, if not into a partisan of Rufus. The Biographer takes up this tone. It may be with a little feeling of spite that he records (see p. 281) the way in which the loyalty of the citizens towards the Count not unnaturally cooled after the fire. There is certainly such a feeling in the passage (see p. 287) where he speaks of Helias as flying, “saluti suæ consulens,” while Orderic rather describes him as swept away in a general flight. But this tone lasts only through the year 1099. When Helias comes back in 1100, all seems to be made up again; we now hear (Vet. An. 309, 311) of the “liberalitas” of the “liberalis comes;” the Normans are “hostes” and Helias brings back peace. That is to say, as the story shows, the Count and the Bishop were again reconciled, and the Biographer follows the lead of the Bishop.

But we need not wonder at the tone of the Biographer, if we know the tone of the Bishop himself. In a letter printed in Duchèsne’s French collection, iv. 247, Hildebert speaks of a space of three years, “peractum triennium,” within which time Le Mans has had six counts, all of them enemies to peace (“tam modico tempore sex in urbe sustinuimus consules, quorum nullus pacificum prætendens ingressum, gladiis et igne curtam sibi vendicavit potestatem.” It is certainly very hard to reckon up six counts in three years, seemingly the years 1096–1099. In twelve years (1087–1099) not more than five counts—​William the Great, Robert, Hugh, Helias, William Rufus—​can be made out, unless Helias, with his two reigns, is reckoned twice over. Hildebert then goes on;

“Plebe coacta in favorem, tyrannum suscepit ex necessitate, non ducem ex lege: in susceptum studia simulavit, non exhibuit. Fidem reperit in ea, quia superior. Consul vero tanto gravius dominatus est quanto brevius. Miles ejus simulatis usus injuriis, eos scelerum judicavit expertes quos rerum. Et quia non parcit populis regnum breve, finem rapinis inopia posuit, non voluntas.”

This certainly reads most like a description of the reign of Hugh; but in what follows we surely see the events of 1098 and 1099;

“Ea clades usque ad sanctuarium Domini pervagata est, et primo quidquid extra muros nostræ fuerat potestatis, vel evanuit in favillas vel dissipatum est in rapinam. Deinde similibus cecidere præjudiciis episcopales domus et ecclesiæ non paucæ. In reliquis quibus ignis pepercit æque periclitata est et facultas pauperum et reverentia sacerdotum. Omnia confracta sunt, omnia direpta, omnia contaminata. Nihil eorum manus evasit qui gratis ad flagitium discurrunt, ad honestum nec pretio.”

To what does all this refer? It reads most like a description of the Red King’s harryings at Coulaines in 1098 (see p. 234); but no one is mentioned, whereas the “Rex Anglicus” and his “tyrannis” are openly spoken of further on in the letter. And it is strange, if in all this there is no reference to the fire of 1099. Did Hildebert attribute the fire to Helias, and does that account for any enmity towards him? Yet the version of the Biographer as clearly makes the fire the work of the Normans as the version of Orderic. Helias is not mentioned by name, nor is any recorded act of his distinctly mentioned. The passage is obscure, most likely purposely obscure. It might be so construed as to attribute all mischief to Helias; it might be so construed as not to lay any particular act to his charge. But in any case Helias would at least come under the general condemnation which is pronounced upon all the counts of Maine, be they six or fewer. No friend of Helias could have so spoken; and it is plain that, when Bishop Hildebert wrote the letter, he was—​very naturally—​not a little angry, if not with Helias in particular, yet at least with a class of men among whom Helias must be reckoned.

Of the rest of the letter I shall have to speak in another Note.

NOTE LL. Vol. ii. p. 238.

The Surrender of Le Mans to William Rufus.

It is not very easy at first sight to reconcile our accounts of the negotiations which led to the surrender of Le Mans in August 1098. Yet there seems to be no direct contradiction of any moment. It seems not impossible that the difference is merely one of those cases where one writer gives prominence to some feature in the story which another writer leaves out.

According to all accounts, Le Mans was at this time in the possession of Fulk of Anjou. Orderic (see p. 237) makes him personally present in the city; the Biographer of the Bishops does not say whether he was there or not. But in any case the city had admitted his authority in May and had not yet thrown it off. Fulk was therefore fully in a position to negotiate with William, while Helias, who was a prisoner in William’s hands, was not strictly in a position to negotiate with anybody. Yet the Biographer makes no mention of Fulk as an actor or a party to the treaty, but only as one of whose devices Helias was afraid. In his version Bishop Hildebert and some of the chief men of Le Mans first, by the King’s leave, visit the captive Count, and agree on terms with him; then they draw up a treaty with the King according to those terms. The tale runs thus (Vet. An. 306);

“Helias timens ne Fulco comes proscriptioni ejus intenderet, manduvit ad se episcopum et quosdam ex primoribus civitatis ex consensu regis, et cœpit agere cum eis, eosque suppliciter deprecari, quatenus casibus illius condolentes, modis omnibus niterentur, qualiter civitatem regi traderent, ipsumque a vinculis liberarent. Timebat enim quod Fulco comes, regis deceptus muneribus, cum eo pacem faceret, atque civitate tradita perpetuo damnaretur exsilio. Episcopus autem et qui cum eo venerant, ejus angustias miserantes, cum rege de ejus liberatione locuti, cum eo tale pactum fecerunt, ut si eorum consilio atque ingenio sibi civitas traderetur, ipse Heliam comitem quietum et liberum abire permitteret.”

He adds, hurrying matters a little; “Quod negotium industria præsulis celerius quam sperabatur effectum, eodemque tempore et regi civitas et consuli abeundi libertas reddita est.”

Orderic, on the other hand (772 D), has a version in which there is no mention of any dealings with Helias, but which makes William and Fulk—​the latter, it would seem, under some pressure—​agree on terms substantially the same as those stated in the other account. His version runs thus;

“Andegavenses autem cum Cenomannis consiliati sunt, et sese Normannis in omnibus inferiores compererunt, unde colloquium inter regem et consulem procuraverunt. Ibi tunc, auxiliante Deo, necessaria pax inter eos facta est, et inde multis pro pluribus causis utriusque populi gaudium ingens exortum est. Requisitum est et concessum ut Helias comes et omnes qui capti fuerant ex utraque parte redderentur, et Cenomannis et omnia castra quæ Guillelmus rex habuerat Rufo filio ejus subjugarentur.”

The joy of which Orderic speaks clearly did not extend to Angers. The Chronicle of Saint Albinus (1098) puts things in quite another light; “Quam [Cenomanniam urbem] tribus mensibus retentam, Cenomanensibus, more suo, sibi fraudantibus et a se deficientibus, reddidit eam in amicitia præfato regi Anglorum, qui ipsam urbem magis pecunia quam viribus impugnabat jamque pene possidebat.”

Here we have no mention of Helias or of any dealings with him, nothing of any agreement between Fulk and William. The citizens of Le Mans fall away from the Angevin Count and betray their city to the King. And they fall away through the temptation which the Red King knew well how to bring to bear upon his other enemies, but of which there is no recorded instance in the whole history of the war of Maine. See p. 290.

The tone and effect of these stories is very different, and yet they seem quite capable of being put together. It is simply that each writer enlarges on the persons and things which he cares most about. The Biographer of the Bishops of course enlarges on the part taken by Hildebert; next to Hildebert, he has to tell of Helias. A mission of Hildebert to Helias was a thing which he could not leave out; the fact that the terms were settled between his own Bishop and his own Count was more interesting to him than the fact that those terms were put in the form of a formal treaty between two foreign princes. He cannot leave out the Norman king, but he can and does leave out the Angevin count. He speaks of a treaty between William and Fulk as a thing which was likely to happen; he leaves out the fact that it actually did happen. The Angevin Chronicler is angry at the loss of Le Mans, and is glad to speak of its loss as due altogether to Cenomannian treason or fickleness. Orderic alone, who is, more strictly than either of the others, telling the history of the campaign, and who is less influenced by local passion one way or another, brings out the diplomatic fact that the treaty was formally agreed to in a meeting between King William and Count Fulk. It must have taken the shape of an agreement of some kind between them, unless Fulk and his troops had been driven out of Le Mans by force. But this in no way shuts out the possibility of the dealings between Hildebert and Helias which are described by the Biographer. The state of things would seem to be this. The people of Le Mans, tired of Fulk, unable to have Helias, think that the best thing is to submit to William, but on terms which will secure at least the personal freedom of their native prince. Hildebert and his companions are allowed by William to confer with Helias. The results of the conference are put into the shape of a treaty between William and Fulk. Fulk is in no condition to resist William and the Cenomannian people together; he therefore accepts the treaty, doubtless against his will. Thus the accounts of Orderic and the Biographer seem simply to fill up gaps in one another. The Angevin chronicler simply gives a short and snarling summary of the actual result.

NOTE MM. Vol. ii. p. 239.

The Fortresses of Le Mans.

A great deal about the walls and the castle of Le Mans, as well as about several other points in the county of Maine, will be found in M. Hucher’s book, Études sur l’Histoire et les Monuments du Département de la Sarthe (Le Mans and Paris, 1856). M. Hucher however hardly carries his researches beyond the city itself; so that, while his remarks and the documents which he quotes tell us much about the “regia turris,” the castle close to the cathedral, he has but little to tell us about the fortress of Mont-Barbé, which is for our purpose of at least equal interest.

I have quoted elsewhere (N. C. iii. 207) some of the passages which record the building of at least two castles by the Conqueror, the royal tower and that of Mont-Barbé. In the extract from William of Jumièges for “ponte Barbato” we must read “monte.” Benoît, oddly enough, knew the name of Mont-Barbé, but did not know that of the royal tower (35735);

“Por ce i ferma deus chasteaus

Hauz, defensables, forz e beaus;
Li uns en out non Monbarbé:
Mais que issi fu apelé
Ne sai retraire ne ne truis.”

Wace, on the other hand (15014), in his wild chronology of all Cenomannian matters, makes William Rufus build this castle in the expedition of 1099;

“Li Reis vint el Mans fièrement,

Son hostel prist vers Saint Vincent.
Por grever cels de la cité
Fist la mote devant Barbé.”

But this story, though utterly out of its place, may possibly preserve a fact. The royal tower was undoubtedly built by the Conqueror after he had taken Le Mans in 1063 in order to secure the possession of the city. But Mont Barbé looks rather like one of the besieging castles made in order to get possession. Nothing is now left but the mound. William may conceivably have found this mound ready made. If not, his building of 1063 must have been of wood, though it may very likely have had a stone successor. The mound, not far from Saint Vincent’s abbey, stands in a private garden, and the visitor to Le Mans, unless he has local guidance, may very likely fail to find it. I missed it at my first visit in 1868, which must be my excuse for the rather vague language in the third volume of the Norman Conquest. I saw it for the first time in 1876, through the kindness of M. Henri Chardon, and again in 1879 with Mr. Parker and Mr. Fowler.

The question remains, Was there a Mons Barbatulus as well as a Mons Barbatus? The passages quoted from Orderic and William of Jumièges (N. C. vol. iii. p. 207) seem to imply it; only the odd thing is that the words of William of Jumièges seem to leave out the royal tower, and to speak of Barbatus and Barbatulus only. And one might take the words of Wace, “La mote devant Barbé,” to mean Barbatulus rather than Barbatus; only it would be hard to find another mota. Barbatulus is conjecturally, but with every likelihood, placed on the site of the present Lyceum, between Barbatus and the city.

The royal tower was built just outside the Roman wall, two of whose bastions, known as La Tour Margot—after Margaret, the promised bride of Robert?—and La Tour du Cavalier, were taken into its precinct. All these must be distinguished from the palace of the Counts (see N. C. vol. iii. p. 205) which stands on the Roman wall, almost in a line with the east end of the cathedral. It contains a window of the twelfth century, of great width, a feature characteristic of Le Mans. In this palace was the sainte chapelle of the Counts.

NOTE NN. Vol. ii. p. 240.

The Dates of the Building of Le Mans Cathedral.

I have more than once, in the History of the Norman Conquest, had to speak of the dates of the various parts of the church of Saint Julian at Le Mans. The subject is so closely connected with so many names which appear in our story that an inquiry of this kind can hardly be thought out of place. My later visits to Le Mans have enabled me to examine and consider several points again; and I am now inclined to think that there is very little, if anything, standing in the present church of an earlier date than William the Conqueror’s first taking of Le Mans in 1063. I have got some help from a local book, called “Recherches sur la Cathédrale du Mans. Par L’Abbé….” (Le Mans, 1872); but its architectural criticism is not of a high order. Another local book, “L’Ancien Chapitre Cathédral du Mans, par Armand Bellée, Archiviste de la Sarthe” (Le Mans, 1875), is a very thorough piece of capitular history, but it throws little light on the architecture.

The earliest church of which we have any certain account was a basilica of the ninth century. Saint Aldric, bishop from 832 to 856, rebuilt the cathedral church, of which he consecrated the eastern part in 834 and the rest in 835. I have for these dates to trust the author of the “Recherches sur la Cathédrale du Mans,” who quotes from a manuscript life of Aldric in the library at Le Mans. (I have seen the volume, and I could wish that it was in print.) The time allowed for the building is wonderfully short; but Aldric, if he did all that is attributed to him by the Biographer of the Bishops (Vet. An. 276), must have been a man of wonderful energy. There is nothing said directly of his works at Saint Julian’s; but they might almost be taken for granted when we hear of the many churches which he built and restored (“Ædificia quæ prædictus pontifex multipliciter a novo operatus est, et ecclesias sive nonnulla monasteria quæ a novo fundavit atque perficere et ornare studuit, necnon et restaurationes aliorum monasteriorum et ceterarum ecclesiarum,” &c. &c. &c). In the days of the next Bishop Robert (856–885) Le Mans was sacked by the Northmen and the church burned. We are of course met by the usual difficulty as to the amount of destruction which is implied in words of this kind; but it naturally led to a restoration, and to a new dedication, on which last point however it seems to have been thought needful to consult the Pope (“Matrem ecclesiam, a paganis incensam, diligenti studio renovavit, et ex consilio Romani antistitis jam denuo celeberrime consecravit;” 287*). We hear again (296*) of a dedication under Bishop Mainard (940–960); but not of any rebuilding, just as in some of the intermediate episcopates (Vet. An. 288* et seqq.) we hear a good deal about havoc and desecration, but nothing about actual destruction. The church of Aldric, allowing for the restorations of Robert and any later repairs, seems plainly to have stood till the days of Vulgrin (1055–1067), the earliest Bishop of Le Mans who has even an indirect share in the building of the present church. No work of his, unless possibly the merest fragments, seems to be now standing; but he was the beginner of a great work of rebuilding which gave us what we now see.

In the Life of Vulgrin (Vet. An. 312*) we are simply told that in 1060 he began the foundations of a new church on a greater scale (“Quinto ordinationis suæ anno fundamenta matris ecclesiæ ampliora quam fuerant, inchoavit, sed morte inopina superveniente perficere non potuit”). His foundations were badly laid and his work was unskilful; so that, while attempts were making under his successor Arnold (1067–1082) to prop it up, it fell down. Arnold accordingly destroyed the whole work of Vulgrin, and began again from a new foundation. The extent of his work is clearly marked. He finished the eastern limb, as far as its walls and outer roof were concerned; its internal adornments he left for his successor. Of the transepts with their towers he merely laid the foundations;

“Fabrica novæ ecclesiæ quam præsul Vulgrinus inchoaverat, fundamentorum mobilitate atque lapidum debilitate corrupta, innumera crepidine ruinam suam cœpit terribiliter minitari; quam dum artifices fulcire conantur, repentino fragore nocturno tempore collapsa est…. Inde … episcopus totam cœpti operis fabricam usque ad ima fundamenta destruens, denuo ipsam ecclesiam fundamento firmiori et solidiori lapide construere cœpit, et parti superiori quæ vulgo cancellum nominatur etiam tectum imposuit, membrorum quoque quæ cruces vocantur atque turrium solidissima fundamenta antequam moreretur instituens” (313*).

That he added only the outer roof is plain from what we read of his successor Howel (Vet. An. 289). As Howel adorned the “cancellum” with a pavement and stained glass windows, he also added a painted ceiling;

“Cancellum quod ejus antecessor construxerat pavimento decoravit et cœlo, vitreas quoque per ipsum cancellum, per quod cruces circum quoque laudabili sed sumptuosa nimium artis varietate disponens.”

So again, p. 299;

“Cœpit … superiores partes ejusdem basilicæ diligenti sollicitudine laborare, oratorium scilicet quod chorum vocitant sedemque pontificalem, altaria congrua dimensione disponere, pavimenta substernere, columnas ac laquearia gratissima varietate depingere, parietes per circuitum dealbare.”

Howel also finished the transepts and towers of which Arnold had merely laid the foundations (Vet. An. 289);

“Fabricam novæ ecclesiæ … tanto studio aggressus est consummare ut cruces atque turres, quarum antecessor ipsius … jecerat fundamenta brevi tempore ad effectum perduxit.”

We see then what the work of Vulgrin and Arnold was. It touched the eastern part only; Aldric’s nave was left alone. The original church was a basilica, most likely with three apses, but without transepts. The new design was to rebuild the eastern part on a greater scale with transepts, transept towers (like Geneva and Exeter), and a choir ending in an apse with a surrounding aisle and chapels—​as is shown by the mention of many altars. The arrangement was that of the two other great churches of Le Mans, La Couture and Saint Julian in the Meadow, with the single exception of the towers, which do not appear in either of those churches. Arnold built the choir, and began the transepts and towers; Howel adorned the choir and finished the transepts and towers. There is nothing to imply that either of them touched the nave. The arcades of Aldric’s basilica were therefore still standing when William the Great came in 1063 and again in 1073. The work of Vulgrin in the eastern part was doubtless going on at the earlier of those two dates, and that of Arnold at the later.

It must be plain to every one who has seen the building that the work of these bishops in the eastern part of the church has given way to the later choir and transepts. The choir was built between 1218 and 1254, and its great extension to the east involved, as at Lincoln, the destruction of part of the Roman wall. The transepts were built at several times from 1303 to 1424. They are among the very noblest works of the architecture of those centuries; but we may be allowed to rejoice that, as the works of Vulgrin and Arnold left Aldric’s nave standing, so the great works of the thirteenth century and later have left the nave which succeeded that of Aldric. With all its artistic loveliness, the work of the later day cannot share the historic interest of the works of the times of William and Howel, of Helias and Hildebert.

In the present nave it is plain at the first glance that there are two dates of Romanesque; a further examination may perhaps lead to the belief that there are more than two. It is easy to see outside that the aisles and the clerestory are of different dates. The masonry of the aisles is of that Roman type which, in places like Le Mans, where Roman models were abundant, remained in use far into the middle ages, and which in some places can hardly be said to have ever gone out of use at all. The masonry of the clerestory is ashlar. The difference is equally clear between the plain single windows of the aisles and the highly finished coupled windows of the clerestory. Inside, the eye soon sees that the design has undergone a singular change. Without the pulling down of any part, the church put on a new character. Columns supporting round arches after the manner of a basilica were changed into a series of alternate columns and square piers supporting obtusely pointed arches. Each pair of arches therefore forms a couplet, and answers to a single bay of the pointed vaulting and a single pair of windows in the clerestory. The object clearly was to give the building as nearly the air of an Angevin nave, like that of La Couture (see N. C. vol. v. p. 619), as could be given where there were real piers and arches. Now this reconstruction, one which brings in the pointed arch, cannot possibly be earlier than the episcopate of William of Passavant, Bishop from 1143 to 1187. He was a great builder; he translated the body of Saint Julian (Vet. An. 366); he celebrated a dedication of the church (Ib. 370), which my local book fixes, seemingly from manuscripts, to 1158, a date a little early perhaps for such advanced work, but not impossible. To William of Passavant then we must attribute the recasting of the nave, and whatever else seems to be of the same date. To this last head belongs the great south porch, and, I should be inclined to add, the lower part of the southern, the only remaining, tower, though some assign it to Hildebert. The question now comes, What was the nave which William of Passavant recast in this fashion, and whose work was it?

We have seen that we cannot attribute any work in the nave to any prelate earlier than Howel. He must have found the nave of the ninth century still standing. Did he do anything in that part of the church? He performed a ceremony of dedication in 1093 (Vet. An. 300); but that would be fully accounted for by his works in the eastern part. On the other hand, Hildebert celebrated in 1120 (Vet. An. 320) a specially solemn dedication, and the words used seem to imply that the church was now complete in all its parts. The words of Orderic (531 D) seem express. Howel began to build the church (“episcopalem basilicam … condere cœpit”); Hildebert finished it (“basilicam episcopii quam prædecessor ejus inchoaverat, consummavit, et cum ingenti populorum tripudio veneranter dedicavit”). It is doubtless not strictly true that Howel began the church, words which shut out the work of Vulgrin and Arnold; but the time when Orderic wrote makes him a better authority for Hildebert’s finishing than for Howel’s beginning, and the expression might easily be used if Howel began that particular work, namely the nave, which Hildebert finished. I do not think that we need infer from certain expressions of the Biographer that Hildebert left the nave, or any essential part of the building, unfinished. He says indeed (Vet. An. 320);

“Hildebertus opus ecclesiæ, quod per longa tempora protractum fuerat, suo tempore insistens consummare, dedicationem ultra quam res exposcebat accelerans, multa inibi necessaria inexpleta præteriit.”

Comparing this with the words of Orderic, this surely need not mean more than that, though the fabric was perfect, yet much of the ornamental work was left unfinished. Hildebert, in short, left the nave much as Arnold left the choir. At least the nave was in this case when he dedicated the church. For he had time after the dedication to make good anything that was imperfect.

We should then infer from Orderic that the nave which William of Passavant recast was begun by Howel and finished by Hildebert. This may give us the key to a passage in the Biographer on which we might otherwise be inclined to put another meaning. After describing Howel’s building of the transepts in the words quoted above in p. 635, he goes on (289);

“Eisque [crucibus] celeriter culmen imponens, exteriores etiam parietes, quos alas vocant, per circuitum consummavit.”

One might have been tempted to take this of transept aisles; but, weighing one thing with another, it seems to be best understood as meaning that Howel rebuilt the whole of the outer walls of the nave and its aisles. This would give to him the whole extent of the quasi-Roman work of the aisles, together with the great western doorway. The interior work of the aisles seems also to agree with his date. We must therefore suppose that Howel rebuilt the nave aisles only, still leaving the arches of Aldric’s basilica. Then Hildebert rebuilt or thoroughly restored the nave itself, with the columns and arches and whatever they carried in the way of triforium and clerestory. We may therefore suppose that the existing columns, as distinguished from the square piers, are his work, though the splendid capitals of many of them must have been added or carved out of the block in the recasting by William of Passavant.

There is however one fragment of the nave arcades which is older than Hildebert, very likely older than Howel. This is to be seen in the first pier from the east. I need not say that the eastern bay of a nave often belongs to an older work than the rest, being in truth part of the eastern limb continued so far—​perhaps for constructive reasons, to act as a buttress—​perhaps for ritual reasons, to mark the ritual choir—​very often for both reasons combined. One of the best examples is that small part of the nave of Durham abbey which belongs to the work of William of Saint-Calais (see N. C. vol. v. p. 631). At this point then in the nave of Le Mans, we find half columns with capitals and bases of a strangely rude kind, more like Primitive Romanesque (see N. C. vol. v. pp. 613, 618, 628) than anything either Norman or Angevin. These are assuredly not the work of Hildebert. There is one argument for assigning them to Howel, namely that something of the same kind is to be found in the remains of the northern tower of which I shall speak in another Note (see below, Note RR). But if any one holds them to be the work of Arnold or of Vulgrin, or even looks on them as a surviving fragment of the basilica of the days of Lewis the Pious, I shall not dispute against him.

I must add however that, between Hildebert and William of Passavant, we have, according to the use of Le Mans, to account for two fires—“solita civitatis incendia,” as the Biographer (Vet. An. 349) calls them—​and their consequences. In 1134 there was a fire which, according to the Biographer (350), was more fearful than any which had ever happened at Le Mans since the city was built, not even excepting the great one of 1098. Everything perished. “Tota Cenomannensis civitas cum omnibus ecclesiis quæ intra muros continebantur, evanuit in favillas.” We read of the “matris ecclesiæ destructio” and “combustio,” all the more lamentable because of its beauty—“ipsa enim tam venustate sui quam claritate tunc temporis vicinis et remotis excellebat ecclesiis.” So Orderic (899 B); “Tunc Cenomannis episcopalis basilica, quæ pulcherrima erat, concremata est.” The then Bishop, Guy of Étampes (1126–1136), spent two hundred pounds in trying to repair the damage; “Ad cujus restaurationem cc. libras Cenomannenses dedit, sine mora contulit, et omnibus modis desudavit quomodo ipsa ad perpetuitatem decenter potuisset restaurari.” Under the next Bishop, Hugh of Saint-Calais (1146–1153), there was another fire, the account of which is very curious (Vet. An. 349);

“Ignis circa meridiem a vico sancti Vincentii prosiliens, sibi opposita usque ad muros civitatis et domos episcopales, tegmenque sacelli beati Juliani adhuc stramineum, cum fenestris vitreis concremavit et macerias, et in summis imagines sculptas lapidibus deturbavit.”

The people break open the shrine of Saint Julian in order to save his body, which they carry to the place where the Bishop was. The Bishop seems to have repaired the episcopal buildings before he touched the church, and the details have some interest in the history of domestic architecture (“domum petrinam ex parte sancti Audoëni positam, decenti solariorum interpositu numerosas fenestras habentium cum sua camera continuavit”). Presently we read;

“Beatissimum patrem nostrum Julianum ipso die a lignea basilica in occidentali membro ecclesiæ intra macerias facta, post incendium in qua fere triennio requieverat, in redivivam sollenniter, clero cantibus insultante, populo congaudente, transtulerunt ecclesiam.”

We do not hear of any more building, but there is a long list (Vet. An. 354) of the ornaments which Bishop Hugh gave to the Church.

Some of the expressions used in these passages are very odd. “Sacellum beati Juliani” is a strange phrase for the cathedral church, and yet the thatched roof and the glass windows must be spoken of a building and not of a mere shrine. It is Saint Julian’s church itself whose roof and windows are spoken of. But the phrase “lignea basilica,” which makes one think of Glastonbury, must not lead us to think that any wooden church of early days was then standing at Le Mans. The whole story seems quite intelligible, without supposing any really architectural work between Hildebert and William of Passavant. The language of the Biographer in describing the fire of 1134 is, as so often happens, very much exaggerated. His own account shows that the walls of the church were left standing. It looks on the whole as if the roof was destroyed in 1134. It was hastily repaired with thatch. It was burned again, and the clerestory (“fenestræ vitreæ”) with it, at the next fire in 1146–1153. The whole church perhaps remained for a while unfit for divine service. Then some wooden structure (“lignea basilica”) was raised within the walls of the nave (“in occidentali membro ecclesiæ intra macerias facta”). Meanwhile Bishop Hugh repaired the choir (“rediviva ecclesia”), seemingly doing nothing to the nave. Bishop William, finding things in this state, rebuilt the clerestory and vaulted it Angevin fashion. So to do required that every alternate column of the nave should be built up into a square pier. This again required a change in the line of the arches, and, according to the fashion just coming in, they were made obtusely pointed. If any one thinks that the superb foliage of the nave capitals must be later than 1158, he may hold that they were cut out afterwards, or he may even hold that Bishop William’s dedication in that year belongs only to the eastern parts—​where something was clearly done in his time or thereabouts—​and that the whole recasting of the nave came later in his long episcopate.

I am not writing an architectural history of the church of Saint Julian, and I have perhaps, as it is, gone more into detail than my subject called for. I think that any one who has been at Le Mans will forgive me. But there are many architectural points in this wonderful church on which I have not entered. There is much also in the other two minsters of Le Mans which throws much light on the work at Saint Julian’s. I have merely tried in a general way to assign to their most probable dates and founders the different parts of a church which so often meets us in our present history.

NOTE OO. Vol. ii. p. 242.

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. 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? 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;

“Vive, licet nolis, et nostro munere, dixit,

Cerne diem, victis jam spes bona partibus esto,
Exemplumque mei: vel, si libet, arma retenta,
Et nihil hac venia, si viceris ipse, paciscor.”

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);

“Mais or vos dirai une rien:

Par monseignor Saint-Julien,
Se jo ne fusse si tost pris,
Mult éust poi en cest païs.
El rei eusse fait tant guerre,
Ke dechà la mer d’Engleterre
Plein pié de terre n’en éust,
Ne tur ne chastel ki suen feust;
Maiz altrement est avenu,
Il a cunquis è jo perdu.”

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;

“Dunc le fist li reis amener,

E des buies le fist oster,
Son palefrei fist demander
E mult richement enseler;
El conte dit: Dans quens, muntez
Alez kel part ke vos volez,
Fetes al mielx ke vos porrez,
Maiz altre feiz mielx vos gardez;
Kar se jo vos prene altre feiz,
Jamez de ma prison n’iestreiz.
Ne voil mie ke vos kuideiz
Ke de guerre sorpris seiz,
Mais vos n’ireiz jà nule part,
Ke jo près dos ne vos gart.”
(vv. 15134–15147.)

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;

“Li quiens des Mans ert en prison,

Aüner voleit grant rançon;
Mès ceo diseit que, s’il séust
Qe l’om issi prendre le deust,
Tut autrement se contenist,
Li rois les Mans jà ne préist.”

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;

“Quant fut conté devant le roi,

Si le fist mener devant soi;
Par bel amur li ad demandé
S’il estoit issi vaunté
Cil respondit: ‘Sire, jo’l dis,
Mult sui amé en cest païs.
Il n’ad souz ciel si fort roi,
Si par force venist sus moi,
Qu’il ne perdist, si jeo le seusse,
Pur quei ma gent assemblé eusse.’
Li rois, quant l’ot, si prent à rire:
Par bel amur et nient par ire,
Li comanda q’il s’en alast,
Préist les Mans, s’il guerreiast.
Et cil fui lez, si s’en ala.
Touz ses chastels renduz li a
Li rois par bone volonté,
Rendit les Mans la forte cité.”

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 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;

“Et cil manda pur ses barons,

Moveir voloit les contençons,
Mès si baron li ont loé
Qu’il rende au roi la cité
Et les chasteus de son païs,
Son hom lige seit tuz dis.
Li quens Elyes issi fist,
Onc ses homes n’en contredist.
Et s’il issi ne l’éust fet
Mult fust entre els en amur plet;
Li rois par force les préist
Et de vile mort les occeist.”

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.

NOTE PP. Vol. ii. p. 284.

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 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.

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);

“O nimium dilecte Deo, cui fundit ab antris

Æolus armatas hiemes, cui militat æther,
Et conjurati veniunt ad classica venti.”

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

“Nonne vides, operum quo se pulcherrimus ille

Mundus amore ligat, nec vi connexa per ævum
Conspirant elementa sibi?”

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;”

“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;

“En Engleterre esteit li reis,

Mult out Normanz, mult out Engleis;
Brachez aveit fet demander,
En boiz voloit aler berser.
Eis vus par là un sergeant
Ki d’ultre mer veneit errant;
Li reis l’a mult tost entercié;
El Mans garder l’aveit leissié,
Crié li a è dist de luing;
Ke font el Mans, out il busuing?
Sire, dist-il, li Mans est pris,
Li quens Helies s’est enz mis,
La cité a Helies prise,
E la tor ad entor assise;
Normanz ki dedenz sa defendent.”

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;

“Mult aveit od li chevaliers

E dameisels et esquiers.”

But the son,

“Mult out Normanz, mult out Engleis.”

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 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;

“Li reis mua tot son corage

Dès ke il oï li message.
Li vo de Luche en a juré
Ke mult sera chier comperé.
Cest serement aveit en us,
Ne faiseit nul serement plus.”

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;

“D’ore en wit jors el Mans serai,

Dunc se Dex plaist les secorrai.”

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;

“Une maiziere li mostrerent,

Ço distrent ke il Mans ert là,
E ço dist ke par la ira;
Por cenz mars d’argent, ço diseit,
Del Mans cenz piez n’esluingnereit
De là, ù il ses piez teneit,
Quant li besuing del Mans oeit,
Dunc fist abatre la maiziere,
Ki mult esteit bone et entiere;
La maiziere fu abatue
E fete fu si grant l’issue
Ke li Reis Ros è li vassal
I passerent tuit à cheval.”

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;

“Unkes, dist-il, n’oï parler

De Rei ki fu néié en mer;
Fetes vos nés el parfont traire,
Essaïez ke porreiz faire.”

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

“‘Tenez cest bref, sire reis.’

Li reis le prist, tost le fruissat,
Ranulf Flambard le bref baillat.”

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);

“Et il od mesnée privée,

Vint à la mier, si l’ad passée,
Encontre vent la mier passa.
Le stieresman li demanda
S’il voleit contre vent aler
Et périller enz en la mier.
Li rois respont; ‘N’estœt parler,
Onques ne veistes roi néer,
Ne jéo n’ierc jà le primer.
Fetes vos eschipes nager.’
Tant ont nagé et governé
Q’en Barbefloe e sont arivé.
Il out de privée meisnée
Mil-et-ii cenz à cele fiée.
Tuit erent riches chevaliers;
Sacez, li rois les out mult chers.”

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

“Si fu de passer corajos,

Volunteris e desiros:
Mais mult furent li vent contraire
E la mers pesme e deputaire.”

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

“E li reis corajos e proz

Responeit e diseit a toz
C’unques n’aveit oï parler
De ré qui fust neiez en mer,
N’il ne sera jà li premiers.”

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.

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.’”

NOTE QQ. Vol. ii. p. 289.

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 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;

“Partant sunt del siège méu

A peine fussent retenu.
Li siège par treis dis failli,
Li reis si tint mal bailli
Del siège k’il ne pout tenir,
E de l’ost k’il vit despartir.
Ne pout cels de l’ost arester
Ne il n’oserent retorner;
Par veies fuient è par chans,
Dunc est li reis venu el Mans.”

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.

NOTE RR. Vol. ii. p. 297.

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 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 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.

NOTE SS. Vol. ii. p. 320.

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 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 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);

“A un matin qu’il fu leuez,

Ses compaignons a demandez,
A toz a saetes donees,
Que li esteient presentees.
Gaulter Tirel, un cheualier
Qui en la cort esteit mult chier,
Une saete del rei prist
Donc il l’ocist si com l’en dist.”

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;

“Ne sai qui traist ne qui laissa,

Ne qui feri, ne qui bersa,
Mais co dist l’en, ne sai sel fist,
Que Tirel traist, le rei ocist.
Plusors dient qu’il trebucha,
En sa cote s’empeecha,
E sa saete trestorna
E al chaeir el rei cola.
Alquanz dient que Tirel uolt
Ferir un cerf qui trespassout.
Entre lui e le rei coreit:
Cil traist qui entese aueit;
Mais la saete glaceia,
La fleche a un arbre freia,
E la saete trauersa,
Le rei feri, mort le rua.
E Gauter Tirel fost corut
La ou li reis chai e iut.”

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;

“En la foreste estoit li rois,

En l’espesse, juste un maroi.
Talent li prist d’un cerf berser
Qu’en une herde vist aler,
Dejuste une arbre est descendu,
Il méisme ad son arc tendu.
Partut descendent li baron,
Li autre ensement d’environ.
Wauter Tirel est descenduz;
Trop près de roi, lez un sambuz,
Après un tremble s’adossa.
Si cum la herde trespassa
Et le grant cerf a mes li vint,
Entesa l’arc qu’en sa main tint,
Une seete barbelée
Ad tret par male destinée.
Jà avint si qu’au cerf faillit
De ci qu’au queor le roi férit.
Une seete au queor li vint
Mès ne savom qi l’arc sustint;
Mès ceo distrent li autre archer
Qu’ele eissi del arc Wauter.
Semblant en fut, car tost fuit;
Il eschapa. Li rois chéit,
Par iij. foiz s’est escriez,
Le corps diũ a demandez;
Mès n’i fut qui le li donast,
Loingnz fut del mouster en un wast;
Et nequedent un venéour
Prist des herbes od tut la flour,
Un poi en fist au roi manger,
Issi le quida acomunier.
En Dieu est ço et estre doit:
Il avoit pris pain bénoit
Le dimenge de devant:
Ceo li deit estre bon garant.”

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);

“Veirs est e chose coneue

C’une haors avoit eue
Od l’evesque de Rovecestre,
Qui chapelains est e deit estre
L’arcevesque de Cantorbire:
E por c’ert vers le rei en ire
Que Saint Anseaume aveit chacié
E fors de la terre essilié.
Cil evesque de Rovecestre
Ert à lui venuz à Wincestre
Por pais requerre e demander,
Mais ne la poeit pas trover;
E li bons hom plein de pitié
Out mult Nostre-Seignor preié
Que de cele grant mesestance
Eust e cure e remembrance.”

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);

“Quant il regardout sor l’autel,

Si i veeit, ce li ert vis,
Un mult grant cerf qui ert ocis,
Por eschiver le grant renei
Que il voleit faire de sei,
Alout e si ’n voleit manger;
Kar c’erent tuit si desirer.
La où il i tendeit la main,
Si li ert vis s’ert bien certain,
Que c’ert cors d’ome apertement
Ocis e nafré et sanglent.”

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;

“Simple e od bone volunté

Out li reis en pais esculté,
Bien sont e conut la raison
De cele interpretation,
Assez pramist amendement
Donc de sa vie doucement
Al saint evesque a pardoné
Tote sa male volonté
Quant sa grace out e son congé.
Mult s’en torna joios e lié.”

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;

“E si vaslet furent hoesé

E en lor chaceors munté,
Les arcs ès mains, gamiz e presz,
E detrès eus lor bons brachez;
Abaient chens e sonent corns,
Monté atendent le rei fors.”

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

“Avoi! fait-il, seignors, avoi!

Uncor sui-je plus maus assez
E plus cent tant que vos ne quidez;
Mais c’est la fin, remis m’en sui,
Que je n’irai mais en bois ui.
Ne voil por rien qu’alé i seie
Ne que jamais la forest veie.”

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;

“Mais tant li mostre li reis Ros

Que c’il r’a d’aïr entesée
Une sajette barbelée,
E deiables tant l’a conveié[e]
Qu’à un gros raim fiert e glaceie.
Le rei feri delez le quor.”

His speech to his accidental slayer is most pious;

“Va-t’en, fui-tei senz demorer,

Kar mort m’as par ma grant enfance.
Ci a Deus pris de mei venjance:
Or li cri merci e soplei
Qu’il ait oi merci de mei
Par sa sainte chere douçor,
Kar mult sui vers lui peccheor.”

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,” 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;

“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, 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.”

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.

“Þat þe kẏng eode into a chẏrche, as fers man and wod,
And wel hokerlẏche bẏ held þe folc þat þere stod.
To þe rode he sturte, and bẏgan to frete and gnawe
Þe armes vaste, and þẏes mẏd hẏs teþ to drawe.
Þe rode ẏt þolede long, ac suþþe atte laste
He pulte hẏm wẏt vot, and adoun vp rẏgt hẏm caste.”

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;

“Vor þe Deuel was þer byuore þer aboute ẏseẏe

In fourme of bodẏ, and spec al so mẏd men of þe countreẏe.”

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 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;

“So þat þe kẏng was adrad and bẏleuede vor such cas

To wende er non an honteþ, þe wule he vastyng was.
Ac after mete, þo he adde ẏete and ẏdronke wel,
He nom on of hẏs priues, þat het Water Tẏrel,
And a uewe oþere of hẏs men, and nolde non lenger abẏde,
Þat he nolde to hẏs game, tẏde wat so bẏtẏde.”

The actual account of his death stands thus;

“He prẏkede after vaste ẏnou toward þe West rẏgt.
Hẏs honden he huld byuore hẏs eẏn vor þe sonne lẏgt.
So þat þẏs Water Tẏrel, þat þer bysẏde was neẏ,
Wolde ssete anoþer hert, þat, as he sede, he seẏ.
He sset þe kẏng in atte breste, þat neuer eft he ne speke,
Bote þe ssaft, þat was wẏþoute, grẏslẏch he to brec,
And anowarde hẏs wombe vel adoun, and deẏde without spech,
Wẏþoute ssrẏft and hosel, anon þer was Gode’s wreche.
Þo Water Tẏrel ẏseẏ, þat he was ded, anon
He atornde, as vaste as he mẏgte, þat was hẏs best won.”

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;

“Par un Jovedy à vespre le ray ala cocher

En la Nove Forest, où devayt veneyer.
Si tost fu endormy, comença sounger
K’il fust en sa chapele, soul saunz esquyer,
Les us furent fermés k’yl ne pout passer;
Si graunt faym avayt, ke l’estout manger,
Ou mourir de faym, ou tost arager.
Il n’ad payn ne char, ne pessoun de mer;
Il prent et devoure le ymage sur le auter,
La Marye et le fiz, saunz rens là lesser.
Al matyn, kaunt il leve, le eveske fet maunder,
Ode de Wyncestre, et ly va counter
Tut cum ly avynt en sun somoyller.
Le eveske ly dist, ‘Sir rays, Deus est rays saunz per;
Tu l’as coroucez, te covent amender
Par penaunce, et desore plus sovent amer.
Par Vendredy en boys ne devez mes chacer,
Ne à la ryvere of faucoun chuvaucher;
Tel est ta penaunce, et tu le days garder.’
Le eveske ad pris congé, et vait à sun maner;
Après la messe oye, ala le rays juer,
Sa penaunce oblye, fet maunder ly archer,
Walter Tirel i fust, ke set del mister,
Ad sun tristre vayt, la beste va wayter,
Un cerf hors de l’herd comença launcer;
Et ly Frauncays Tyrel se pressayt à seter,
Quide ferir la beste, et fert le rays al quer
Kaunt le eveske l’oyt dire, fist trop mourne cher.
Le cors à, Wyncestre fist le eveske porter,
Et mettre en toumbe al mouster saynt Per.
[Prioms qe sire Dieu pardoun li voile doner.]”

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, 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 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 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 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;

“Wauter estoit un riches hom,

De France ert per del région.
Piez estoit soen un fort chastel,
Assez avoir de son avel.
Au roi estoit venu servir
Douns et soudées recoverir,
Per grant cherté ert recuilliz,
Assez ert bien del roi chériz.
Pur ceo q’estranges homs estoit,
Le gentil roi le chérissoit.”

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 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 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 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.

APPENDIX TT. Vol. ii. p. 338

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;

“Donc véissez valez descendre

Et venéours lur haches tendre.
Tost furent trenche li fussel
De quai firent li mainel.
Deus blertrons troevent trenchez;
Bien sont léger et ensechez,
Ne sont trop gros, mès longs estoient;
Tut à mesure les conreient,
De lur ceintures e de peitrels
Lient estreit les mainels,
Puis firent lit en la bière.
De beles flours et de feugère,
Ij palefreis ont amenez,
Od riches freinz, bien enseelez;
Sur ceus ij. couchent la bière;
N’ert pas pesante mès légère;
Puis i estendent un mantel
Qui ert de paille tut novel.
Le fiz Aimon le défoubla,
Robert, qi son seignur ama,
Sur la bière cuchent le roi,
Qe portoient le palefroi.
Enséveli fu en un tiret,
Dont Willam de Montfichet.
Le jour devant ert adubbé,
N’avoit esté k’un jor porté,
Le mantel gris donc il osta.”

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

“Tresque Wincestre n’ont finé,

Iloeques ont le roi posé
Enz el mouster Seint-Swithun.
Là s’assemblèrent li baron.
Et la clergié de la cité
Et li évesque et li abbé.
Li bons évesques Walkelin
Gaita le roi tresq’au matin.
O lui, moigne, clerc et abbé,
Bien ont léu et bien chanté
Leudemain font cele départie.
Tiele ne vit homme de vie,
Ne tant messes ne tiel servise
N’ert fet tresq’au jour de juise
Pur un roi, come pur li firent.
Tut autrement l’ensévelirent
Qe li baron n’avoient fet.
Là où Wauter out à lui tret.
Qui ceo ne creit aut à Wincestre,
Oïr porra si voir pœt estre.”

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;

“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.”

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, munitiones quas in Gallia possidebat expetiit, ibique minas et maledictiones malevolentium tutus irrisit.”

NOTE UU. Vol. ii. p. 347.

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 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 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].”

APPENDIX WW. Vol. ii. p. 384

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.

It is quite plain from Eadmer’s account that Eadgyth herself had not the slightest feeling against the marriage, but that she was eager for it; she disliked neither King Henry nor his crown. Nor has Anselm any objection, as soon as the evidence shows that no rule of the Church would be broken by the marriage. That he was strict in requiring such evidence was only natural and right; “Affirmabat nulla se unquam ratione in hoc declinandum ut suam Deo sponsam tollat et eam terreno homini in matrimonium jungat” (Eadmer, Hist. Nov. 56). But when the evidence shows that Eadgyth was not “Dei sponsa,” he makes no further objection. Nothing is proved by his use of a negative form, “judicium vestrum non abjicio” (Hist. Nov. 58). The sentimental objection which Hermann puts into his mouth seems quite out of character. Anselm takes the common-sense view; If she is a nun, she must not marry; if she is not a nun, she may. One can believe that Anselm would in his heart have preferred that any virgin should abide in the state which he deemed the higher. But he would hardly have stooped to say; “This marriage is perfectly lawful; but the veil has touched her head; so you had better marry somebody else.” In this and in the prophecy we surely see the beginning of the growth of a legend. Some legends of Anselm seem to have arisen in his life-time. This one could not, as no ill-luck happened to the children of the marriage till after Anselm was dead.

I am not sure that a very slight touch in the same direction may not be seen in the account of William of Malmesbury, v. 418; the words follow the passage quoted above, p. 603; “Cum rex suscipere vellet eam thalamo, res in disceptationem venit; nec nisi legitimis productis testibus, qui eam jurarent sine professione causa procorum velum gessisse, archiepiscopus adduci potuit ad consentiendum.”

William, it is to be noticed, does not repeat the English pedigree, on which in his former notice (v. 393) he was less emphatic than Eadmer. I do not know what can be meant by “ignobiles nuptiæ.” Hardly Count Alan; hardly Earl William of Warren or Surrey, who is also spoken of.

Thierry (ii. 152) has an elaborate romance, in which the father of Western theology comes in casually as “un moine du Bec, nommé Anselme.” Here Eadgyth dislikes the marriage, but sacrifices herself for the good of her people. All this comes from Matthew Paris, who has two amazing stories. In one (Hist. Angl. i. 188), though Malcolm and Margaret have been killed off at the proper time, they appear again in full life when King Henry seeks their daughter—“filia elegantissimæ speciei, et, quod pluris erat, vitæ sanctissimæ.” She was brought up in a monastery, perhaps as a nun (“in sanctimonialium claustro propter honestatem educata, et, ut dicitur, velo sacro Deo dicato ac jam professa”). King Henry woos her with much fervour of passion (“ipsam propter ipsius mores et faciei venustatem sitienter adoptavit, et instanter petiit in uxorem”). The parents dare not withstand such a lover; they go to ask their daughter’s own wishes. She rebukes them in fearful and mysterious words for speaking of any such matter (“increpans patrem et matrem de zelotipiæ præsumptione, nec ipsos debere de corpore suo fructum mortalitatis exposcere, vel fructum posteritatis infructuosum”). At this the father is sad; the mother is pleased by the decision of her daughter (“matri propositum puellare complacuit”). The King’s passion only waxes warmer; like Balak, he sends more honourable messengers; he commands, prays, promises, till he stumbles into a hexameter “missis sollemnioribus nuntiis, urgentius adolescentulam in reginam expostulans, imperium, promissa, preces, confudit in unum”). Malcolm, knowing that his wife will never agree to the marriage, turns, without her knowledge, to the abbess by whom his daughter had been brought up. The reverend mother is prevailed on to argue the point at length, and to set forth every possible argument, personal and political, on behalf of the marriage;

“Proponens utilitatem inde proventuram, scilicet regnorum fœdera, regum mutuam dilectionem, pacis tranquillitatem, propagationis posteritatem, reginalem dignitatem, honoris magnificentiam, divitiarum affluentiam, amoris desiderium, amatoris pulcritudinem.”

Father and abbess together are too much for the “beata virgo Matilda.” She yields, but only “maledicens fructui sui ventris affuturo.” Anselm marries them, “nuptiis sollemniter, ut decuit, celebratis;” but a contemporary note in the margin is added, “Nota nuptias illicitas.” And we are told that the disturbances which presently followed, the invasion of Robert and anything else, were all judgements on this unlawful marriage;

“Facta est commotio magna in regno, quasi Deo irato, quoniam rex Henricus zelotipaverat, et, sicut fratrem Robertum de regno supplantando alienaverat, sic Christum de sponsa sua defraudaverat.”

It is to be noticed that the writer who brings in all this action of Malcolm under the year 1101 had long before (i. 43) recorded his death in its proper place, or rather before its proper place, as he puts it in 1092 instead of 1093.

The other account comes in the Chronica Majora, ii. 121. It is chiefly remarkable for two speeches, the second of which is put into the mouth of Matilda herself. Matthew had just copied a business-like bit from Roger of Wendover (ii. 169), recording the marriage without comment; he then goes on to say that Matilda was married against her will, being won over by the importunity of kinsfolk and friends. The words are, “parentum et amicorum consiliis vix adquiescens; tandem tædio affecta, adquievit.” (“Parentes” may be taken by the charitably disposed in the wider French sense, but it must be remembered that in the other version Malcolm and Margaret are brought in as living in the year 1100.) This version is quite certain that Matilda had made a vow, but leaves it open whether she had actually taken the veil (“Cum Christiana matertera sancta sanctissime in claustro religionis educata fuerat, et votum virginitatis Deo spoponderat, et, ut multi perhibent, velum susceperat professæ religionis”). The kinsfolk and friends make a solemn appeal on patriotic grounds;

“O mulierum generosissima ac gratissima, per te reparabitur Anglorum genialis nobilitas, quæ diu degeneravit, et fœdus magnorum principum redintegrabitur, si matrimonio prælocuto consentias. Quod si non feceris, causa eris perennis inimicitiæ gentium diversarum, et sanguinis humani effusionis irrestaurabilis.”

Matilda, “virgo clementissima,” gets angry, and, in the bitterness of her soul, uses yet stronger language than she does in the other version;

“Ex quo sic oportet fieri, utcunque consentio, sed fructum ventris mei, quod est horribile dictu, diabolo commendo. Me enim Deo vovi, quod non sinistis, immo sponsum meum, quem elegi, ausu temerario, immemores causæ sancti Matthæi apostoli, zelotipatis.”

We are then told of the vehement love of the King for the wife whom he had thus wrongfully married;

“Sic igitur nuptiæ magnifice, ut decuit, celebrabantur, et tanto ardentius exarsit rex in ipsius amorem, quanto scelestius adamavit. Secundum illud poeticum

“Nitimur in vetitum semper.”

Peccato igitur exigente, facta est commotio subito in regno.”

From this point Matthew goes on copying Roger of Wendover’s account of Robert’s invasion, but putting in bits of colouring of his own. When Henry sends his fleet to meet that of Robert, we are told that he does it “conscientiam habens multipliciter cauteriatam.” And when some of the sailors (see p. 404)—​who are enlarged by Robert of Wendover into “pars major exercitus”—​go over to Robert, the reason for their so doing is said to be “quia rex jam tyrannizaverat.”

There is something very strange in this echo at so late a time of objections which one would have thought that both common sense and the authority of Anselm would have set aside for ever. Was there any lurking wish in the thirteenth century to weaken the title of the Angevin kings, even on so stale a ground as the doubtful validity of the marriage of so distant an ancestress? We must remember that something of the kind really happened in Scotland long after. The right of the Stewarts was murmured against at a very late time on the ground of the doubtful marriage of Robert the Second. And we have seen that in an intermediate time, during the reign of Stephen, the validity of the elder Matilda’s marriage, and the consequent legitimacy of the younger Matilda, were called in question by Stephen’s supporters in arguments before the papal court. See N. C. vol. v. p. 857.

There is something singular in the way in which the marriage is entered in the Winchester Annals (1100), among a crowd of other facts not put in exact chronological order; “Matildis, Malcolmi regis filia Scotiæ, de monacha Wiltoniæ non tamen professa, regina Angliæ facta est.” One almost thinks of the wild story about Eadgyth of Wilton which I have spoken of in N. C. vol. i. p. 267. But the words have a parallel in the language of the Brut (1098, that is 1110), which, after the account of Henry’s election, adds,

“And immediately he took for his wife Mahalt, daughter of Malcolm, king of Prydyn, by Queen Margaret her mother [‘Vahalt uerch y Moel Cólóm, brenhin Prydein’—​another manuscript more reasonably has ‘y Pictieit’—​‘o Vargaret urenhines y mam’]. And she, by his marrying her, was raised to the rank of queen; for William Rufus [Gúilim Goch] his brother, in his lifetime, had consorted with concubines, and on that account had died without an heir.” Cf. p. 503.

I have said, what is perfectly true, that Orderic is the only writer who directly mentions that Matilda had once borne the name of Eadgyth. But I think that I have lighted on a most curious trace of the fact in a later writer. Peter Langtoft (i. 448) mentions the return of Robert, and adds;

“La femme le duk Robert fu en proteccioun

Le counte de Cornewaylle, fillye [fu] Charloun
Seygnur de Cecylle, Egyth la dame ad noun;
Robert la prent e mene à sa possessioun.”

The name appears in various spellings in different manuscripts, Edgith, Egdith, and what not. It was perhaps not very wonderful that, in Peter Langtoft’s day, a Count of Conversana should grow into a lord of Sicily, and that a lord of Sicily should be thought to be of necessity called Charles. But why should Sibyl be turned into Edith? I can think of no reason except that the next lines are;

“Cel houre en Escoce un damoysele estait,

Fillye al ray Malcolme, de ky maynt hom parlayt.
Taunt fu bone et bele, ke Henry le esposayt,
Ray de Engleterre, Malde home l’appelayt.”

Surely the poet had read somewhere that Matilda had been called Edith, and then mixed up her and Sibyl together. But why Sibyl should be in the protection of the “Count of Cornwall”—​meaning, if anybody, William of Mortain—​it is not easy to see. Had he read in Orderic (784 B, C) that Robert and Sibyl went together to “mons sancti Michaelis archangeli de periculo maris,” and took it for the Cornish mount? Robert of Brunne (i. 95, Hearne) translates;

“Noþeles þe erle of Cornwaile kept his wife þat while

Charles douhter scho lord of Cezile,
Dame Edith bright as glas: Roberd þouht no gile,
Bot com on gode manere tille his broþer Henry,
He wife þat soiorned here he led to Normundie.”

NOTE XX. Vol. ii. p. 412.

The Treaty of 1101.

I do not know that there is any necessary contradiction between the detailed narrative of Orderic (788), who alone speaks of the personal interview between the brothers, and the shorter accounts of the other writers, who have more to say about the action of the wise men on each side. Nothing is more likely than that the terms of the treaty should be discussed by commissioners on both sides, and then finally agreed on in a personal meeting of the two princes. The only point of difficulty is that Orderic seems to imply that nobody on either side could be trusted, except the princes themselves. He begins with Henry’s message to ask why Robert had entered his kingdom (“cur Angliæ fines cum armato exercitu intrare præsumpserit”). Robert’s answer reminds one of the answer of Edward son of Henry the Sixth to Edward the Fourth (Hall, 301; Lingard, iv. 189). His words are; “Regnum patris mei cum proceribus meis ingressus sum, et illud reposco debitum mihi jure primogenitorum.”

The armies are now face to face, and the negotiations begin. In the Chronicle the reconcilation clearly seems to be the work of the head men; “Ac þa heafod men heom betwenan foran and þa broðra gesehtodan.” So Florence; “Sapientiores utriusque partis, habito inter se salubri consilio, pacem inter fratres composuere.” William of Malmesbury (v. 395) adds a special reason for peace; “Satagentibus sanioris consilii hominibus, qui dicerent pietatis jus violandum si fraterna necessitudo prælio concurreret, paci animos accommodavere; reputantes quod, si alter occumberet, alter infirmior remaneret, cum nullus fratrum præter ipsos superesset.” There is here nothing to throw any doubt on the good faith of anybody, and no negotiators are mentioned by name. It is Wace (15508 Pluquet, 10423 Andresen) who mentions negotiators on Robert’s side whom we certainly should not have looked for;

“Conseillie out comunement

Qu’il le feront tot altrement;
Les dous freres acorderont,
Ia por els ne se combatront.
Robert, qui Belesme teneit
E qui del duc s’entremeteit,
E cil qui Moretoig aueit,
Qui a s’enor aparteneit
—Will, co dient, out non—
E Robert, qui fu filz Haimon,
Ouoc altres riches barons,
Donc io ne sai dire les nons,
Qui del rei e del duc teneient
E amedous seruir deueient,
De l’accorder s’entremeteient,
Por la bataille qu’il cremeient.
Del rei al duc souent aloent
E la parole entre els portoent;
La pais aloent porchacant
E la concorde porparlant.”

It is Orderic alone who implies that Henry asked for a personal interview, and gives his reason;

“Seditiosi proditores magis bellum quam pacem optabant. Et quia plus privatæ quam publicæ commoditati insistebant, versipelles veredarii verba pervertebant, et magis jurgia quam concordiam inter fratres serebant. Porro sagax Henricus istud advertit, unde fratris colloquium ore ad os petiit; et convenientes fraterni amoris dulcedo ambos implevit.”

He then goes on to describe the meeting of the brothers;

“Soli duo germani spectantis in medio populi collocuti sunt, et ore quod corde ruminabant sine dolo protulerunt. Denique post pauca verba mutuo amplexati sunt, datisque dulcibus basiis, sine sequestro concordes effecti sunt. Verba quidem hujus colloquii nequeo hic inserere, quia non interfui, sed opus, quod de tantorum consilio fratrum processit, auditu didici.”

He then gives the terms of the treaty, and adds;

“Remotis omnibus arbitris soli fratres scita sua sanxerunt, et, cunctis in circumitu eos cum admiratione spectantibus, decreverunt quod sese, ut decet fratres, invicem adjuvarent, et omnia patris sui dominia resumerent, scelestosque litium satores pariter utrinque punirent.”

The colouring of Orderic in these passages can hardly be reconciled with the other accounts. They clearly speak of the terms as agreed upon between the chief men of both sides, while Orderic implies that, on account of their untrustworthiness, the princes met and settled matters for themselves. But it is possible to accept Orderic’s fact without accepting his colouring. Or we may suppose that there were among the negotiators some who wished to hinder peace, but that those who laboured for it got the better in the end. Then, we may suppose, they agreed upon terms, and the King and the Duke met to ratify the treaty. As for the terms of the treaty, they are, as usual, given in the best and most formal way in the Chronicle. The brothers agree,

“On þa gerád þet se cyng forlet eall þæt he mid streangðe innan Normandig togeanes þam eorle heold, and þæt ealle þa on Englelande heora land ongean heafdon, þe hit ær þurh þone eorl forluron, and Eustaties eorl eac eall his fæderland her on lande, and þet se eorl Rotbert ælce geare sceolde of Englalande þreo þusend marc seolfres habban, and loc hweðer þæra gebroðra oðerne oferbide wære yrfeweard ealles Englalandes and eac Normandiges, buton se forðfarena yrfenuman heafde be rihtre æwe.”

Florence says nothing about the mutual succession of the two brothers, nor does he mention Eustace by name. He also leaves out the cession of Henry’s Norman dominions;

“Pacem inter fratres ea ratione composuere ut iii. mille marcas, id est MM. libras argenti, singulis annis rex persolveret comiti, et omnibus suos pristinos honores quos in Anglia pro comitis fidelitate perdiderant, restitueret gratuito, et cunctis quibus honores in Normannia causa regis fuerant ablati, comes redderet absque pretio.”

Nothing in the treaty seems to have struck William of Malmesbury, except the yearly payment of three thousand marks by the King to the Duke. And even that he brings in quite incidentally, as if to account for its being very shortly given up;

“Sed et trium millium marcarum promissio lenem comitis fallebat credulitatem, ut, procinctu soluto, de tanta pecunia menti blandiretur suæ, quam ille posteriori statim anno voluntati reginæ libens, quod illa peteret, condonavit.”

One is reminded of the story which William elsewhere (iii. 251) tells, without any date, of Robert’s friend Eadgar; “Quantula simplicitas ut libram argenti, quam quotidie in stipendio accipiebat, regi pro uno equo perdonaret.” No doubt in both cases the horse and the gift to the Queen were mere decent pretences for stopping the payment; but the gift to Matilda is quite of a piece with Robert’s conduct to her at Winchester (see p. 406). The Chronicler two years later (1103) records Robert’s surrender of his pension;

“Ðises geares eac com se eorl Rotbert of Normandig to sprecene wið þone cyng [the common Domesday form in English] her on lande, and ær he heonne ferde he forgeaf þa þreo þusend marc þe him seo cyng Heanrig be foreweard ælce geare gifan sceolde.”

Here we have no mention of Matilda, unless she anyhow lurks in the feminine article so oddly assigned to her husband.

Orderic helps us to the more distinct resignation by Robert of his claims on the English crown, which is however implied in all the other accounts—​to the release of Henry from his homage to Robert—​and to the stipulation about Domfront, which was naturally more interesting to him than it was to those who wrote in England. He does not mention the mutual heirship of the brothers. He also confounds marks and pounds;

“In primis Rodbertus dux calumniam quam in regno Angliæ ingesserat fratri dimisit, ipsumque de homagio, quod sibi jamdudum fecerat, pro regali dignitate absolvit. Henricus autem rex tria milia librarum sterilensium sese duci redditurum per singulos annos spopondit, totumque Constantinum pagum et quidquid in Neustria possidebat, præter Danfrontem, reliquit. Solum Danfrontem castrum sibi retinuit, quia Danfrontanis, quando illum intromiserunt, jurejurando pepigerat quod nunquam eos de manu sua projiceret, nec leges eorum vel consuetudines mutaret.”

I am glad to end with the mention of one of the noblest spots of which I have had to speak in my story, and with one of the most honourable features in the history of King Henry.