My Normans may but move as true with me
To the door of death. Of one self-stock at first,
Make them again one people — Norman, English;
And English, Norman ;- we should have a hand
To grasp the world with, and a foot to stamp it —
Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. No more blood!
I am King of England, so they thwart me not,
And I will rule according to their laws.

THE RED KING

CHARLES KINGSLEY

WILLIAM RUFUS, the Red (1066–1087), was a man of fierce and cruel temper. Far from working for the happiness of his people, he plundered the rich and oppressed the poor. His greed of gold and his reckless pursuit of evil pleasures made him many enemies. This much-hated king was shot by an arrow, whether by accident or intentionally was never known, while hunting in the New Forest. A brother of William Rufus and a nephew had already been killed in this same forest, and men believed that a curse rested on the place. The King was drinking in Malwood Hall, There came in a monk before them all:

He thrust by squire, he thrust by knight,
Stood over against the dais aright;

And, "The Word of the Lord, thou cruel Red King,
The word of the Lord to thee I bring.
A grimly sweven 1 I dreamt yestreen;
I saw thee lie under the hollins green,
And through thine heart an arrow keen;
And out of thy body a smoke did rise,
Which smirched the sunshine out of the skies:

1 ominous dream.

So if thou God's anointed be

I rede thee unto thy soul thou see.
For mitre and pall thou hast y-sold,

False knight to Christ, for gain and gold;
And for this thy forest were digged down all,
Steading1 and hamlet and churches tall;
And Christès poor were ousten forth,

To beg their bread from south to north.
So tarry at home, and fast and pray,
Lest fiends hunt thee in the judgment-day."

The monk he vanished where he stood;
King William sterte up wroth and wood 2;
Quod he, "Fools' wits will jump together;
The Hampshire ale and the thunder weather
Have turned the brains for us both, I think;
And monks are curst when they fall to drink.
A lothly sweven I dreamt last night,
How there hoved 5 anigh me a griesly knight,
Did smite me down to the pit of hell;

I shrieked and woke, so fast I fell.
There's Tyrrel as sour as I, perdie,
So he of you all shall hunt with me;
A grimly brace for a hart to see."

The Red King down from Malwood came; His heart with wine was all aflame,

His eyne were shotten, red as blood,

He rated and swore, wherever he rode.

They roused a hart, that grimly brace;
A hart of ten, a hart of grease,
Fled over against the kingès place.
The sun it blinded the kingès ee,

A fathom behind his hocks shot he:

"Shoot thou," quod he, "in the fiendès name,
To lose such a quarry were seven years' shame."
And he hove up his hand to mark the game.
Tyrrel he shot full light, God wot;

For whether the saints they swerved the shot,
Or whether by treason, men knowen not,
But under the arm, in a secret part,

The iron fled through the kingès heart.

The turf it squelched where the Red King fell,
And the fiends they carried his soul to hell,
Quod "His master's name it hath sped him well."
Tyrrel he smited full grim that day,

Quod "Shooting of kings is no bairns' play;"
And he smote in the spurs, and fled fast away.
As he pricked along by Fritham plain,

The green tufts flew behind like rain;

The waters were out, and over the sward:
He swam his horse like a stalwart lord;

Men clepen1 that water Tyrrel's ford.
By Rhinefield and by Osmondsleigh,
Through glade and furze-brake fast drove he,
Until he heard the roaring sea;

Quod he, "Those gay waves they call me."
By Mary's grace a seely 2 boat

On Christchurch bar did lie afloat;
He gave the shipmen mark and groat,
To ferry him over to Normandie,
And there he fell to sanctuarie;
God send his soul all bliss to see.

And fend1 our princes every one,
From foul mishap and trahison; 2
But kings that harrow Christian men,
Shall England never bide again.

THE WHITE SHIP

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

HENRY I. (1100-1135), the fourth son of the Conqueror, was left by his father with a good sum in money, but no land; yet he became a great king. He succeeded to the throne of England on the death of William Rufus, and he later wrested the duchy of Normandy from his eldest brother Robert. It was a turbulent time, and the king was constantly at war with one or another of his powerful barons. At last he had reason to hope for peace. He had married his only son William to the daughter of his strongest adversary, Fulc of Anjou, and the barons of England and of Normandy had done homage to his son, recognizing him as heir to the throne. The wreck of the White Ship in the harbor of Honfleur (November 25, 1120) blasted all Henry's hopes, for he could not expect that the unruly barons would accept his daughter Matilda as their sovereign. At his death began a civil war that lasted for twenty years.

By none but me can the tale be told,

The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.

(Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)

'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,
Yet the tale can be told by none but me.
(The sea hath no King but God alone.)

King Henry held it as life's whole gain
That after his death his son should reign.

'Twas so in my youth I heard men say,
And my old age calls it back to-day.

King Henry of England's realm was he,
And Henry duke of Normandy.

The times had changed when on either coast
"Clerkly Harry" was all his boast.

Of ruthless strokes full many an one
He had struck to crown himself and son;
And his elder brother's eyes were gone.

And when to the chase his court would crowd,
The poor flung ploughshares on his road,
And shrieked: "Our cry is from King to God!"

But all the chiefs of the English land
Had knelt and kissed the Prince's hand.

And next with his sọn he sailed to France

To claim the Norman allegiance.

And every baron in Normandy

Had taken the oath of fealty.

'Twas sworn and sealed, and the day had come When the King and the Prince might journey home.

For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear,

And Christmas now was drawing near.

Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King,-
A pilot famous in seafaring;

E