Queen of the Conqueror: The Life of Matilda, Wife of William I (27 page)

Baudri goes on to describe “a wonderful tapestry” that surrounded Adela’s bed. This sounds remarkably similar to the Bayeux Tapestry, for it included scenes depicting the comet, the Norman council and preparations, the fleet, the Battle of Hastings with the feigned flight of the Normans and the real one of the English, and the death of Harold. However, from Baudri’s description it seems that the work was on a much smaller scale than the Bayeux Tapestry and was fashioned from richer materials than the original. Nevertheless, it still provides an interesting insight into the pride that Adela felt in her father’s achievements.
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Baudri would at best have caught only a glimpse of the chamber of which he paints such a vivid picture, so much of the detail must be imaginary. He himself admitted: “I described what would be most appropriate more than what existed.” But his account still provides a valuable insight into contemporary tastes and fashions, and hints at the lavish and luxurious style in which Matilda and her family might have lived.

Without accounts such as these, it can be difficult to imagine the color and spectacle of the palaces and churches that Matilda knew, both as queen of England and duchess of Normandy. Those buildings that do survive have plain, imposing stone walls that show little sign of the vibrantly painted murals and rich decorations that would have adorned them originally. Such decorations had long been in fashion. The Anglo-Saxon
poem
Beowulf
describes a hall bedecked with drapes “embroidered with gold” and “many a sight of wonder for those that delight to gaze on them.”
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But such grandeur was not just hollow opulence; it served a vital purpose: to reinforce William and Matilda’s right to the English throne.

There were no such lavish palaces in the place where Matilda was obliged to halt her progress northward in 1068. Despite her determination to give birth to her latest child in York, in the end she made it only as far as Selby, some fourteen miles south of the city. It is possible that William had sent word that it was not safe for her to venture farther, given the fragile state of affairs in the region. Or perhaps the onset of labor had forced her to rest there. Whatever the reason, the fact that Matilda sought refuge smacks of a hasty rather than a preplanned decision. Even though Selby was a sizable town, it was by no means as fitting a venue for the birth of a royal prince as York, the “capital” of the north.

Matilda’s confinement would be her last. It resulted in a fourth son, who was named Henry after Matilda’s uncle, King Henry I of France. This may seem an odd choice given the difficult, rivalrous relationship that had existed between William and the French king before the latter’s death in 1060. However, the royal couple clearly wished to further legitimize the boy and the family in the eyes of their subjects by reminding them yet again of Matilda’s impeccable pedigree. Moreover, she herself was always keen to emphasize her affinity with the French royals, and in many of the charters that she attested she is described as “niece of Henry, most illustrious king of the French.”
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By giving birth to a male heir on English soil, Matilda had achieved a vital step toward Anglo-Norman integration, inspiring greater loyalty among her subjects than her husband had during the many hard-fought campaigns he had waged since the Battle of Hastings two years earlier. Indeed, many Saxons would come to regard Henry as the only legitimate heir to the throne, taking precedence over Robert, Richard, and William. According to Orderic Vitalis, Matilda encouraged this view by making him heir to all of her lands in England, probably soon after his birth.
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It is equally possible that she did so out of a special fondness for her youngest child, and William also seemed to favor the boy. Malmesbury records that Henry enjoyed “his father’s blessing and his mother’s inheritance” and that he was “well supplied with money.”
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Matilda and William
founded a Benedictine abbey at Selby the year after his birth, presumably to give thanks to God for the safe delivery of their son.
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Henry might have been viewed as the rightful heir to the throne by most Englishmen, but for all the royal commemoration of his birth, it was out of the question that he would supplant his three elder brothers. It would set a dangerous precedent to so flagrantly disregard the natural order of succession. Instead, William and Matilda intended for him to follow the usual path of youngest sons and embark upon a career in the church. To this end, he was given a more extensive schooling than his brothers, and was tutored by their father’s closest adviser, Lanfranc, who from about 1070 had held the post of archbishop of Canterbury, despite his initial reluctance.
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So effective was Henry’s education that he grew up with a passion for intellectual pursuits, and is said to have remarked that an illiterate king was little better than a crowned ass.
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Among Henry’s most important lessons was English, and he became more fluent in this language than any of the rest of his family—a fact that further endeared him to the native population. He could also read and write in Latin, which, together with his command of English, later earned him the nickname “Beauclerc.” Moreover, the young Henry apparently possessed the opposite temperament to his father, for Malmesbury claimed that he “preferred contending by counsel, rather than by the sword.” He would grow up to be much more withdrawn than his outgoing and flamboyant elder brothers, Robert and William Rufus, but his natural reserve masked a shrewdness and cunning that would one day make him the most successful of all Matilda’s sons.

It seems the royal family overestimated the healing effects of Henry’s birth on the Saxon population. At the end of 1068, they felt their monarchy secure enough to return to Normandy to celebrate Christmas, where they no doubt enjoyed the traditional festivities at court.

But William had misjudged the situation. The imposing fortresses he had erected across the country had become a target for rebellion, and within a few short weeks, fresh trouble had broken out. Edgar the Aetheling, who had been steadily building support from his base in Scotland, headed south to Northumbria and led a huge uprising. His intention was
to seize the throne from William and thus reestablish the Anglo-Saxon monarchy. His cause attracted large numbers of men hostile to the Norman regime, and in February 1069 the rebels won a major victory by taking the city of York in William’s absence.

William had no choice but to set sail for his new kingdom once more. He left Matilda behind, presumably as regent—her position being that much higher than that of her son Robert, who had guarded the kingdom in his parents’ absence. By April 1069, he had succeeded in retaking York. Any conciliatory feelings toward the English that this victory, together with the birth of his fourth male heir, might have inspired were soon forgotten. Outraged, the king exacted a terrible revenge. Throughout 1069 and well into the following year, he launched a series of blistering attacks on a vast swath of territory stretching from the Humber to the Tees. During this “Harrying of the North,” his forces showed no mercy as they razed villages, destroyed crops and livestock, and slaughtered thousands of men and women—innocent and guilty alike. Over a period of two years, thousands more—one account estimates as many as a hundred thousand—died of starvation after their food stores had been laid to waste.
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As Malmesbury observed: “the citizens perished by famine or sword.”
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According to Orderic, the severity of the attack was such that William himself later repented of it: “In mad fury I descended on the English of the north like a raging lion, and ordered that their homes and crops with all their equipment and furnishings should be burnt at once and their great flocks and herds of sheep and cattle slaughtered everywhere. So I chastised a great multitude of men and women with the lash of starvation and, alas! was the cruel murderer of many thousands, both young and old, of this fair people.”
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Even by William’s standards, this was ruthlessness on an unprecedented scale. It appalled contemporaries and alienated many who had previously been sympathetic to the Norman cause. The horror of it was still raw when Orderic Vitalis wrote his account forty years later:

He [William] cut down many in his vengeance; destroyed the lairs of others; harried the land, and burned homes to ashes. Nowhere else had William shown such cruelty … My narrative has frequently had occasion to praise William, but for this act which condemned the innocent and guilty alike to die by slow starvation I cannot commend him. For when I think of helpless children, young men in the prime of life, and hoary greybeards perishing alike of hunger I am so moved to pity that I would rather lament the griefs and sufferings of the wretched people than make a vain attempt to flatter the perpetrator of such infamy.
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Another contemporary, Simeon of Durham, was appalled by the devastation that he witnessed firsthand:

So great a famine prevailed that men, compelled by hunger, devoured human flesh, that of horses, dogs, and cats, and whatever custom abhors; others sold themselves to perpetual slavery, so that they might in any way preserve their wretched existence; others, while about to go into exile from their country, fell down in the middle of their journey and gave up the ghost. It was horrific to behold human corpses decaying in the houses, the streets, and the roads, swarming with worms, while they were consuming in corruption with an abominable stench. For no one was left to bury them in the earth, all being cut off either by the sword or by famine.
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Even William’s apologist, Jumièges, admitted: “by sword and fire they [the Normans] massacred almost the entire population from the very young to the old and grey.”
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But even this dreadful campaign did not stamp out the resistance of William’s most recalcitrant subjects. Thousands rose in support of Sweyn Estrithson, King of Denmark, when he invaded Yorkshire in the summer of 1069, assisted by William’s now-perennial enemy, King Malcolm III of Scotland. The rebels recaptured York in September. Although Sweyn was in theory acting in support of Edgar the Aetheling, he had long coveted the English throne for himself, so his intervention added a dangerous new dimension to an already highly volatile state of affairs.
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Matilda had returned to England in early spring 1069.
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Jumièges claims that during her absence from Normandy, the regency was again entrusted to Robert, who, being a minor, was no doubt still surrounded
by strong advisers.
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It may seem puzzling that she should leave Normandy at a time when her husband’s attention was so diverted by his English kingdom. Although the duchy was stable by comparison, this stability could never be taken for granted, with ambitious noblemen ever watchful for an opportunity to seize power. Matilda had already proved adept at keeping all threats to ducal power at bay, so it might reasonably have been expected that William would have wished her to remain there as regent until the situation in England had improved. Yet perhaps she and her husband recognized the importance of having a figurehead for the royal family in the south of their new dominion. While William struggled in the north, a strong presence was required to guard against any sympathetic uprisings elsewhere. Matilda, already gaining favor among the English people thanks to her dignified bearing and gentle demeanor, formed a welcome contrast to her husband’s brutality. She was therefore ideally suited for this task.

Having returned to England, Matilda embarked upon a series of carefully planned public relations opportunities. These included the Easter celebrations that were held at the court in Winchester. Here, in a display of family unity no doubt intended to remind the populace of the strength of the Norman dynasty, she was joined by her second son, Richard, as she presided over the ceremonials. But while she was intent upon promoting goodwill, her husband had other ideas. At a council meeting held as part of the Easter gathering, he confirmed the perpetual security of a grant of property to the abbey of Holy Trinity in Rouen “by a knife which the king playfully gave the abbot [Rayner] as if about to stab his hand.” Given William’s notorious cruelty, the poor abbot must have been greatly alarmed. Matilda was there to witness her husband’s tasteless prank, for her signature appears on the grant that Abbot Rayner hastened away with.
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No doubt thanks to her influence, the rest of the celebrations passed without incident.