There was a marked deterioration in standards during Matilda’s long sojourns in Normandy. The twelfth-century chronicle of the life of Lanfranc recounts that at one of his crown-wearings, William was seated on his throne, magnificently dressed in gold and jewels, with Lanfranc seated beside him. Upon seeing the king, a jester cried out in mock adulation: “Behold, I see God! Behold, I see God!” William was on the point of laughing at this joke, but the shocked Lanfranc ordered that the man be flogged. William agreed, but if his archbishop had not intervened, he would no doubt have been happy to indulge his jester’s blasphemy.13 It is hard to imagine this incident happening if Matilda, who was widely renowned for her piety, had been present.
There is no doubt that the queen was becoming increasingly and unprecedentedly powerful. In part, this was due to the fact that court life in the eleventh century was intimate, and there was little or no differentiation between public and private spheres of life. As king, William’s court—the curia regis—in a sense differed little from the curia ducis that had surrounded him as duke. The business it considered was identical to that of the ducal court in Normandy, for it was largely concerned with confirmations of land or privilege, and it played a judicial function in the settling of claim disputes. Both were dominated by members of his family—notably his wife and sons—as well as by a select group comprising the chief magnates and churchmen of his realm. And as most of the latter were drawn from Norman families, there was a strong continuity between the two courts. Crucially, the curia regis was always held at a royal residence.
In any palace, the Great Hall or “common room” was where the king and his court ate, slept, and governed. This meant that the queen was constantly at his side. Therefore, even though a consort’s role was in theory limited to her family and domestic arrangements, in practice this gave her a great deal of influence in what we would today consider the public or political arena. As one recent commentator has observed: “The nature of personal rule ensures that she who has the king’s ear may help direct the course of events.”14 Such power was never openly acknowledged, however, and a wise queen would be discreet in employing it—as Matilda herself proved to be.
However, by the early 1070s, Matilda had carved out a more dynamic and visible role for herself in the public affairs of her English kingdom than any of the queen consorts who had gone before her. The constant to-ing and fro-ing between England and Normandy, as well as the considerable travel that she undertook within each domain, might be expected to have taken its toll on the queen, who was by now in her early forties and the mother of at least nine children. But there is no record of her ever failing in her duties on account of sickness, and she seemed to endure the rigors of her position with remarkable fortitude.
The queen was particularly active in the sphere of justice. There are frequent references in Domesday Book to her hearing English legal cases during William’s absences, especially those involving disputes over property. The crowds that gathered to support their kinsmen or friends in such disputes were huge, and their numbers were swelled even more by royal officials, sheriffs, underlings, churchmen, jurors, and witnesses. To wield authority over such a gathering would have tested the mettle of the most formidable king or magnate, let alone a mere woman. But Matilda proved more than equal to the task, for she presided over these assemblies time and again, often acting as sole adjudicator. This is one of the clearest testaments to her personal presence and authority, as well as to the respect that her English subjects felt toward her.
One of the most notorious cases involved the abbey of Abingdon, then part of Berkshire but now in the county of Oxfordshire. Like so many others, although it centered on a dispute over property, at its heart lay the ongoing feud between native Englishmen and their Norman oppressors. The case was brought by a royal official named Alfsi who had sought out Matilda at Windsor and complained to her of the violent treatment that he had suffered. Although what it represented was of a very serious nature, the case does have an element of farce about it. Alfsi, who was by all accounts an arrogant and overbearing official, had harassed the local population surrounding the abbey by plundering their woodland and using their oxen to transport lead for the king’s use. This so enraged the abbot that he beat the man with a stick, threw the lead to the ground, and returned the oxen to their owners. When Alfsi came back a second time, the abbot once more seized the load that he was carrying and obviously made as if to beat him again, for the terrified man fled on horseback. So desperate was he to escape the furious prelate that he waded across a river, “wet up to his neck,” rather than cross the nearby bridge and risk encountering him.
In seeking out Matilda, the royal official was no doubt confident of winning his case, for she had shown no scruple in plundering the abbey herself shortly after her arrival in England, demanding a selection of its finest treasures. But the wily abbot acted swiftly by offering a sum of money to atone for his violent behavior, and Matilda subsequently ordered that there should be no further exploitation of land or goods, either by Alfsi or any other royal official.15 From a localized squabble, the case was thus transformed into one of enormous national significance. It also proved the apparent lack of Norman bias that Matilda displayed in her role as royal justiciar.
The only women with similar legal authority to Matilda’s were to be found on the Continent, in the persons of Beatrice of Lorraine and Matilda of Tuscany, both of whom wielded considerable influence in the judicial sphere. But this had never been the case in England. Neither of Matilda’s direct predecessors, Queen Emma or Queen Edith, had had any involvement in the administration of justice. Indeed, both women had found themselves on the receiving end of the law. Edith had been suspected of being involved in the murder of Gospatric, a Northumbrian noble and a rival claimant to the throne. Both she and Emma had also been accused of adultery and had been forced to prove their innocence—in Emma’s case perhaps even by ordeal.16 Matilda had therefore transformed the role of queen consort in England from that of victim of the law to master of it. In doing so, she provided a powerful role model for her successors and descendants—none more so than her daughter Adela, as her later career would prove.
Religion was another sphere in which Matilda was actively involved. In April or May 1072, she and her husband cast judgment upon the primacy of the church of York—an issue that struck at the heart of the English church—and they were the only members of the laity present. The case had first been heard during the Easter celebrations at Winchester, and the royal couple, together with numerous other dignitaries, had convened in the royal chapel within the castle.17 After hearing the case, William and Matilda decreed that the church of York should be subject to the archbishop of Canterbury, Lanfranc, along with the bishoprics of Worcester, Dorchester, and Lichfield—the only ones not to have submitted to the prelate’s authority thus far. Lanfranc’s supremacy over the entire religious community of England was therefore confirmed.18
Besides the vexatious issue of York, Matilda was at the center of other important religious debates of the time in England. For example, she played a part in settling a dispute between the powerful churchmen Bishop Osbern of Exeter and Bishop Giso of Wells, persuading Osbern to return a contested church to his rival.19 She also independently directed a change in management of the important bishopric of Wells in Somerset, which had formerly been the concern of Queen Edith, informing “the sheriff and all the men of Somerset” that at her request the church of Wedmore was to be transferred to Bishop Giso of Wells.20 Moreover, in assemblies at the cathedrals of Wells, Exeter and Bury St. Edmunds, and the London church of St.-Martin-le-Grand, she would have been the only lay person present, apart from William, and certainly the only woman.21
According to Eadmer, as archbishop of Canterbury Lanfranc “always took great pains both to make the King a faithful servant of God and to renew religion and right living among all classes throughout the whole Kingdom.”22 Both Matilda and her husband were of course actively supportive of thi
s campaign in England and Normandy. The two abbeys that they had founded at Caen—La Trinité and St.-Étienne—had set a new standard for ecclesiastical life across the duchy, and between 1072 and 1076, Lanfranc organized a series of reforming councils to impose the same rules upon the English church as existed in Normandy. These included the outlawing of clerical marriage and simony (the sale of church offices), the latter practice being “detestable” to him, according to Orderic Vitalis.23 The backing that William gave to these councils was not entirely due to a genuine religious fervor, however, for they were obviously another potentially useful means of forcing the recalcitrant English to adopt Norman ways.
During the early 1070s, Matilda continued to make increasingly generous bequests to the English church, fulfilling the pious and charitable role expected of medieval queens. She was described as “munificent and liberal of her gifts” and “indefatigable at alleviating distress in every shape.” It was said that she “frequently relieved the poor with bounteous alms.” Her epitaph later claimed that such generosity had “left her in need,” but this is unlikely to be true, given the enormous resources at her disposal—and her natural instinct for self-preservation.24
Considering this celebrated munificence toward the church, it is perhaps not surprising that Matilda could count some of the most influential ecclesiastics of the day among her acquaintance. Besides Archbishop Lanfranc, they included his protégé Gundulph, a monk from St.-Étienne who came to England after the Conquest and was appointed bishop of Rochester. Gundulph claimed to enjoy a close friendship with Matilda, which had no doubt been forged during his time at her husband’s abbey.25
Thanks to William’s generosity, Matilda owned a considerable amount of land in England, the administration of which formed a constant demand upon her time. She was assisted in this by her viceregal council.26 The wealth that she had amassed after the Norman Conquest also enabled her to play an active role in patronage. She was particularly generous toward the scores of her countrymen who had come to England in the wake of the Conquest, and she encouraged the artisans among them to teach their trades to the English people. She patronized Flemish architects, sculptors, and painters from her native land, and she promoted poets and chroniclers.27 The influence of her countrymen was also felt in the religious and political life of England. The tyrannical abbot of Glastonbury, Thurstan of Caen, forced his monks to abandon their English chants and learn “an alien and novel chant from Flemings and Normans.”28 By the early twelfth century, the number of Flemish people in England was so high that they were considered a burden to the state, and Matilda’s son Henry was forced to gather them all together “as though into some great midden” and banish them to Wales.29
The impressive variety of English charters in which Matilda was involved—from founding a market at Tewkesbury to rewarding loyal subjects with estates—attests to her versatility in business matters.30 As well as granting land and money, she could also appoint officials to manage her estates and local interests. Word of her preeminence soon spread beyond her kingdom. The contemporary biographer of her kinsman, Count Simon of Crépy, referred to her as “The queen of the English, Matilda, wealthy and powerful.”31 Little wonder that she attracted petitioners in her own right, not just because she was the king’s consort. This gave her a position of considerable influence and authority at the English court. While she was seen as more diplomatic and benevolent than her fearsome husband, her power and influence earned her a reputation as a formidable woman. One unnamed Englishwoman offered her estate in Surrey to the queen in return for her protection.
It seems undeniable, then, that Matilda had become something of a powerful royal in her own right. Not only did she have the king’s ear and the crucial role of managing all royal spectacles, but she was now firmly installed at the heart of legal and religious matters and had established her own enormous independent wealth. Her influence was such that her name became extremely popular among the royalty and aristocracy of France and England, who were keen to flatter her by naming their daughters after her. However, this emerging authority was the cause of some unease among contemporary commentators. Any royal female authority beyond that derived only from being mother of the heirs and mistress of the household was viewed with suspicion by the chroniclers, who were quick to accuse women of witchcraft, scheming, and even murder. Malmesbury’s account of Queen Emma’s reign is typically scornful. Although he admitted that she was a formidable queen, he was highly critical of the wealth that she accumulated and claimed that she wasted all of it on jewels.32
A similar undertone is evident in the accounts that would emerge of Matilda’s own reign, both as duchess of Normandy and queen of England. For every account that praised her benevolence to the church or her dignity of bearing, there was another depicting her as a defiant traitor or an insatiable adulterer who was dragged through the streets naked as a punishment for her sin. The only way that her husband’s misogynistic biographer, Poitiers, could reconcile himself to the degree of power that Matilda had attained was to describe her as a “woman of masculine wisdom.”33
Most chroniclers also felt uneasy about the conflict at the center of a queen’s role; that on the one hand she must be pious and chaste, but on the other she must be a “fruitful mother.”34 The Virgin Mary was the ultimate symbol of motherhood and purity, and the chroniclers believed that royal wives should aspire to her example. Little matter that immaculate conception was difficult to come by in most royal marriages. Indeed, if a queen showed any hint of sexuality, she was immediately condemned as a wicked seductress. The same was not true of kings, who were expected to take mistresses and would suffer no diminution of their prestige as a result. It is an indication of the general prejudice against women that only they, not their husbands, could be accused of adultery. Equally, if a marriage was barren, it was the wife, not the husband, who was to blame.35
Nevertheless, from the mid-eleventh century onward, there were the beginnings of a profound change in the perception of women in society. Ladies of high birth became more conspicuous in the contemporary records as owners of titles and estates. Female royals and noble ladies also emerged as prominent patrons of literature. This literature itself sparked a new tradition of courtly love that placed women at center stage as the belles dames sans merci who could bestow or withhold favor as their will dictated. The idealized view of womanhood and maternity was inspired by the cult of the Virgin, as well as by developments in theology that placed much greater emphasis upon the sacred nature of marriage.
The new respect for women that this literature implied harked back to an earlier time. The famous eighth-century Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf presents a very positive image of queenship—and of womankind in general. There are more female characters in Beowulf than in any other Old English poem. Among them are five queens, all of whom display what the author considers to be typically feminine virtues of pacifism, diplomacy, hospitality, and wisdom. The male characters are imprudent and boorish by comparison, embroiled in incessant wars and military affairs. Despite the various battles that are waged in the story, it is the women, more than the men, who assume heroic status.36
If Matilda read this famous poem, she might well have reflected upon the parallels with her own position. As duchess of Normandy, she had already proved that she had an abundance of the feminine virtues described in Beowulf, while her husband conformed to the warfaring stereotype of its male characters. The contrast between their characters would become even more marked as their reign in England progressed.
In contrast to his previous visits, when William returned to Normandy on a more or less permanent basis in late 1072 or early 1073, he did not spend time with his wife parading the splendor of their court in a series of well-planned public engagements. He had more pressing business. Now that he had achieved a degree of stability in England, he could focus his resources upon reclaiming the province of Maine, which had rebelled against Norman rule three years earlier. Together with a sizable “raiding
-army,” which included English as well as Norman troops, he launched a blistering attack on the province, employing the same brutal tactics he had used in the north of England. According to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, it was the English soldiers who caused the most devastation: “[they] greatly despoiled it; they did for vineyards, burned down towns, and greatly despoiled the land, and bent it all into William’s hands, and afterwards they turned home to England.”1 By the end of March 1073, the entire county was back under William’s authority. According to Eadmer, William was now “so powerful that there was no one in all England, all Normandy, all the Province of Maine who dared lift a finger against his rule.”2
Even though her husband had returned to Normandy, the fact that he was immediately preoccupied by campaigns to secure its borders meant that Matilda effectively continued to exercise authority as regent. She was formally appointed as such again in early 1074, when William briefly returned to England, and once more around autumn 1075, when a revolt by a dangerous alliance of English earls forced him to endure a more prolonged spell there. This lasted until the following year, during which time Matilda had sole authority to confirm grants on her husband’s behalf. This is surprising, given that her son Robert was now in his twenties and was already being referred to as duke in some quarters,3 and it might have been expected that he would assume the regency. As on previous occasions, he may have shared the title with his mother, but it was clear that she had been appointed to act on his behalf once more, and his power was very much circumscribed by hers. The fact that William had so often chosen his wife over their eldest son as regent of Normandy was due at least as much to his faith in her as to his antipathy toward Robert—an antipathy that would soon have disastrous consequences.
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