The Devil's Lightning: Divine Retribution in 11th Century England
A rare trifecta: tax abuse, sodomy, and the weather.
In 1091, the Devil threw a lightning bolt at the tower at Winchcombe, scaring the living shit out of the monks inside.1 It cracked open the roof with a scar large enough for a man to pass through, letting in the tempest outside. Through the beating rain, the bolt careened across the room, showering the assembled host in splinters. A portrait of the virgin Mary was knocked to the floor, and the crucifix struck and shattered. The monks, understandably somewhat shaken by this overtly sacrilegious weather phenomenon, gathered their courage. Sprinkling holy water before them, clasping their noses to keep away the unbearable foul smell that now filled the room, they sent the Devil on his way.
It is William of Malmesbury who preserves this lively set of events, in his Gesta Regum Anglorum: ‘the deeds of the kings of England’. Completed in the mid-1120s but updated until at least the 1130s, and produced alongside a companion work that recounts the ecclesiastical history of the kingdom, the Gesta provides a crucial source for our understanding of both pre- and post-Conquest England.
The lightning strike, pregnant with symbolism as it is, represents just one of a litany of ‘many sudden and tragic events’ that occurred within a short space of time. The list would give Moses a run for his money: a great earthquake throws the buildings into the air; a wicked wind flattens 600 houses in London; the lands flood; famine and plague ravish the kingdom; the springs run with blood; the Devil is seen conversing with locals. Something was afoot. We get a better grasp of the significance of these disasters when we contextualise the lightning strike, and its apocalyptic counterparts, within William of Malmesbury’s broader narrative.
The year 1091 falls within the reign of King William II. Often given the nickname Rufus ‘(red’), William had succeeded his father William ‘the Conqueror’ in 1087, before meeting an unfortunate end during a hunting accident in 1100. He receives no love from William of Malmesbury. Rufus has set about a large-scale financial exploitation of the Church, expertly managed by his loyal lackey, Ranulph Flambard (‘flaming torch’). Whether we view this as sage financial management or ruthless misappropriation, the churchmen of the day were unsurprisingly less that keen. Flambard was met with a great outpouring of vitriol, from a number of ecclesiastical sources, including the accusation that his mother had communed with the Devil, and had thus been deprived of her eye.2 Although William of Malmesbury is willing to acknowledge the sparse successes of Rufus, the king receives a similarly sharp review for his perceived failings: his irreligiosity, his taxation and money-grabbing, his callous disregard of his people and, most famously, the implication of homosexuality.
There can be no doubt, for William of Malmesbury, that God had been angry with William Rufus. Look at the evidence; look at the suffering and the terror and the wrath of nature. As the lightning dances around the tower at Winchcombe - as the ground shakes and the banks burst and the people starve - the reader is asked to appreciate the inevitable outcome of religious malpractice. Perhaps, we are less than subtly reminded, future kings might do well to stay in their lane…
SeaxEducation seeks to explore the forgotten lives of early medieval England, and those who pass briefly into the pages of our history. You can find a wealth of previous stories throughout the archives of this blog: the thieving monk Eadwine, the prophetic Saint Ælfheah, and the hunt for Hereward. Subscribe to the blog for free to keep up-to-date in the future.
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The following account is drawn from William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum, ed. and trans. R. A. B. Mynors, R. M. Thomson, and M. Winterbottom (2 vols., Oxford, 1998-9), i. 569.
Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, ed. M. Chibnall (6 vols., Oxford, 1969–80), v. 312.