Vox Meditantis

The New Forest, Hampshire, England – 2nd August 1100

The morning mist clung to the New Forest like the breath of sleeping giants, and Walter Tirel found himself wondering, not for the first time, what dark curiosity had driven him to accept the king’s invitation to hunt. The Norman nobleman adjusted his grip on his yew longbow, its familiar weight offering little comfort as he followed the royal party deeper into the ancient woodland that William Rufus had carved from Saxon settlements with ruthless efficiency.

“Tell me, Tirel,” the king’s voice cut through the damp air like a blade, “what thoughts occupy a man’s mind when he draws back the bowstring?”

Walter’s breath caught. The question seemed innocent enough, yet coming from William II—the Red King whose temper was as fiery as his hair—it carried an undertone that made the archer’s shoulders tense. “Curious that Your Majesty should ask, my lord.”

The king’s laughter echoed off the great oaks that towered above them, their branches forming what the foresters called ‘long avenues’ where, it was said, a squirrel might travel for six miles without touching ground. “Curiosity, Walter. The very thing that separates kings from subjects, hunters from prey.” William’s pale eyes gleamed with an intensity that made Walter’s stomach clench. “I am curious about many things this morning.”

The royal hunting party had set out before dawn from the lodge at Brockenhurst, a modest retinue of perhaps a dozen men. It was smaller than usual—suspiciously so, Walter had noted. The king’s brother Henry was notably absent, claiming illness, though rumours at court suggested he was meeting privately with certain barons whose loyalty to the crown had grown questionable of late.

As they moved deeper into the forest, Walter found his mind wandering to the conversation he’d overheard three nights past in the shadows of Winchester’s great hall. Two Norman lords, their voices low and urgent, speaking of the king’s unpopularity with the Church, his empty treasury, his lack of an heir. “The realm grows restless,” one had whispered. “Even accidents can serve God’s will.”

The memory sent a chill down Walter’s spine that had nothing to do with the morning’s dampness.

“You are uncommonly quiet today, my friend,” King William observed, drawing his horse alongside Walter’s. The king wore a simple green tunic beneath his mail, his red hair bound back with a leather cord. Despite his fearsome reputation, there was something almost boyish about his excitement for the hunt. “What curiosity troubles you?”

Walter forced himself to meet the king’s gaze. “I wonder at the forest’s silence, my lord. The deer seem… elusive this morning.”

It was true. The New Forest felt different today, charged with an expectancy that made the horses skittish and the hounds restless. Even the birds seemed muted, their songs swallowed by the mist that refused to lift despite the climbing sun.

The king nodded thoughtfully. “The forest keeps its secrets well. Do you know what the Saxon peasants call this place? Ytene—the place of the Jutes. They say it’s haunted by those who died when I created my hunting preserve.” His smile was sharp as a blade’s edge. “Superstitious fools. Yet I confess, I am curious about what ghosts might think of my rule.”

Walter’s hand tightened involuntarily on his bow. The king’s creation of the New Forest had been brutal—entire villages displaced, churches torn down, families scattered to make way for royal sport. The resentment amongst the conquered English ran deep as winter frost, and Walter had often wondered if William truly understood the hatred his policies had sown.

“Perhaps,” Walter ventured carefully, “curiosity can be dangerous, my lord. Some knowledge comes at too high a price.”

The king’s laugh was harsh. “Spoken like a philosopher! But I am a Norman, Walter. We take what we desire and pay the price in steel.” He gestured towards the ancient trees surrounding them. “Every oak in this forest stands because I willed it. Every deer that runs free does so by my grace. Is it not natural that a king should be curious about the extent of his dominion?”

As they spoke, the hunting party had spread out, following various deer trails through the undergrowth. Walter realised with growing unease that he and the king had become separated from the others, their conversation drawing them down a narrow path bordered by dense thickets of holly and hazel.

The silence stretched between them until the king spoke again, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. “I have been curious about you, Walter Tirel. About your loyalty.”

The words struck Walter like a physical blow. “My lord?”

“Oh, do not look so startled. I am curious about all my nobles’ loyalties these days.” William’s hand rested casually on his sword hilt. “Brother Henry whispers in corners. The Archbishop excommunicates me with tiresome regularity. Half my barons would sell their souls to see me gone.” His pale eyes fixed on Walter’s face. “But you… you have always seemed above such intrigues. It makes me curious.”

Walter’s mouth went dry. Was this why the king had insisted he join today’s hunt? Had someone whispered accusations in the royal ear? His mind raced through recent conversations, searching for any words that might have been misconstrued, any gesture that could be seen as treasonous.

“Your Majesty’s curiosity honours me,” he managed. “My loyalty to the crown is absolute.”

“Is it?” The king’s voice was deceptively mild. “Even when that crown sits unsteadily? Even when serving that crown might cost a man his soul?”

Before Walter could respond, a stag burst from the undergrowth ahead of them—a magnificent creature with a rack of antlers that caught the filtered sunlight like polished bone. Both men instinctively reached for their weapons, the moment of political tension swept aside by the ancient thrill of the hunt.

“A fine beast!” the king exclaimed, his earlier mood forgotten. “Ten points at least. The shot is yours, Walter—show me what curiosity can accomplish when paired with skill.”

Walter nocked an arrow to his string, his hands moving with practised precision despite the turmoil in his thoughts. The stag had paused perhaps sixty yards away, head raised, nostrils flaring as it tested the wind. An easy shot for an archer of Walter’s calibre.

But as he drew back the bowstring, Walter found himself frozen by a sudden, terrible curiosity of his own. What if the whispered conversations at court were more than idle gossip? What if powerful men truly wanted the king dead? What if this moment—this perfect isolation in the depths of the New Forest—was no accident?

The king had positioned himself slightly ahead and to Walter’s left, following protocol that would give the archer a clear line of sight to the quarry. But from Walter’s current angle, a slight miscalculation, a moment’s inattention…

Even accidents can serve God’s will.

The memory of those overheard words seemed to echo in the forest stillness. Walter’s draw hand trembled almost imperceptibly. He was curious—horribly, desperately curious—about what would happen if his arrow flew just a few degrees wide of its intended mark. Would the realm prosper under Henry’s rule? Would the endless conflicts with the Church finally cease? Would the Saxon peasants find peace?

“What delays you?” the king asked, his voice sharp with impatience.

Walter blinked, realising he’d been holding his draw for far too long. The stag still stood motionless, as if waiting for fate to decide its future. Just as he was waiting for his own decision.

“Curious,” Walter murmured, barely aware he’d spoken aloud.

“What?”

“The stag, my lord. It seems… curious about us. As if it knows something we do not.”

William laughed, though there was an edge to the sound. “Loose your arrow, man, before the beast decides to satisfy its curiosity elsewhere.”

Walter closed his eyes for the briefest moment, feeling the weight of history balanced on his bowstring. When he opened them again, his vision was crystal clear. The stag remained motionless, a perfect target framed by the green cathedral of the forest.

But Walter’s curiosity had found its answer. Some knowledge did indeed come at too high a price—the knowledge of what he might be capable of, given the right circumstances. The knowledge of how easily a loyal man might become a regicide with nothing more than a moment’s hesitation, a tremor of the hand, a whispered rumour taking root in fertile soil.

He adjusted his aim with minute precision, drew a steady breath, and released.

The arrow flew true, striking the stag through the heart. The magnificent creature leaped once, then collapsed amongst the ferns, its life ebbing away in seconds.

“Excellent shot!” the king cried, spurring his horse forward to examine the kill. “Clean and quick—the mark of a true archer.”

Walter lowered his bow, his hands no longer trembling. He had satisfied his curiosity without paying the ultimate price. The knowledge that he could have chosen differently would haunt him, but he had chosen to remain the man he believed himself to be.

As they approached the fallen stag, the king turned to him with genuine warmth. “You have my gratitude, Walter. And my trust. Whatever doubts I may have harboured about your loyalty are laid to rest.”

“I am relieved to hear it, my lord.”

William dismounted and knelt beside the stag, running his hand along the creature’s flank. “Beautiful animal. It seems almost a shame to kill something so magnificent.” He looked up at Walter with an odd expression. “Do you ever wonder, my friend, what the deer think of us? Are they curious about their hunters, or do they simply accept their fate?”

Walter considered the question as he too dismounted. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, waiting for his answer. In the distance, he could hear the hunting horns of their companions, growing closer.

“I think,” he said finally, “that all creatures are curious about their survival. The deer, the king, the archer—we all wonder what tomorrow might bring. But perhaps wisdom lies in accepting that some curiosities are better left unexplored.”

The king nodded thoughtfully, then stood and brushed dirt from his hands. “Well spoken. Come, let us find the others and return with our prize. This has been a successful hunt indeed.”

As they waited for the rest of the party to join them, Walter found himself studying the forest with new eyes. The ancient oaks and spreading beeches, the carpets of bluebells and wood anemones, the hidden pathways known only to charcoal-burners and foresters—all of it would outlive kings and kingdoms alike.

He thought of Purkiss, the local charcoal-burner he’d met that morning, a weathered Saxon whose family had worked these woods since time immemorial. There was a wisdom in such continuity that made royal politics seem as ephemeral as morning mist.

The hunting party eventually found them, and they began the journey back to the lodge with their prize secured to a pack horse. The king was in high spirits, regaling the company with tales of Walter’s skillful shot and plans for the evening’s feast.

But Walter rode in contemplative silence, his bow slung across his shoulder, his curiosity finally satisfied. He had looked into the dark corners of his own soul and chosen to step back from the abyss. Some questions, he now understood, were more dangerous than any stag, and wisdom lay not in pursuing them to their bitter end, but in recognising when curiosity must yield to conscience.

The forest kept its secrets that day, and Walter Tirel kept his.

The End

On 2nd August 1100, King William II “Rufus” was fatally struck by an arrow while hunting in Hampshire’s 374 km² New Forest—a royal preserve created in 1079 that had displaced at least 20 villages and several churches. Witnesses reported the king died within minutes; his body was carted 22 km to Winchester Cathedral the same day. The sudden vacancy of the throne allowed William’s younger brother, Henry, to seize the crown within 48 hours, issue the Charter of Liberties in 1100, and lay foundations for the future Magna Carta (1215). Tirel fled to France, echoing the period’s broader pattern of Norman power struggles that shaped feudal Europe. Today, debate over whether Rufus’s death was accident or assassination informs studies of medieval governance, succession crises and the lasting legal ideals of limited royal authority.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.