The Norman Conquest (16 page)

Their actions were not without self-interest. Some of these new aristocratic benefactors had previously been among the worst despoilers of monastic property, and the houses they founded might still be expected to provide benefices for their knights or to assist in the organization of military service. An abbey or a nunnery also advertised its owner’s status, and proclaimed his lordship over a particular locality almost as effectively as his castle. As the number of monasteries multiplied, so too did the competition between magnates to be seen as the most magnanimous. Nevertheless, even when all these considerations are taken into account, there can be little doubt that piety was the major factor behind most if not all new foundations. It was, after all, in his own monastery that a lord would eventually be buried, and here that the monks, in gratitude for his munificence, would say prayers for his soul in perpetuity.
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These monasteries were also new in another sense, in that they were built in a wholly novel architectural style. Prior to this point, the churches of Normandy had been constructed in the fashion that had prevailed across Europe since the fall of Rome, their walls simply flat expanses, devoid of decoration unless it was added in the form of paintings or tapestries. But in the second quarter of the eleventh century, thanks to the bigger budgets of patrons and the superior
skills of masons, the surfaces of such buildings suddenly burst into three dimensions, their designers alternately adding and subtracting depth with shafts, arches, niches and galleries. It was a revival of the kind of sophisticated, monumental and above all orderly architecture that had ended with Rome, a fact which led historians of the early twentieth century to dub it ‘Romanesque’. Having first appeared in neighbouring Anjou in the 1020s, it was adopted with enthusiasm by the Normans in the decades that followed. One of its earliest and best-surviving examples is the abbey church at Jumièges, rebuilt from 1040 on the orders of Abbot Robert, shortly before he embarked for his tumultuous career in England at the side of Edward the Confessor.
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Quite how much the wider Church was affected by these developments in the monastic world is difficult to say. Normandy’s bishops, for instance, certainly liked the new Romanesque style, and were quick to begin rebuilding their cathedrals on a lavish scale.
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When it came to some of the other ideas espoused by their cloistered colleagues, however, the secular clergy were less enthusiastic. To be a bishop in the Middle Ages was essentially to be a great administrator, wielding considerable power over people, cities and provinces here on earth. For this reason, kings and princes liked to ensure that the men who filled such positions were reliable, and this usually meant they appointed their closest relatives. As we have seen, the archbishopric of Rouen was held during William’s minority successively by Robert and Mauger, both of whom were the sons of earlier dukes. Similarly, when it fell to William himself to make new appointments, he too kept it in the family, appointing his cousin Hugh as the new bishop of Lisieux in 1049, and a short time later awarding the bishopric of Bayeux to his half-brother, Odo.
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Being drawn from the highest level of society meant that medieval bishops were generally loath to forsake the luxurious lifestyle in which they had been raised – even if it occasionally meant selling a Church appointment to the highest bidder, or divesting their cathedral of some of its excess property. They were also usually unwilling to give up other pleasures enjoyed by their non-clerical relatives: like the majority of the parish priests under their jurisdiction, many bishops had wives or mistresses, which naturally meant that many of them also had children.
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To monastic reformers, these
were matters of the highest concern. The selling of ecclesiastical offices (simony) obviously meant that Church positions frequently went to unsuitable candidates, as did the existence of married clergy if they insisted on promoting their offspring. But while the selection of senior churchmen remained in the hands of kings, dukes and princes, there was little hope that the reformers’ denunciation of such practices would have any real effect.

It came as a shock to everyone, therefore, when the reformers suddenly took over the Church at the very top. For centuries the papacy had been a distant irrelevance to all but the ruling dynasties of Rome itself, who preferred to have one of their own on the throne of St Peter. But the picture changed dramatically in 1048 when the German emperor, Henry III, appointed his kinsman Leo IX as the new supreme pontiff. Both men were champions of reform, and Leo immediately set about enforcing its ideals, demanding that the clergy should be celibate and dismissing any bishops who had bought their offices. In 1049, only ten months into his pontificate, he visited France – the first pope to do so in 171 years – and held his celebrated council at Rheims, denouncing any attendees who failed to meet his exacting standards and excommunicating those who stayed away.
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Those members of the Norman episcopate who obeyed the papal summons, like their colleagues from other parts of France, were tested and found wanting. The bishop of Séez was condemned for having accidentally burnt down his cathedral during a military operation; the bishop of Coutances, who had obtained his position earlier in the year by purchase (presumably from Duke William), escaped dismissal only by swearing that his family had forced him into accepting the job. As for the duke himself, this was of course the occasion when the pope forbade his planned marriage to Matilda of Flanders. One can only imagine what Leo would have made of William’s decision to fill the bishopric of Bayeux with his half-brother, Odo, barely out of his teens and allegedly ‘devoted to the delights of the flesh’. As it was, Odo appears to have been appointed shortly after the council had ended.
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Even a firebrand like Leo, however, could be persuaded to change his mind, provided the sinful showed themselves to be truly repentant. The bishop of Séez accepted his error and promised to build a new cathedral church, to which end he set off across Europe on a
fund-raising tour, returning with riches from his relatives in Italy as well as a relic of the Holy Cross from Byzantium. One suspects that the bishop of Coutances, who also immediately embarked on the rebuilding of his cathedral, again after a successful Italian tour, may have done so for similar penitential reasons. Moreover, as we have already seen, the papal prohibition of William’s marriage to Matilda was lifted within a matter of months, a reversal that was almost certainly due to the advocacy of Lanfranc. The duke’s chief spiritual adviser was probably also present at Rheims, and during most of the year that followed he remained in Leo’s entourage, earning the new pope’s praise and admiration. During these months Lanfranc must have convinced Leo that great things were afoot in Normandy; that new monasteries were being founded, new priests were being trained, and that its new young duke, despite his regrettable choice of bride, would be a sincere and valuable ally in advancing the work of reform. The pope was duly convinced, and the ban was lifted – probably on condition that the newlyweds should each found a monastery by way of atonement.
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Thanks to Lanfranc’s efforts, then, and the dynamic response of the duchy’s bishops, what could have been a crisis in Normandy’s relationship with Rome proved to be a crucial turning point. During the decade that followed the Council of Rheims the signs are that William actively promoted the cause of reform – for example, by convening regular councils of the Church over which he personally presided – and that as a result he came to be regarded as one of the papacy’s favourite sons.
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Hence, when the duke wanted to remove his half-uncle, the archbishop of Rouen, following the great rebellion that had threatened to end his rule, Leo IX was happy to oblige. Chief among those who heard the case against Mauger in May 1054 was Ermenfrid of Sion, a papal legate dispatched especially for the occasion. As we have noted, the archbishop’s record, while hardly outstanding, was not all that bad. He had, for example, convened at least one Church council of his own, the statutes of which had condemned the prevalence of simony in Normandy several years before Leo had done so at the Council of Rheims. Judged by the standards now being demanded by Rome, however, Mauger was inevitably deemed inadequate and deposed. The only problem with removing him in this way was that no Norman nobleman could possibly meet such
standards, and so the solution had to be a break with tradition. In place of Mauger, and no doubt at Lanfranc’s suggestion, William appointed a monk named Maurilius. A scholar of distinction, a former abbot and sometime recluse, Maurilius was in many respects the reformers’ dream candidate – a man so committed to rigorous discipline that monks had previously rebelled against his rule. ‘The worthiest of all men for the archbishopric by merit of his birth, person, virtue, and learning’, said William of Poitiers, Maurilius effectively placed the Church in Normandy above all criticism, and showed how far the Normans had travelled since the days of their Viking ancestors.
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Having sent both rebels and suspected sympathizers into exile, and settled matters with the king of France, William immediately resumed the struggle on his southern border against Geoffrey of Anjou. His aim was now to carry war back into enemy territory, weakening Geoffrey’s recently established hold on the intermediate county of Maine. Six weeks after sealing the French peace, William led an army into Maine and began constructing a new castle at Ambrières, some thirteen miles south of Domfront. Geoffrey did all he could to resist this advance, raising a large army of his own and laying siege to the fortress, but ultimately to no avail: the garrison held out, and the count’s forces withdrew on learning of William’s approach. In the end the local lord of Ambrières decided that the wisest course of action would be to accept the duke of Normandy as his overlord.
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Geoffrey, however, was not about to take such losses lying down. Nor, it soon transpired, was the French king prepared to forget his humiliation at the duke of Normandy’s hands. By the start of 1057, as a surviving charter shows, the two former allies were once again in each other’s company. William must have known about this and probably feared the worst. Possibly it was at this point that he took action against another of his paternal relatives, the count of Mortain, on suspicion of disloyalty. The count’s crime was apparently to have advised one of his knights not to leave Normandy, on the grounds that a time of plunder was imminent; when this news reached the duke he packed the count off into exile and handed the lordship of Mortain to his other half-brother, Robert. Orderic Vitalis, our only source for the undated story, clearly thought that the charges
against the count were flimsy, but William would have had good reason to be suspicious if these rumours reached his ears in the spring of 1057. Mortain lies just fourteen miles from Domfront, close to the area that he and Geoffrey Martel were contesting. Perhaps the count of Mortain really had known what was coming.
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For in August 1057 Normandy was again invaded by Count Geoffrey in alliance with King Henry of France. William of Poitiers’ comment that their combined army was not quite as large as before has led some modern historians to downplay this invasion; but the rest of the chronicler’s description suggests that the result was, if anything, more serious. Previously they had barely crossed the border before being defeated, but now, having entered Normandy from the south, they burned their way far into the interior – ravaging William’s land, as Poitiers puts it, ‘as far as the seashore by fire and sword’. Moreover, on this occasion, the skill in reconnaissance that had served William so well in the past seems temporarily to have failed him, to judge from Poitiers’ remark that the invaders kept their movements as secret as possible.
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At last, however, William caught up with his enemies on the north coast of Normandy, at the mouth of the River Dives. Poitiers says that the duke had only a small number of men with him, which suggests that once again he was shadowing his opponents, hoping for an opportunity of some kind. And, at that very moment, an opportunity presented itself. Henry and Geoffrey had forded the Dives at a place called Varaville, presumably intending to continue their path of destruction towards Caen and Bayeux. But while their troops were crossing the river the tide had begun to rise, leaving their army divided, and thus handing William an unmissable advantage. The duke and his small force, says Poitiers, fell upon the stranded rearguard, cutting them down under the eyes of the king and the count who could only watch, powerless, from the opposite bank. Some were captured, says William of Jumièges, but the impression is that many more were killed. ‘Fearful and distressed at the death of his men’ says Poitiers, ‘the king, with the Angevin tyrant, left the bounds of Normandy with all possible speed.’ As both chroniclers noted, it was a signal victory, for the king of France never again dared to invade William’s duchy.
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The king of England, meanwhile, had discovered he had a long-lost nephew.

6

The Godwinesons

‘T
here was deep joy both at court and in the whole country’, says the
Life of King Edward
, describing England in 1052 after the forceful return of Earl Godwine. But despite – or perhaps because of – such assurances, we may suspect that the lot of Edward the Confessor in the autumn of that year was not a happy one. His enemies had been restored to all their former possessions and power – Godwine and his sons to their earldoms, Edith to her estates and her place in the royal bedchamber. His friends, meanwhile, had fled into exile, some returning to Normandy with Archbishop Robert, others riding to Scotland, where they had taken service with a certain Macbeth. By Christmas (at which point England was visited by a particularly devastating storm) the king had some small causes for cheer. Late in the year came the news that Godwine’s eldest son, the murderous Earl Swein, had died in Constantinople while returning from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem; his death meant that Edward’s kinsman, Odda, who had briefly held Godwine’s own earldom of Wessex, could be compensated with a small command in the west Midlands. Similarly Edward’s Norman friend, Bishop William of London, who had fled abroad in September, was permitted to return at some point thereafter ‘on account of his goodness’.
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But these concessions serve only to emphasize the essential point that, when it came to control of appointments, and even his choice of friends, the king no longer had the final say. That much is made clear, above all, by the man he was obliged to accept as his new archbishop of Canterbury.