KILLED A KING; KILLED BY A KING

The picture is an artist’s portrayal of the unexpected death of William II, King of England, on August 2, 1100.  Yes, it is true.  William II, favored son of England’s Conqueror at the Battle of Hastings, 1066, was killed while hunting in New Forest, the king’s preserve. 

At mid-day, William II, also known as King Rufus and hunting companion Walter Tyrrell had ridden off together plunging deep into the forest; Walter with two and Rufus with four of the king’s “special arrows”.  Elsewhere in the forest was the rest of the king’s hunting party, including his younger brother, Henry.

At nightfall, a charcoal burner came across the deserted body of King Rufus, who, because he was not a good king wasn’t liked much by anyone.   He had been killed by an arrow.  His body was dumped by the charcoal burner into his peasant’s cart and delivered to the Cathedral at Winchester.

There was speculation on how Rufus met his fate.  Could his death have been by the hands of his younger brother Henry, next in line to be king?   Or by those of his older brother Robert, whose quarrel with the Conqueror had gotten him exiled across the English Channel to Normandy? 

All three of the ambitious brothers had experienced tumultuous relationships with each other.   Both, Robert and Henry stood to gain by the king’s death.  Although Robert was out of the country, either of the two brothers could have had Rufus killed by the hands of another; and Henry was in the forest on the king’s fateful day. But, the king had many enemies; as well, so the list of suspects was more than just several.

Walter Tyrrell, whether it was an arrow shot by him, by intent or not, was nowhere to be seen.  He knew he would be blamed, regardless.  If he did kill the king, I prefer to think it was by accident.  I prefer to think that is the way it was because Wat Tyrrell is one of my ancestors.  

Two stories exist of Wat’s whereabouts from that time on.  One is he sped from England and never returned.  In the other, he did return, eventually.  In The Conquerors, a 1946 historical novel by English historian William B. Costain, the author included this brief description of William, II: “There is only one good thing to be said about the reign of William II, called Rufus.  It was brief.”

My mother, a high school teacher of Latin and English, could, I’m sure, have just as much enjoyed teaching European and America History.  It is probable that her interest in history increased over the more than fifty years that she researched family genealogy.

My keen interest in history − both American and European, stems from both of my parents; through my dad, by the many family stories of past generations, told him by his grandfather.  But I especially recall my mother saying, when telling interesting stories from history − especially of English kings and queens − that historical truth was often stranger than fiction.  Indeed, I did and still, agree.

I have a great regret that appears fixed for the remainder of my earthly time.  My mother could never get any of her six children to take time to share in her genealogical passion.  Although I wanted to, as did others of us, including several grandchildren; there never seemed time enough to get involved beyond listening to the latest “finds”. 

Her family chart had evolved over 50 years of sending letters across the country and waiting for the desired response.  Sometimes, years later, the mail would bring return of one of her neatly penned, self stamped, self addressed envelopes.  More often than not, new information lay inside along with a joyous moment of hoped for success. 

Only, after my spouse and I became caretakers for Mom, at age 95, did I realize how wondrously the web had opened up to genealogists.  I knew that therein lay a fantastic time of sharing in her great journey through the past; and it was a right time, at last.  But, first at hand, was the task of surmounting my mother’s reluctance to learn operating basics of a computer.

We started with simple emails to family members who had acquired computers.  “Just a few lines, Mother”, I said, for the first session.  After a brief introduction to a keyboard stranger to her than the old manual typewriters, I left the room so she could learn on her own and take time to attune to so different an experience.  In a little while, I looked in.  She had dozed off …… with the little finger of her left hand on the “Z” key.  On the screen were rows and rows and rows of “Zs”!  

I could only smile.  Because she had a wonderful sense of humor, and a charming ability to laugh at her self, I could not resist waking her to share in this unexpected moment to laugh, together; and certainly that is what we did. 

Next, she learned to play solitaire; first Free Cell, before advancing to Spider Solitaire.  I treasure the moments of passing her room and glimpsing her sitting, serenely and poker straight in her chair, enjoying this new way of playing cards.

But, her old excitement for genealogy just wasn’t there.  Not until we had our first session, and swiftly found an ancestor who had long evaded her efforts.  She saw, then, how researching by computer went lickety-split.  Alas!  Before nine days had passed, my dear angel of a mother had passed from this earth − felled suddenly by pneumonia − shortly after our first session. 

The following Monday, she had wakened early, having trouble breathing.  Within a few hours she was in the hospital, and for the first several days, was miserable.  By Friday, she was recovering, but not quite her old self. 

I went to the hospital in the evenings, sometimes with spouse along; always, taking a fresh salad of green lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes, olive oil and vinegar that she so enjoyed.    On Saturday morning I was there with a fresh cut up pear; pleased to have it sweeter than normally found in grocery stores.  We had a brief conversation before a nurse came in to draw a sample of blood.

My mother’s veins were “roll over” veins − BIG TIME!  I always pitied a lesser experienced nurse; but, I pitied my mother more to see the vein, as usual, continue to evade the needle.  So it was that morning, and seeing more than usual distress of my mother, I offered to the nurse: “don’t feel bad; usually, a nurse more experience with roll over veins takes over.  Can you have one come in?”  Unless I misread the reaction of the nurse, she was glad to be relieved.  In a few minutes in came an older nurse, and in her expert hands the needle quickly found a vein.

At the same moment; however, my mother sneezed and the needle came out.  First, a pause; then quietly and pleasantly, the nurse said, “my, but that was an ill timed sneeze”. Surmising my mother had had quite enough, she said, ‘I’ll try again, later”, and left. I couldn’t believe the timing, and grimaced to think the unpleasant process had yet to be completed.

With her eyes closed, my mother began saying, “no, no, no, no, no, no”.   Clearly, she had had enough of seemingly endless poking and invasive needles chasing her “roll over” veins.  She continued to protest, “no no, no, no….”

Distressed, I wrapped my arms around her and I said, “I love you, Mother.  Please stop saying, no.  I’m sure it will go better when this nurse tries again”.  Then, I kissed her forehead.  I didn’t know what else to do or say.   It just wasn’t her nature to pity herself or to make big bones of life’s unpleasant moments; for me, it was uncharted territory and terribly wrenching.

I yearned for her mood to lighten, but was unable to connect with her.  Her mind seemed fixed elsewhere.  So, telling her I would return late afternoon, I left and drove home; my heart was heavy.  Still, with the positive outlook I inherited or acquired from her, I fixed in my mind returning later, to see her old cheerful spirit returned.

That evening, when I walked into her room, she was sleeping peacefully. I had not the heart to wake her after seeing her so troubled earlier.  I hunted up her nurse to have the salad put into a refrigerator, and was assured my mother would have it when she awoke.   I drove home; this time, disappointed to not have spoken with her; yet, gratified to have seen her sleeping so peacefully.

The phone rang, just after midnight.  I didn’t hear it because my sleep was sound; a life time habit whenever I experience mind troubling and body exhausting times. My spouse spoke my name to wake me; “the hospital just called ….. your mother died!”  It was a moment unlike any I had ever faced, and surreal. 

We dressed.  As we drove to the hospital all I could think was, my mother is dead; died with not one family member present, and I never got to see her smile again or hear the optimism she so readily conveyed. Closure, I was convinced, would forever evade me.  Today, still, I know closure will not come until I walk through heaven’s pearly gate; oh, joy, joy!

For many months that followed her death, I had many sleepless nights; found comfort in my computer and continued research I’d thought to share with her.  I felt gypped that she was gone before we could have had a satisfying pursuit of ancestors, together.  But, at the same time, while searching the web, I strongly felt her presence, strongly felt her delight at my “finds”; which was powerfully comforting.  In the many months ahead, lickity-split accumulation of four big notebooks of ancestors wondrously soothed my aching spirit.

So it was.  My discovering our connection to Walter Tyrrell was not to be physically shared with Mom.  Nor, was finding the − killed by a king ancestor − on my dad’s side, which would have thrilled him.  But, in my heart, I’m sure she already knew.  I believed then, and still believe, that she was having the time of her spiritual life ….. exploring the universe!  Maybe that’s how it is, and maybe it isn’t. But, that’s what I choose to believe; it keeps me content.

Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth, 22nd August 1485; Richard is on a white horse with blue trappings

The man killed by a king was my 14^th great grandfather, William Brandon.  The king was Richard III.  The challenging Lancastrian army was led by Henry Tudor, the Earl of Richmond, who on that day became England’s next king. The picture, by Welsh artist, Mark Churms was completed in 1993.

William Brandon was the standard-bearer for Henry Tudor.  Thomas Costain, in his historical novel, The Last Plantagenets, aptly describes the last moments of, both,  standard-bearer Brandon and King Richard III:

“Followed by a small mounted group of his most faithful men, the young king (he was only thirty-two years old) charged headlong into the enemy lines.  Swinging his (battle) ax, he bore down and killed Brandon, Henry’s standard-bearer.  Before him now loomed the gigantic figure of Sir John Cheney.  A single blow unhorsed that powerful knight.  On his left arm, he bore his heavy shield and with it also he controlled the wild course of his maddened steed.”

(Cheney was a well-known jousting champion, also, another ancestor.)

Then, Richard was unhorsed.  He plunged ahead:

“It was a magnificent effort and almost brought the two leaders face to face.  But the king’s handful had thinned behind him.  He stood alone at the last and fought singlehanded against the Lancastrians who now swarmed about him.  His armor broken, his ax limp with his weariness, he went down under the blows of his enemies” 

“Richard’s crown, retrieved from a clump of bushes, it is said, was placed on Henry’s head before he rode out to direct the pursuit of the royal army.  The Wars of the Roses had come to an end and a new family of kings and queens would succeed the Plantagenets”

− The Last Plantagenets by Thomas B. Costain (pub. 1962)

Long after Henry VII was dead, his son Henry VIII hired Italian historian, Polydore Vergil (or Virgil), to document the lives of himself and his father.   Vergil’s account includes the betrayal of Richard by the Stanley brothers, Sir William and Thomas, 2^nd Baron Stanley, who watched from the sidelines with their own private army before switching allegiance to Henry of Richmond and entering the battle.

The following quote from Vergil captures the betrayal:

 “Characteristically leading from the front King Richard slays many a knight, including William Brandon (Henry’s standard-bearer) in his vain attempt to kill his rival. At this crucial moment Lord Stanley decides to join Henry’s cause, attacks the choice force and drives it from the field. In the brutal hand to hand fighting the king is unhorsed and though surrounded, fights to the end.  King Richard alone was killed fighting manfully in the thickest press of his enemies – his courage was high and fierce and failed him not even at the death which when his men forsook him, he preferred to take by the sword, rather than by foul flight to prolong his life”

As my mother said, historical truth is often stranger than fiction.  I must add; and more fun when it includes one or more ancestors.

Today’s post ends with a bit of Shakespeare and an ancient Ballad with three vocabulary words, for the most part, obsolete.

First:  From Richard III, Act 5, Scene IV, comes one of Shakespeare’s best known lines; spoken by Richard III.  In this scene,  one of Richard’s principal councilors, Sir William Catesby, speaks first.  

Fighting alongside of Richard at Bosworth Field, Catesby was captured, and three days later was executed.  Not until I googled Sir William Catesby to find out more about him, did I discover, he, too, is an ancestor.  In working back to royalty, or to ancestors that hobnobbed with royalty, one is likely to turn up lots of ancestors.

Seeing Richard unhorsed, Catesby speaks with urgency to Norfolk (John Howard, 1^st Duke of Norfolk).  A loyal supporter of and good friend to Richard,  Norfolk,  would die on Bosworth Field; but, not before Catesby says to him:

Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue!
The king enacts more wonders than a man,
Daring an opposite to every danger:
His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.
Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost!

KING RICHARD III:

A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

CATESBY:

Withdraw, my lord; I’ll help you to a horse.

The Ballad of Bosworth Field

Amongst all other Knights, remember

Which were hardy, and therto *wight;

Sir William Brandon was one of those,

King Henry’s Standard he kept on height,

                      −stanza 155

And *vanted it with manhood and might

Until with *dints he was driven down

And died like an ancient Knight,

with Henry of England that wears the crown.

                      −stanza 156

 − Anonymous

 

*wight²:  (Saxon) strong, brisk, active, brave, swift, nimble

*vaunt-courier: (Saxon) 1. a soldier sent out in advance of an army;  2. a forerunner; precursor

*dints: (French) 1. a blow; a stroke; 2. Force; violence; power exerted; as to win by dint of arms, by dint of war, by dint of argument or importunity; 3. The mark made by a blow; a cavity or impression made by a heavy blow or by pressure on a substance

Wight and vaunt are pretty much obsolete, but still found in Webster’s New World Dictionary; 3^rd College Edition.  For dints, I had to go to my great grandfather’s 1830’s Dictionary.

The following is the unedited Ballad of Bosworth Field:

amongst all other Knights, remember
which were hardy, & therto wight;
Sir william Brandon was one of those,
King Heneryes Standard he kept on height,

& vanted itt with manhood & might
vntill with dints hee was dr(i)uen downe,
& dyed like an ancyent Knight,
with HENERY of England that ware the crowne.
—Bosworth Ffeilde, anonymous author

If you managed to get this far …. not all are interested in English history ….. won’t you agree with me that English History, indeed, is fascinating?