"Tush!" cried Rufus, breaking into a loud laugh; "do they take me for a Saxon with their dreams? Do they think I am one of the idiots who tremble because an old woman sneezes? But I warrant the monk would have something for his dream. Let him have a hundred shillings, and bid him look that he dream more auspicious dreams in future."
With these words, Rufus tied his shoes, left his chamber, and seated himself at table with his friends around him. It was a gay party that feasted that morning in the hunting-lodge of Malwood, and included many personages of high degree. Among them were the king's brother, Henry Beauclerc; his bosom friend, Walter Tyrel; his bow-bearer, Nigel de Albini; his treasurer, William de Breteuil, who was eldest son of the great Fitzosborne, and hardly less proud than his father had been. Perhaps Rufus, with the scene of the previous night preying on his mind, felt unwontedly depressed. At all events, he ate more than usual, and drank copiously, as if to banish sadness. The potations, of course, soon took effect. The king's spirits rose. He blustered and swore with characteristic indecency.
While Rufus was still passing round the wine-cup, an artificer brought him six arrows for cross-bows, which seemed so sharp and strong as to excite much admiration. The king received the arrows, praised the workmanship, took four for his own use, and handed the others to Walter Tyrel.
"There, Tyrel," said he, "take two; for you know how to shoot to some purpose. Sharp arrows for the best shot! And now to horse!"
The king and the Norman knights, excited with wine, strung their hunting-horns round their necks, called for their horses, sprang into their saddles, and with huntsmen in attendance, their hounds running at their feet, rode down the steep of Malwood, and entered the New Forest. According to the custom of the period, they then dispersed through the wood to pursue the game. Walter Tyrel, however, remained with the king, and all day their dogs hunted together.
At length, as the sun was setting, the king and the knight found themselves at a place known as Charingham, where were the ruins of a chapel which the Conqueror had dismantled. At that instant, a large hart, roused by the huntsmen, came bounding up between Rufus and Tyrel, who were on opposite sides of the glade. The king instantly pulled his trigger; but, the cord of the cross-bow breaking, the arrow did not fly. The stag, however, hearing a sharp sound, halted abruptly; and Rufus, after making a sign to his comrade to shoot, without being understood, cried out impatiently—
"Shoot, Walter, shoot, in the devil's name!"
The knight bent his bow, and at that instant an arrow, whistling through the air, pierced the king's breast. In another moment he dropped from his horse, and expired without having time to utter a word.
When Rufus fell to the ground, Tyrel, in great alarm at what he saw, leaped from his horse and rushed forward. But the king was already a corpse. Perceiving that life was quite extinct, Tyrel sprang upon his horse, spurred through the glade, rode hastily to the coast, embarked for France, and soon set foot on continental soil. Protesting his innocence, but horrified at being suspected of killing a king, even by accident, the knight afterwards went to Palestine.
A rumour that the king was killed ran through the forest; but none of the knights or nobles deemed it their duty to pay any attention to the corpse. For hours the body remained among the rank grass that grew over the ruins of the chapel of Charingham, as completely abandoned as that of the Conqueror had been in the convent at Rouen.