Lifting it into his cart, wrapped in old linen, he jogged slowly onward,
the blood still dripping and staining the ground as he passed. Not till
he reached the hunting-lodge did he discover that it was the corpse of a
king he had found in the forest depths. The dead body was that of
William II. of England.
Tyrrell had disappeared. In vain they sought him. He was nowhere to be
found. Suspicion rested on him. He had murdered the king, men said, and
fled the land.
Mystery has ever since shrouded the death of the Red King. Tyrrell lived
to tell his tale. It was probably a true one, though many doubted it.
The Frenchman had quarrelled with the king, men said, and had murdered
him from revenge. Just why he should have murdered so powerful a friend
and patron, for a taunt passed in jest, was far from evident.
Tyrrell's story is as follows: He and the king had taken their stations,
opposite one another, waiting the work of the woodsmen who were beating
up the game. Each had an arrow in his cross-bow, his finger on the
trigger, eagerly listening for the distant sounds which would indicate
the coming of game. As they stood thus intent, a large stag suddenly
broke from the bushes and sprang into the space between them.
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