The Mysterious Death of Red William

William Rufus, son of William the Conqueror, ruled England for 10  turbulent years. He was killed by one of his close friends in what many  at the time claimed was a terrible accident. Others are not so sure.

William Rufus was not a bad king – at least, not by the standard of the  times. The third son of William the Conqueror, he had inherited the  throne of England at his father's insistance, usurping the claim of his  eldest brother, Robert.
His reign was a bloody one. Almost immediately after his coronation in  1090,  his Uncle, Bishop Odo of Bayeaux (in Normandy) organised a revolt  against Rufus and in favour of his brother Robert (who held the Duchy  of Normandy). Odo and Robert were no match for the wild King, however,  and the revolt was soon quelled – although both retained their titles.

Next, Rufus defeated Malcolm III of Scotland, replacing him with the  compliant Englishman Edgar Aetheling. He also put down a revolt by the  Duke of Northumberland and, later, regained control of the entirety of  his father's inheritance when his unpopular brother mortgaged the Duchy  of Normandy to him and then left on crusade.

And so Rufus had acheived what every good king of the day should do –  revolts had been quelled, traditional enemies subjugated, and peace  restored to the Kingdom.

Read the contemporary chronicles, however, and you might think  otherwise. Indeed, Peter of Blois declared that Rufus' reign was so  frightful that there were:

...thunders terrifying the earth, lightnings and  thunderbolts most frequent, deluging showers without number, winds of  the most astonishing violence, and whirlwinds that shook the towers of  churches and levelled them with the ground.

Strong words indeed.

It is easy to see why the chroniclers took such a dim view of Rufus,  because all literate men of the day were men of the Church, and Rufus  had no time for the Church – and especially for those who rated the  power of the Pope above his own. He ran the saintly Archbishop Anselm of  Canterbury into exile, he treated the pronouncements of the clerics  with bitter sarcasm and, worst of all, he kept vacant church positions  for himself – and pocketed their income.

On a bright August day in 1100, 10 years after his coronation, Rufus  organised a hunting trip in the New Forest. The party spread out as they  chased their prey, and Rufus, in the company of Walter Tirel, Lord of  Poix, became separated from the others. It was the last time that Rufus  was seen alive.

By the time Rufus was found (by a group of local peasants) lying dead in  the woods with an arrow piercing his lungs, Walter Tirel was on his way  to France.

According to the chroniclers, it was not murder. Walter and Rufus had  been hunting together when Walter let loose a wild shot that, instead of  hitting the stag he aimed for, struck Rufus in the chest. Rufus fell  heavily onto the shaft of the arrow, driving it deep into him and  sealing his fate. Walter tried to help him, but there was nothing he  could do. Fearing that he would be charged with murder, Walter panicked,  leapt onto his horse, and fled.

To the chroniclers, such an 'Act of God' was an entirely apt and just  end for a wicked king.

Others are not so sure. They point out that even the chroniclers admit  that Walter was reknowned as a keen bowman, and unlikely to fire such an  impetuous shot. And why did Rufus' brother Henry, who was among the  hunting party that day, insist that there should be no pursuit of Rufus'  killer? In fact, Henry instead left immediately for London, where he  was then crowned king in place of Rufus.

Was Rufus' death masterminded by his brother Henry? We will never know.  All the evidence has long since rotted into oblivion, leaving only  Rufus's Tomb as a reminder of that fateful day. Perhaps, however the  final words on the matter should be left to Abbot Suger, another  chronicler, who was Tirel's friend and who sheltered him in his French  exile:

It was laid to the charge of a certain noble, Walter  Tirel, that he had shot the king with an arrow; but I have often heard  him, when he had nothing to fear nor to hope, solemnly swear that on the  day in question he was not in the part of the forest where the king was  hunting, nor ever saw him in the forest at all.