What if a nightmare foretold your death—and you ignored it? That was the dilemma faced by William Rufus, King of England, in a dramatic tale recorded by a 12th-century poet.
Benoît de Sainte-Maure, writing in the mid-1100s, was hired by King Henry II to compose Chronique des ducs de Normandie, a long rhymed chronicle of Henry’s Norman ancestors. His work—over 44,000 lines—offers vivid portraits of rulers such as William the Conqueror and his sons, including a haunting account of King William II, better known as William Rufus.
A King and a Dream
William Rufus began his reign in 1087, but Benoît portrays him as a poor ruler. Here is how he assesses William’s character:
No one loved spending as much as he did, no one was more energetic and enterprising; he was the least timid of men, the least faint-hearted. His mind was, however, set on doing things that earned him universal criticism, and that no consecrated or anointed king ever needed or was ever required to do.
This view was common among medieval chroniclers. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, for example, states that William was “hated by almost all his people and abhorrent to God.” Benoît especially criticises William’s treatment of the Church, particularly his exile of Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury.
A portrait of William II, King of England depicted in British Library Royal MS 14 B VI fol. 5r
In early August 1100, while staying in Winchester, William Rufus was visited by Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester. The bishop urged him to reconcile with Anselm, but the king refused—and planned to go hunting the next day in the New Forest.
That night, William had a terrifying dream. Benoît de Sainte-Maure describes it in gruesome detail:
He dreamt he entered a huge, splendid and beautiful church; even though he felt like praying, his mind kept turning to other things. He was seized with an unbelievable hunger, and so violent and all-consuming was it that he felt as if he was growing weak and about to faint, almost to the point where he would eat his own hands. And this he would have done, had there been no alternative. His gaze then fell on the altar where he saw – or so he thought – a huge stag that had been killed. In order to avoid the great act of apostasy he was about to commit on himself, he approached the animal with the intention of eating some of it, since his one and only desire was for food. At that very moment he was stretching out his hand, he suddenly realised – and it seemed to him to be absolutely certain – that it was in fact a man’s body still bleeding from the wound that had killed him. He was seized with fear and revulsion at such a hideous sight.
But so great was his hunger, and so strong was his craving for food, that he was unable, despite every effort he could make, to prevent himself from being forced to eat some of it. He makes as if to pull off the man’s hand, but the whole of the arm comes away from the body. This he immediately devours, and then, not being satisfied, wants to seize hold of the second hand also, since his hunger had not diminished in the least. Fearful and terror-stricken, he pulls it towards him, still attached to the arm, and eats it, but still his appetite is not satisfied.
His hunger grew and grew but could not be sated. Biting savagely into the bone and flesh, he eats one of the feet, then the whole of the leg right up to the body. At this he feels twice as hungry as before, so without the slightest hesitation he immediately sets about devouring the second leg as well. This, however, is to no avail, for it has little or no effect on his hunger. At this moment, the man’s face comes into view, and this also he feels an urge to eat. But the spectacle he beholds is a death-inducing one: an absolutely terrifying pair of eyes, so horrible and hideous and so excruciating to look at that all that remains is for him to die, and for his heart to cease beating in his breast.
A Warning from God?
William awoke shaken, believing he had narrowly escaped death. He called Bishop Gundulf and described the nightmare. Gundulf interpreted it as a divine warning. The church, the altar, the stag, the human flesh—all were symbols of the king’s sins against God and the people of England.
“You have no reason to feel secure; take urgent steps to mend your ways, and do not let your decision be postponed, for there is every need and necessity for you to take it soon. One piece of advice I wish to give you, one request I wish to make of you in the name of God, is that today you do not, please, go hunting in the woods or go fowling. You will do well to avoid doing so, and instead the proper thing for you to do is to confess your sins, without losing a moment, to someone who can give you instruction on what is the right course of action for you.”
William agreed to repent and stay behind. But shortly afterward, a group of knights arrived for the planned hunt. They mocked his sudden piety:
Each and every one of them ribbed him, saying that they were scared he was turning into a saint, and they prayed God that he not include them in his prayers since they had so little trust in him.
“Hold on there, my lords!” William says. “I’m actually a thoroughly bad person, a hundred times worse than you think! To cut a long story short, I’m giving up going hunting today: the last thing I want to do is go into the woods, and I never want to see the forest again.”
Everyone around him was convinced that he was joking, so they all began to put pressure on him. Each one of them speaks up, urging him to find some energy, be quick, and do what he truly wants to do. So insistent are they that he ends up getting dressed and equipped and setting out with them straight to the forest.
Despite his hesitation, William was persuaded to join them.
Death of William Rufus, lithograph by Alphonse de Neuville, 1895
Death in the Woods
The hunting party entered the New Forest and spread out. At one point, William took position near a fellow knight. Benoît recounts what happened next:
When the quarry comes within range and the aim is the best possible, one particular knight is very quick off the mark and ready to shoot, and so the king instructs him to do so. The man, however, becomes apprehensive and takes fright because the king is standing very close to his line of fire. On at least two occasions, I think, he decides, with bow ready stretched, not to shoot. But King Rufus urges him to go ahead, so much so that he impulsively lets loose a barbed arrow which, with the Devil’s connivance, strikes and glances off a sturdy branch, hitting the king close to his heart.
Though fatally wounded, William reportedly managed to speak:
“Run for it! Flee, don’t lose a moment! You have killed me, and I have only myself to blame. God has taken vengeance on me here. I beg for mercy now and implore him, in his holy and precious compassion, to have pity on me this day, for I have sorely sinned against him.”
And with that, King William immediately dies. The knight who shot him flees, while the other companions cry out and lament their fallen ruler. Within a few days, he is buried in Winchester, and his brother Henry takes the throne of England.
A Tale of Sin, Repentance, and Fate
This is not the only version of William’s death, as other chroniclers have added different details – for example, the knight who shot William was a nobleman named Walter Tirel. Some historians have speculated that the king’s death was not an accident, but rather an assassination, carried out under the orders of Henry, who was also in the hunting party.
Still, Benoît’s poetic version survives as one of the most striking accounts of medieval kingship, repentance, and fate. Whether historical fact or moral allegory, his tale reminds us that even kings cannot ignore the signs, and that a nightmare might just be a warning from God.
Benoît de Sainte-Maure’s work, Chronique des ducs de Normandie, has been partially translated by Ian Short in Three Anglo-Norman Kings: The Lives of William the Conqueror and Sons. It has just been published by the Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies. You can buy it on Amazon.com.
Top Image: The death of William Rufus in a 14th-century manuscript. British Library MS Royal 16 G VI f. 272
By Peter Konieczny
What if a nightmare foretold your death—and you ignored it? That was the dilemma faced by William Rufus, King of England, in a dramatic tale recorded by a 12th-century poet.
Benoît de Sainte-Maure, writing in the mid-1100s, was hired by King Henry II to compose Chronique des ducs de Normandie, a long rhymed chronicle of Henry’s Norman ancestors. His work—over 44,000 lines—offers vivid portraits of rulers such as William the Conqueror and his sons, including a haunting account of King William II, better known as William Rufus.
A King and a Dream
William Rufus began his reign in 1087, but Benoît portrays him as a poor ruler. Here is how he assesses William’s character:
No one loved spending as much as he did, no one was more energetic and enterprising; he was the least timid of men, the least faint-hearted. His mind was, however, set on doing things that earned him universal criticism, and that no consecrated or anointed king ever needed or was ever required to do.
This view was common among medieval chroniclers. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, for example, states that William was “hated by almost all his people and abhorrent to God.” Benoît especially criticises William’s treatment of the Church, particularly his exile of Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury.
In early August 1100, while staying in Winchester, William Rufus was visited by Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester. The bishop urged him to reconcile with Anselm, but the king refused—and planned to go hunting the next day in the New Forest.
That night, William had a terrifying dream. Benoît de Sainte-Maure describes it in gruesome detail:
He dreamt he entered a huge, splendid and beautiful church; even though he felt like praying, his mind kept turning to other things. He was seized with an unbelievable hunger, and so violent and all-consuming was it that he felt as if he was growing weak and about to faint, almost to the point where he would eat his own hands. And this he would have done, had there been no alternative. His gaze then fell on the altar where he saw – or so he thought – a huge stag that had been killed. In order to avoid the great act of apostasy he was about to commit on himself, he approached the animal with the intention of eating some of it, since his one and only desire was for food. At that very moment he was stretching out his hand, he suddenly realised – and it seemed to him to be absolutely certain – that it was in fact a man’s body still bleeding from the wound that had killed him. He was seized with fear and revulsion at such a hideous sight.
But so great was his hunger, and so strong was his craving for food, that he was unable, despite every effort he could make, to prevent himself from being forced to eat some of it. He makes as if to pull off the man’s hand, but the whole of the arm comes away from the body. This he immediately devours, and then, not being satisfied, wants to seize hold of the second hand also, since his hunger had not diminished in the least. Fearful and terror-stricken, he pulls it towards him, still attached to the arm, and eats it, but still his appetite is not satisfied.
His hunger grew and grew but could not be sated. Biting savagely into the bone and flesh, he eats one of the feet, then the whole of the leg right up to the body. At this he feels twice as hungry as before, so without the slightest hesitation he immediately sets about devouring the second leg as well. This, however, is to no avail, for it has little or no effect on his hunger. At this moment, the man’s face comes into view, and this also he feels an urge to eat. But the spectacle he beholds is a death-inducing one: an absolutely terrifying pair of eyes, so horrible and hideous and so excruciating to look at that all that remains is for him to die, and for his heart to cease beating in his breast.
A Warning from God?
William awoke shaken, believing he had narrowly escaped death. He called Bishop Gundulf and described the nightmare. Gundulf interpreted it as a divine warning. The church, the altar, the stag, the human flesh—all were symbols of the king’s sins against God and the people of England.
“You have no reason to feel secure; take urgent steps to mend your ways, and do not let your decision be postponed, for there is every need and necessity for you to take it soon. One piece of advice I wish to give you, one request I wish to make of you in the name of God, is that today you do not, please, go hunting in the woods or go fowling. You will do well to avoid doing so, and instead the proper thing for you to do is to confess your sins, without losing a moment, to someone who can give you instruction on what is the right course of action for you.”
William agreed to repent and stay behind. But shortly afterward, a group of knights arrived for the planned hunt. They mocked his sudden piety:
Each and every one of them ribbed him, saying that they were scared he was turning into a saint, and they prayed God that he not include them in his prayers since they had so little trust in him.
“Hold on there, my lords!” William says. “I’m actually a thoroughly bad person, a hundred times worse than you think! To cut a long story short, I’m giving up going hunting today: the last thing I want to do is go into the woods, and I never want to see the forest again.”
Everyone around him was convinced that he was joking, so they all began to put pressure on him. Each one of them speaks up, urging him to find some energy, be quick, and do what he truly wants to do. So insistent are they that he ends up getting dressed and equipped and setting out with them straight to the forest.
Despite his hesitation, William was persuaded to join them.
Death in the Woods
The hunting party entered the New Forest and spread out. At one point, William took position near a fellow knight. Benoît recounts what happened next:
When the quarry comes within range and the aim is the best possible, one particular knight is very quick off the mark and ready to shoot, and so the king instructs him to do so. The man, however, becomes apprehensive and takes fright because the king is standing very close to his line of fire. On at least two occasions, I think, he decides, with bow ready stretched, not to shoot. But King Rufus urges him to go ahead, so much so that he impulsively lets loose a barbed arrow which, with the Devil’s connivance, strikes and glances off a sturdy branch, hitting the king close to his heart.
Though fatally wounded, William reportedly managed to speak:
“Run for it! Flee, don’t lose a moment! You have killed me, and I have only myself to blame. God has taken vengeance on me here. I beg for mercy now and implore him, in his holy and precious compassion, to have pity on me this day, for I have sorely sinned against him.”
And with that, King William immediately dies. The knight who shot him flees, while the other companions cry out and lament their fallen ruler. Within a few days, he is buried in Winchester, and his brother Henry takes the throne of England.
A Tale of Sin, Repentance, and Fate
This is not the only version of William’s death, as other chroniclers have added different details – for example, the knight who shot William was a nobleman named Walter Tirel. Some historians have speculated that the king’s death was not an accident, but rather an assassination, carried out under the orders of Henry, who was also in the hunting party.
Still, Benoît’s poetic version survives as one of the most striking accounts of medieval kingship, repentance, and fate. Whether historical fact or moral allegory, his tale reminds us that even kings cannot ignore the signs, and that a nightmare might just be a warning from God.
Benoît de Sainte-Maure’s work, Chronique des ducs de Normandie, has been partially translated by Ian Short in Three Anglo-Norman Kings: The Lives of William the Conqueror and Sons. It has just been published by the Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies. You can buy it on Amazon.com.
Top Image: The death of William Rufus in a 14th-century manuscript. British Library MS Royal 16 G VI f. 272
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