[127]As I am not writing a History of England during this period, my space will not permit me to enter into those details which, when viewed collectively, carry so much weight in an argument; but at all events, it will be well for some of my readers to bear in mind the character of William II., who in a recent work has lately been elevated into a hero. Without any of his father’s ability or power of statesmanship, he inherited all his vices, which he so improved that they became rather his own. From having no occupation for his mind, he sank more and more into licentiousness and lust. (“Omni se immunditiâ deturpabat,” is the strong expression of John of Salisbury. Life of Anselm, part ii. ch. vii., in Wharton’s Anglia Sacra, tom. ii. p. 163. See, also, Suger, Vita Lud. Grossi Regis, cap. i., in Bouquet: Recueil des Historiens des Gaules et de la France, tom. xii. p. 12. D. E.) Being lustful, he naturally became cruel; not as his father was, on, at least, the plea of necessity, but that he might enjoy a cultivated pleasure in gloating over the sufferings of others. From being cruel, too, he became, in its worst sense, an infidel; not from any pious scruple or deep conviction, but simply that he might indulge his passions. (See that fearful story of the trial of forty Englishmen told in Eadmer: Hist. Nov., lib. ii., p. 48, Ed. 1633, which illustrates in a twofold manner both his cruelty and his atheism.)
To a total want of eloquence he joined the most inveterate habit of stammering, so that, when angry, he could barely speak. His physical appearance, too, well harmonized with his moral and mental deformities. His description reads rather like that of a fiend than of a man. Possessing enormous strength, he was small, thick-set, and ill-shaped, having a large stomach. His face was redder than his hair, and his eyes of two different colours. His vices were, in fact, branded on his face. (Malmesbury, Ed. Hardy, tom. ii., lib. iv., sect. 321, p. 504, whom I have literally translated.)
Let us look, too, at the events of his reign. Crime after crime crowds upon us. His first act was to imprison those whom his father had set free. He loaded the Forest Laws with fresh horrors. Impartial in his cruelty, he plundered both castle and monastery (The Chronicle. Ed. Thorpe, vol. i. p. 364). He burnt out the eyes of the inhabitants of Canterbury, who had taken the part of the monks of St Augustin’s. At the very mention of his approach the people fled (Eadmer: Hist. Nov., lib. iv. p. 94). Unable himself to be everywhere, his favourites, Robert d’Ouilly harried the middle, and Odineau d’Omfreville the north of England; whilst his Minister, Ralph Flambard, committed such excesses that the people prayed for death as their only deliverance (Annal. Eccles. Winton., in Wharton’s Anglia Sacra, tom. i. p. 295).
As The Chronicle impressively says, “In his days all right fell, and all wrong in the sight of God and of the world rose.” Norman and English, friend and foe, priest and layman, were united by one common bond of hatred against the tyrant. It could only be expected that as his life was, so his death would be; that he would be betrayed by his companions, and in his utmost need deserted by his friends.
[128]Eadmer: Vita Anselmi, Ed. Paris, 1721, p. 23. John of Salisbury: Vita Anselmi, cap. xi.; in Wharton’s Anglia Sacra, tom. ii. p. 169. William of Malmesbury: Ed. Hardy, vol. ii., b. iv., sect. 332, p. 507; and Roger of Wendover, Ed. Coxe, vol. ii. pp. 159, 160.
[129]Vitalis: Historia Ecclesiastica, pars 3, lib. x.; in Migne, Patrologiæ Cursus Completus, tom. clxxxviii., pp. 750 D, 751 A. See previously, [p. 94], foot-note.
[130]Eadmer: Vita Anselmi, Ed. Paris, 1721, p. 6.
[131]Baxter, in his Preface to his Glossarium Antiquitatum Britannicarum, Ed. 1719, p. 12, entirely misquotes Alanus de Insulis (see Prophetica Anglicana Merlini Ambrosii cum septem libris explanationum Alani de Insulis. Frankfort, 1603. Lib. ii. pp. 68, 69), and completely misunderstands the passage. Alanus, however (p. 69), seems to have no doubt that the King fell by treachery,—“spiculo invidiæ,” as was foretold by Merlin, though he gives no other reason; and which by itself, resting on nothing further, would carry no weight. His account, though, of the general detestation of the Red King immediately before his death, as also the conversation of Hugh, Abbot of Cluny, with Anselm (p. 68), is very suggestive, especially by the way in which it is introduced. Alanus must have possessed far too shrewd an intellect to have believed in Merlin; though it might have suited his purpose to have appeared to have so done, as a veil and a blind, so that he might better say what his high position and authority would not in any other form have well permitted, but which still give to many points, as here, enormous significance and weight.
Besides Gaimar and Alanus, Nicander Nucius also hints at treachery (Second Book of Travels, published by the Camden Society, pp. 34, 35), but his account is too vague to be of any service. We should, however, constantly bear in mind, with Lappenberg, that the best authority, The Chronicle, simply relates that the King was shot at the chase by one of his friends, without any allusion to an accident. Not one word or fact else is given, except the appearance of a pool of blood in Berkshire (at Finchhamstead, according to William of Malmesbury), which we know, from other sources, was supposed to foretell some calamity, and which phenomenon science now resolves into merely some species of alga, probably either Palmella cruenta or Hæmatococcus sanguineus. Eadmer, with some others, in his Historia Novorum, lib. ii. (Migne: Patrologiæ Cursus Completus, tom. clix. p. 422 B) mentions a report, prevalent at the time, that the King accidentally stumbled on an arrow. Then follows, in the very next book (Migne, as before, p. 423 B), a singular passage, to be found also in his Life of Anselm, book ii. ch. vi. (Migne, as before, tom. clviii. p. 108 D), where, on the news of the Red King’s death, Anselm bursts into tears, and, with sobs, cries, “Quod si hoc efficere posset, multo magis eligeret se ipsum corpore, quam illud, sicut erat, mortuum esse.” Whether this wish sprang from the effects of some pangs of conscience as to William’s death, or from an honourable feeling of natural emotion under the circumstances, as suggested by Sharon Turner, it is hard to determine. From John of Salisbury (Vita Anselmi, pars ii., cap. xi., in Wharton’s Anglia Sacra, tom. ii. p. 169), it would seem that Anselm thought that he was the direct cause, through God, of his death. Wace, quoted by Sharon Turner (vol. iv. p. 169), says that a woman prophesied to Henry his speedy accession to the throne; but I am not inclined to put any faith in this story, especially as Wace’s account is in poetry, where a prophetical speech might after the event be given dramatically true, without being so historically. The same criticism must be applied to the still more detailed account of Gaimar, who vaguely accuses Tiril of conspiracy. No one, however, was likely to declare, for so many reasons, that the King was murdered. We must not expect such a statement, or even look for it in the Chroniclers; we must seek for it in the contradictions, and absurdities, and prophecies which have gathered round the event.
[132]Let no one be startled at the fact of ecclesiastics being assassins. We have on record during this very reign the deliberate confessions by monks of plots to murder their abbots, deeming they were doing God a service. We must further keep steadily in mind that prelates then united in their own persons both sacred and military offices. How much Henry was under the influence of the monasteries his marriage and his various appointments show. Their power was enormous. In fact, I believe that the Conqueror owed his success as much to them as Rufus his death, and Henry his crown.