The Norman Conquest (58 page)

Perhaps more than any other source, Gaimar’s history shows how, as the middle of the twelfth century approached, the descendants of the original Norman settlers had put down roots in English soil. The top tier of this colonial society – the king and the upper aristocracy – retained their links with the motherland, and had cross-Channel concerns and careers. But the majority of the 8,000 or so Normans revealed by the Domesday Book had no such interests, and probably remained resident in England for most of their lives. Two or three generations on, some of them did not yet regard themselves as English (‘we French’ and ‘we Normans’ are self-descriptions found in sources of the 1150s); but England was nonetheless their home, and so naturally, they were curious about its past, its landscape and its culture. And even if this was not the case, they still had to coexist and co-operate with their English tenants and neighbours. Domesday, with its emphasis on those who held their land from the king directly, and to a lesser extent his subtenants, can give the impression that the English had been virtually eradicated by the Conquest, but other evidence reminds us that the natives survived in great numbers, albeit in depressed circumstances. The lists of Domesday jurors, for example, reveal scores of Englishmen who were clearly of some standing in their localities, but who do not feature in the book itself. In order to prosper in the midst of this massive English majority, the few thousand Norman settlers must necessarily have learned to speak English, if only as a second language. Indeed, some linguists would go so far as to regard the English that we speak today as a Creole created by the social circumstances of the Conquest.
¹⁴

There was also intermarriage between the two groups. Historians have tended to dismiss Orderic’s statement that such matches were commonplace during the years immediately after 1066, but as the product of a partnership that had clearly been consummated by 1074 we might give him the benefit of the doubt. Both William of Malmesbury and Henry of Huntingdon were also children of Anglo-Norman couples, and Malmesbury ventured the opinion that in general the Normans were happy to wed their inferiors. They may have done so for romantic reasons: Domesday mentions a Breton settler in Pickenham, Norfolk, ‘who loved a certain woman on that land and led her in marriage’. However, since the same entry continues
‘and afterwards he held that land’, we might infer that in this case, as in many others, love was not the settler’s sole motivation. Marriage to a female member of the native family they were displacing was another strategy used by new Norman lords to bolster their claims to legitimacy – one which also conveniently allowed the bride’s male relatives to salvage something from the wreckage of their expectations. Most spectacularly, this happened in 1100, when Henry I, just three months into his reign, married Edith, a daughter of Edgar Ætheling’s sister, Margaret. Thus, from the start of the twelfth century, the English had a queen of their own race – ‘of the true royal family of England’, as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle pointedly put it.
¹⁵

If marriage was one indicator of where one’s heart lay, burial was another. The first generation of conquerors, born and raised in Normandy, had by and large preferred to use their new-found riches to patronize monastic houses back home, and it was in these houses that they chose to be interred. (Though there were notable exceptions: Roger of Montgomery was buried in the abbey he had founded in Shrewsbury.) But in the generations that followed the balance tipped decisively in the other direction, with many Norman settlers establishing or endowing monasteries in England and naturally electing to be buried in them. The shift is neatly reflected in the final resting places of the Conqueror’s own family, with William himself buried in Caen while his sons are entombed in England. That Rufus was buried in Winchester, close to the forest in which he was killed, we might ascribe to chance rather than choice – since he founded no church of his own, his intentions are difficult to determine. But not so with Henry I, who was buried in England, even though he died in Normandy. After his death his body was shipped across the Channel, so it could be laid to rest in the abbey he had founded at Reading.
¹⁶

Buried in England, born in England and married to an English princess: the Conqueror’s youngest son does appear to have been quite the Anglophile. He and Edith christened their daughter Matilda for the benefit of their Norman baronage but privately called her Æthelic, while their son, William, was accorded the Anglo-Saxon title of ætheling. Towards the end of his reign Henry appointed a certain Æthelwulf as bishop of the newly created diocese of Carlisle, and Edith was responsible for encouraging none other than William of Malmesbury to write his
History of the English Kings.
According to Malmesbury, such enthusiasm did not sit well with the Normans
at Henry’s court, who openly mocked the king and queen, calling them ‘Godric and Godgifu’. But it must have played well with the great majority of Henry’s subjects across the country as a whole, which was perhaps the king’s intention. One is naturally bound to wonder what would have happened had his son, William Ætheling, half English and half Norman, succeeded to the throne.
¹⁷

But one is left wondering, for William died in 1120, drowning along with many other members of the Anglo-Norman court when the ship carrying them across the English Channel foundered and sank, taking with it the hope of a peaceful transfer of power. Queen Edith had died two years earlier, and Henry, despite a second marriage in 1121, produced no more legitimate sons. In desperation the ageing king sought to fix the succession on his daughter Matilda, a dangerous experiment which brought disastrous results. When Henry died in 1135 Matilda’s claim was contested by her cousin, Stephen of Blois, who was in due course crowned, but who spent the rest of his reign struggling against his rival and her diehard supporters. For the best part of two decades England was embroiled in a deeply divisive civil war – a period when, according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, ‘men said openly that Christ and his saints slept’. There and elsewhere we read of war and waste, pestilence and famine, castle-building, oppression and torture. After the long peace of Henry I’s reign, the vocabulary of the Conquest had returned with a vengeance.
¹⁸

It was not, therefore, until the death of Stephen in 1154 and the negotiated accession of Matilda’s son, Henry, as King Henry II, that Englishmen felt inclined to ponder afresh the question of national identity. But when they did so, at least some of them felt that a page had been decisively turned. In 1161, almost a century after his death, Edward the Confessor was belatedly recognized in Rome as a saint. Two years later the monks of Westminster, who had led the canonization campaign, celebrated their success by translating the king’s body to a new tomb, and also by commissioning a new account of the Confessor’s life. The author, Ailred of Rievaulx, elegantly reworked an earlier version from the 1130s, itself based on the original
Life
written at the time of the Conquest, adding, cutting and paraphrasing freely, but essentially adhering to the story and spirit of his source. When, however, he came to the account of Edward’s dream, and the prophecy of the Green Tree, he rejected the pessimistic interpretations of previous writers, and instead
supplied his own reading which argued that the prophecy had finally been fulfilled.
¹⁹

In Ailred’s version, what had been a holy mystery is transformed into a historical metaphor. The tree divided from its trunk, he explained, represented the kingdom divided from its royal family, and the trunk carried off for three furlongs signified the reigns of Harold and the two Williams, none of whom had been directly linked to the Confessor’s line. But when Henry I had chosen Edith as his queen, Ailred continued, the tree and its trunk were reunited. The tree had pushed forth new leaves in the shape of their daughter, Matilda, and finally borne fruit in the form of Matilda’s son, Henry II. ‘Our Henry’, as Ailred calls him, ‘is a cornerstone joining both peoples. Now without doubt England has a king of the race of the English.’
²⁰

This was part wishful thinking, part propagandist nonsense. Henry may have been Matilda’s son, but she herself was only one-eighth English, and her second husband – Henry’s father – had been Geoffrey Plantagenet, count of Anjou. The new ‘king of the race of the English’ had been born in Le Mans and brought up on the Continent. Two years before his accession he had married Eleanor of Aquitaine, whose inheritance had made her new husband the ruler of a huge swathe of south-western France, and this, combined with his own ancestral titles, meant that Henry’s empire stretched from the Scottish border to the Pyrenees. Inevitably, therefore, the new king spent even more time on the Continent than his namesake grandfather, and when he came to be buried it was at the abbey of Fontevraud, in his father’s county of Anjou.
²¹

And yet, despite all his personal disqualifications, there is little doubt that, when it came to healing the breach of the Conquest, Henry’s reign was a watershed moment. It was during this period that England’s ancient laws, altered and amended on account of the Norman preoccupation with land, were finally codified and committed to writing, becoming ‘the Common Law’.
²²
At the same time, the king’s legal reforms strengthened the power of the Old English shire courts and undermined the private baronial courts that the first generation of conquerors had intruded. By the 1170s English had clearly become a language spoken by all classes, whatever their ancestry: we find bishops and knights of French extraction who were demonstrably bilingual (including, in the latter case, one of the killers of Archbishop Thomas Becket). And, a century on from 1066,
the intermarriage that had occurred from the start had blurred the lines of national identity. ‘In the present day’ wrote Richard fitz Nigel, the treasurer of the Exchequer, in the late 1170s, ‘the races have become so fused that it can scarcely be discerned who is English and who is Norman.’
²³

Only at the extremes of society was the distinction still obvious. As fitz Nigel observed, you could tell a person was English if they happened to be an unfree peasant; at that level, clearly, there had been much less intermingling. Perhaps because of this association of Englishness with baseness, those at the opposite end of the social spectrum still hesitated to identify wholeheartedly with England: ‘You English are too timid’, remarked Henry II’s son and successor, Richard the Lionheart, to some of his troops in 1194, implying that he himself was neither. At the end of the twelfth century, the upper echelons of the aristocracy in many cases still had lands in Normandy and would often accompany the king during his frequent foreign absences. Besides his celebrated activities in the Holy Land, Richard spent almost all of his reign on the Continent, defending the extensive demesne that he had inherited from his parents.
²⁴

The Lionheart’s untimely death from a crossbow bolt in 1199 was thus of crucial significance, for it led to the succession of his younger brother, the famously inept King John, during whose reign most of the Continental empire was lost, including the duchy of Normandy. After 1204, no baron in England, no matter how proud his pedigree, could regard his links with Normandy as anything other than historic. In one respect John recognized this new reality, dropping the
Angli et Franci
formula from his writs and charters, implicitly admitting that all his subjects ought now to be regarded as English. But for the rest of his reign he struggled to recover his lost inheritance, demanding overseas military service from his subjects and taxing them harder than any of his forebears. As a consequence he succeeded in creating a sense of common identity in England of a kind not seen since before the Conquest, as men of all degrees came together to resist the power of the Crown. The result was Magna Carta, the charter of liberties extracted from John in 1215, a document which has been described as ‘the classic statement of regnal solidarity’.
²⁵

If we follow Ailred of Rievaulx’s interpretation of the Green Tree prophecy, with the stump as England and the trunk as its royal family, then it took two more generations before the pair were properly
reunited. In the mid-1230s, King John’s son, Henry III, became intensely devoted to the cult of Edward the Confessor. In the decades that followed he would decorate his palaces with images of the sainted king, commission books about him, and arrange the rhythms of the royal court around the celebration of his two annual festivals. His single greatest achievement was to rebuild Westminster Abbey, replacing the Confessor’s Romanesque church with the great Gothic edifice that still stands today. And, in 1239, when Henry came to christen his firstborn son, he rejected the names of his Norman forebears and called the boy Edward. As the adult Edward I, he would be the first king of England since the Conquest to bear an English name, speak English and lead a united English people.
²⁶

If, on the other hand, we disregard Ailred, and see the tree simply as the kingdom traumatized by the Conquest, then its restoration should come earlier: if not by the 1170s then certainly by the time of Magna Carta. The Charter, so far as we can tell, was not issued in English – official documents had to wait another generation for that development – but by 1215 English was already making a comeback as a language of literature.
²⁷

It was not the same English that had been spoken before the Conquest, because it was not the same England. The tree had not been restored to its former self. Much of it, indeed, was barely recognizable, for a wholly new stock had been grafted on to the severed trunk. England’s aristocracy, its attitudes and its architecture had all been transformed by the coming of the Normans. The body of the tree, too, had in places been twisted into new forms: the laws of the kingdom, its language, its customs and institutions – these were clearly not the same as they had been before. Even so, anyone looking at these institutions could see in a second that their origins were English. England was everywhere studded with castles, but it was still a land of shires, hundreds, hides and boroughs. The branches were new but the roots remained ancient. The tree had survived the trauma by becoming a hybrid. Against all expectations, its sap was once again rising.