"... "King of England," said the monk solemnly, "I bear thee a message from the Norman Abbot of St. Peter's at Gloucester, and thank Heaven - long and weary as the journey has been - I have arrived in time. He warns thee, Sire, not to hunt in the New Forest on this holy Lammas morn; for one of his monks has dreamed a dreadful dream about thee. He saw thee lying dead and bleeding beneath an oak in thy New Forest as the blessed sun was sinking, and assuredly if thou huntest to-day it will be for the last time."
The king's brow clouded; he had had an evil dream himself; but the next moment he shook off the superstitious thrill that was foreign to his godless, fearless nature, and smiled scornfully.
"Monks can dream as it suits them," he said; "I am not a child to be scared by visions. To horse, Walter de Poix (Tyrrel). Do you think I am one of those fools who give up their pleasure or business for such matters ? The man is a true monk. He dreameth for the sake of money. Give him a hundred pence, and bid him dream of better fortune to our person."
In vain the monk entreated and expostulated; the huntsmen followed the royal example, and were soon on horseback galloping off, a noisy company, to the forest.
Once within its shades, they divided about, and by-andby William and Walter Tyrrel were alone.
They had had good sport, when towards sunset a hart came bounding by between the king and his companion, who stood at the moment concealed in opposite thickets.
The king drew his bow, but the string broke, and at the twang the noble beast paused and looked round. The rays of the sun now piercing the trees horizontally were in the king's eyes; he raised his bridle hand to shade them, and cried impatiently, "Shoot, Walter, shoot!"
Tyrrel obeyed, and drew his bow at once. But - was his aim untrue? - the arrow glanced aside from a tiny branch, and striking the king under his raised arm pierced him to the breast, and he fell dead from his horse.
Tyrrel flew to his side, but saw at once that Rufus was dead, and that help was vain. Then a sense of his own danger smote him. To slay a king was a dangerous accident in more ways than one. Who would believe so strange a story ? He would not risk the telling it? He sprang on his steed, spurred it to its utmost speed, gained in safety the seashore, and from thence sought refuge in France, finally going to the Holy Land in expiation of his involuntary treason...." [cont...]
Valentine (undated)
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