Queen of the Conqueror

by Tracy Joanne Borman

  Matilda had done much to earn William’s faith, in contrast to his half-brother, Odo, and his late right-hand man, William fitzOsbern, to whom he had entrusted the viceregency of England during most of his visits to Normandy. Odo in particular was motivated more by a desire for self-aggrandizement than by loyalty to his overlord. By the 1080s, he owned land in twenty-two English counties, which gave him an annual income of around £3,000—a staggering sum for the time.4 Orderic Vitalis describes him as “a second king,” whose authority was “greater than all earls and other magnates in the kingdom.” The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle agrees that he was “the foremost man next to the king,” and Eadmer describes his power as “absolute.”5 Although he was a high-ranking churchman, Odo’s piety was questionable. “In this man … vices were mingled with virtues, but he was more given to worldly affairs than to spiritual contemplation.” He did not scruple to plunder the English church for his own gain.6

  There is evidence to suggest that both Odo and fitzOsbern encouraged cruelty and corruption by the Norman forces. Orderic Vitalis claims that the two men “were so swollen with pride that they would not deign to hear the reasonable plea of the English or give them impartial judgement … And so the English groaned aloud for their lost liberty and plotted ceaselessly to find some way of shaking off a yoke that was so intolerable and unaccustomed.”7 The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle concurs that Odo and fitzOsbern “distressed the wretched folk.”8 This exacerbated the already fragile relations between the English and their conquerors, and made the former even more ready to rebel. As a result, William was frequently obliged to cut short his stays in Normandy in order to deal with trouble in his new kingdom.

  The damage that Odo and fitzOsbern inflicted upon the reputation of the Norman dynasty in England was to some extent repaired by Matilda’s benevolent influence. The evidence suggests that she gradually succeeded in persuading her husband to adopt a more conciliatory stance toward his conquered subjects.

  It had taken a great deal of patience, however. For the first five years of her queenship, many people had still looked to Edward the Confessor’s widow, Edith, as the figurehead of the old regime. A charter written in 1072 reverently described Edith as “the Lady, King Edward’s widow” and dismissed Matilda as William’s “gebedde” (bedfellow).9 Although a later document referred to Matilda as “the Lady,” even this was rather less a title than she deserved as queen of England.10

  It was unlikely that Matilda could ever attain the level of popularity enjoyed by an Anglo-Saxon queen such as Edith. But the native population gradually abandoned their initial suspicion toward her. Her natural dignity and apparently mild disposition formed a welcome contrast to her brutal, arrogant husband. And her presence lent a much-needed feminine, civilizing influence to William’s court. Whereas William relied upon interpreters, Matilda had apparently mastered English—perhaps as a result of her cosmopolitan upbringing in the Flemish court. Making the effort to speak their language would have greatly endeared her to her subjects, and it was indicative of the respect that she showed them.

  Everyone was impressed by the queenly dignity of this diminutive woman. Fulcoius of Beauvais claimed that “the common people, the rich, every gender and age, the whole clergy, every tongue, every class” admired her “just” and “prudent” character.11 William ruled by force, Matilda by diplomacy. Through her tact and charm, she did more to win over her resentful subjects than the relentless brutality of her husband’s campaigns ever could. The fifteenth-century chronicler Thomas Rudborne describes the benign influence that Matilda exerted over her husband: “King William, by the advice of Matilda, treated the English kindly as long as she lived.”12

  A prime example of this concerned the death of the dowager queen Edith in December 1075. William ordered that her remains be conveyed from Winchester to Westminster with great honor so that she might be interred in the abbey next to her husband, King Edward.13 There, a tomb “lavishly decorated with gold and silver” was erected, and William also paid for a suitably ostentatious funeral.14 Matilda was much more in tune with the mood of the English people than her husband, and Malmesbury asserts that it was “the same deep feeling” that he cherished for his wife that persuaded William to this uncharacteristic act of kindness.15 By restoring Edith to a place next to her husband, the king was also seen to be honoring the institution of marriage—something that he and Matilda remained consistently keen to do, given the old doubts over the legitimacy of their own union.

  To this end, they had restored good relations with the papacy, and the evidence suggests that this was largely thanks to Matilda’s efforts. The previous year, Pope Gregory VII had replied to a letter he had received from her, praising her as a pious wife who had saved her husband from falling into excess. The tone of his correspondence suggests that they were on familiar and affectionate terms. He referred to Matilda as “beloved daughter,” and he clearly respected her distinguished pedigree, assuring her: “You who are noble by blood may live the more nobly by virtue, after the custom of saints.” He then implored her to use her influence with William to increase his piety. “Be instant with your husband; do not cease from suggesting things profitable for his soul. For it is certain that, if as the Apostle says an unbelieving husband is saved by a believing wife, even a believing husband is increased for the better by a believing wife.”16

  This letter reveals more than just the widespread reputation for piety that Matilda enjoyed. The fact that she was regarded by the Pope as a calming and restraining influence over the king is a hugely significant indication of the power that she now wielded as queen and duchess.

  When Pope Gregory wrote again six years later, the content of his letter suggests that he and Matilda had become regular correspondents. As well as exchanging letters, they also used intermediaries to convey oral messages that perhaps related to more confidential or sensitive matters. Gregory’s esteem for her had increased during the intervening years, no doubt because she had made many high-profile benefactions to the church. In a letter (now lost) that Matilda had written to him shortly beforehand, she had pledged whatever lands and property the pontiff might desire. “With what love, dearest daughter, we have received this and what gifts we desire from you you may understand thus. For what gold, what gems, what precious things of the world, are more to be looked for by me from you than a chaste life, the distribution of your goods to the poor, and love of God and your neighbour?” He ended by urging Matilda to constantly endeavor to make her husband as pious as she was herself.17

  Matilda evidently heeded his words, for the sources contain numerous references to her inspiring greater piety in her husband and acting on his behalf when he overlooked his ecclesiastical duties. For example, when her husband missed the dedication ceremony by Lanfranc of his former abbey of Le Bec in 1077, and she herself was prevented from attending owing to “royal preoccupations,” she made sure to send a donation so that he did not appear neglectful. According to Jumièges, she also sent a courteous note of apology for her own absence: “Queen Matilda would willingly have been present had not other royal affairs detained her; she was, however, present through the generosity of her gifts.”18

  Similarly, it seems to have been at Matilda’s prompting that William relieved the cathedral of St.-Julien in Le Mans of all dues and customs. It is recorded that the king issued a charter, drawn up “with the praise and agreement of queen Matilda,” so that they had sufficient funds to repair the damage that William’s campaign of 1073 had caused to the cathedral—a clear demonstration of the influence that she now exercised over her husband.19 Similarly, in 1081, William granted freedom from tolls and customs to the abbey of St. Mary and St. Aldhelm at Malmesbury, “at the request of queen Matilda.”20 In another charter of around the same time, he notified his wife that he had granted the church of Nôtre Dame in Les Pieux to the abbey of Marmoutier, specifying that both the church and the abbey’s lands should be free from all customs. The charter ends with the special request that Matil
da should “direct Hugolin of Cherbourg to interfere no more therein.”21

  Matilda’s influence over her husband was also recognized further down the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Abbot Ingulphus of Croyland Abbey in Lincolnshire expressed his deep gratitude for the many occasions upon which she had used her influence with the king for the good of the abbey, as well as being a generous benefactress in her own right. “My most illustrious lady, queen Matilda … had always used her good offices for me with my lord the king, had often relieved me by her alms-deeds, and had very frequently aided me in all matters of business and cases of necessity.”22 It may have been at his orders that a statue was later erected at the abbey in her memory.

  The satisfaction that Matilda must have derived from her growing influence was soon overshadowed by tragedy in her personal life. The records suggest that the king had taken his second son, Richard, with him to England in the wake of the Conquest, and that the boy had resided there on a more or less permanent basis ever since. This was something that his elder brother Robert had wished for but had so far been denied, and it implies that Richard was more of a favorite with their father. Little is recorded of him in England, so it is not clear whether his stay was continuous or whether he sometimes accompanied his mother or father back to Normandy. Only when tragedy struck do we hear of him again.

  Like all Matilda’s sons, Richard had been raised to love hunting, and this had become one of his favorite pastimes. The New Forest, a vast area of woodland situated close to the court at Winchester, had been created by his father as a hunting ground by laying waste to scores of dwellings. It was one of the best in the country, and Richard and his younger brothers—together with their father when time permitted—would spend many hours there in the chase. As one contemporary observed: “There he would gladly pass his time, there he rejoiced to hunt for many—certainly months, for of days I say nothing.”23

  But this pleasurable pastime would cost Richard his life. On one of his excursions, he had a riding accident that was so severe that he died from his injuries. Quite how it happened is not certain. Robert of Torigni claims that Richard had been riding at full speed when he had either failed to see, or was too late to avoid, an overhanging bough. This had struck him on the head and he had fallen from his horse. Orderic Vitalis gives a slightly different version of events, describing how Richard was “galloping in pursuit of a wild beast” when he was “badly crushed between a strong hazel branch and the pommel of his saddle, and mortally injured.”24 Meanwhile, in a version of his Gesta Regum Anglorum, Malmesbury surmises that the cause of death was either a blow to the neck or that Richard was “hanged by the throat on the branch of a tree when his horse ran underneath it.”25 It is not clear whether he was killed instantly or, as Orderic asserts, died of his injuries a few days later.26

  The date of this tragic accident is as uncertain as the cause. Accounts vary wildly, with the earliest date cited being 1069 and the latest 1080. Given that Richard was considered to be tragically young when he died, it is likely to have taken place by 1075. Malmesbury and Orderic agree that his death occurred before he had been dubbed a knight, which meant that he would have been less than twenty-two years old—and, given the other evidence, probably around nineteen.27

  Richard’s death was said to be “to the great grief of many”—none more than Matilda.28 The evidence suggests that she felt the loss keenly, for she ordered that some of her extensive lands, those belonging to a widow named Eadgifu at Edmondsham, Dorset, be freed of geld (a form of taxation) in memory of her second son.29 Her pious bequests also increased around this time. Among the many ecclesiastical houses to benefit from her generosity was the abbey of St.-Corneille in Compiègne, which received a reliquary decorated with gold and precious stones. Meanwhile, St. Florent in Saumur was given a golden chalice, and Cluny Abbey in Burgundy benefited from a chasuble “that was so rigid because of the metal that it could not be folded.”30 In 1076, Matilda’s generous donation funded an extension to the church of Nôtre Dame de Buibray, which had previously been too small to house its congregation.31

  Although it is typical for laudatory accounts to appear about a person who dies young, in Richard’s case they seem to have been justified. Malmesbury describes him as an “elegant boy” with “high ambitions” and claims that his father had great hopes for him—apparently more than for his older brother.32 He was wise, gentle, and discreet, which formed a marked contrast to the boisterousness and boorishness of his brothers—Robert in particular. He seems to have inherited more of his mother’s qualities than his father’s, and the affinity between them no doubt intensified her grief. It was said that Matilda had been told of a prophecy that she would lose three sons in the New Forest. Given her belief in mystics and superstitious practices, this would have seemed a dread warning indeed, and she must have been horror-struck when Richard’s death appeared to confirm it. Fortunately, she would not live to see the day when the prophecy would be further fulfilled by another of her sons.

  Around the time of Richard’s death, Matilda’s much-betrothed daughter Adeliza was again the subject of marriage negotiations. Little had been heard of her since her betrothal to Edwin of Mercia ended in tragedy in 1071, and it is not certain whether she returned to her mother’s household or lived for a time in a nunnery. After three failed betrothals, she would have been forgiven for abandoning any further hope of marriage, but her father had one more candidate in store for her.

  In around 1074, Duke William suggested a match between Adeliza and his former protégé, Simon of Crépy, the future count of Amiens, Valois and the Vexin, who had been raised in the ducal court and may also have spent some time with William and Matilda in England.33 The count’s anonymous biographer describes the encounter. Having requested a secret audience with Simon, William told him: “Because I have long since known your faithfulness and love and because I raised you, I wish to increase feelings in you. I have chosen you as the future husband of my daughter who has been asked for in many conversations by the messengers of King Anfurcius of Spain and Robert of Apulia.” Although he professed his gratitude, Simon was clearly not keen on the idea, and claimed that the union would be banned by the church because he was related to the girl’s mother, Matilda: “My lady the queen, your wife, and I, as they say, are bound by ties of blood and close kinship in such a way that we have to ask wise men their advice if this marriage is at all possible and why.” William’s response is interesting. Even though he himself had fallen afoul of the laws on consanguinity, he dismissed Simon’s concern, telling him that he would ask his ecclesiastical advisers to “look round and search whether a gift of alms or the building of a monastery or anything of that kind deals with this problem legally.”34 For all that he was so often hailed as a pious monarch, William clearly believed that godly sanction could be bought—just as he and Matilda had done by building their abbeys at Caen.

  The idea that William offered one of his daughters to Count Simon is supported by the autobiography of Guibert, abbot of Nogent-Sous-Coucy, who asserted that Simon was betrothed to “a young girl of high rank” but subsequently turned his back on the world to become a monk. Upon hearing “that her lover had renounced herself and the world, and not enduring to be considered inferior to him, [the girl] joined the virgin bands that serve God, determined to remain a virgin herself.”35 However, Guibert was reporting this as hearsay, and was writing some years later. The tale is suspiciously similar to the one that, according to Orderic, had unfolded with Alfonso of León seven years before, so it is likely that the accounts became confused—and probably elaborated.

  Still, while the evidence is patchy for Adeliza’s fate after her final betrothal, it seems likely that this pious young girl did end her days as a nun. Certainly, she could not have died on her way to marry Alfonso around 1067 because of the number of times that her name subsequently appears in the contemporary records. Of all Matilda’s daughters, she most closely fits the identity of the girl whom Baudri of Bourgeuil refer
s to as having joined her for a time at La Trinité.36 She was probably also the same girl who “made a pious end” at the nunnery of St.-Léger of Préaux.37

  A compelling piece of evidence has recently been brought to light that supports this view. It is a letter to the young princess from St. Anselm, prior of the neighboring abbey of Le Bec. It seems that upon entering the religious life, Adeliza had written to the famed prelate for spiritual guidance. She asked for a selection of psalms upon which to base her life, and those that Anselm chose for her suggest that she had been in some distress, because they all promote contemplation and peace of mind. The letter that St. Anselm wrote to accompany them also hints at some discord between Adeliza and her parents. Referring to the collection of prayers that he included along with the psalms, he explained that two of them in particular, relating to St. Stephen and Mary Magdalene, were aimed at transforming feelings of hatred into love.38

  After so many failed betrothals, Adeliza would have been justified in harboring some resentment against her parents, who had apparently shown scant regard for her feelings as they moved from one potential suitor to the next in their quest for political gain. She may also have blamed herself for the fact that each betrothal had come to nothing, believing that this was a punishment from God for her sinful life—hence the need to atone by entering a nunnery. Although he sought to heal the rift between Adeliza and her parents, St. Anselm could not disguise his distaste for William’s violent profession, for he praised the girl’s life as being nobler than that of her father. He seemed to imply that Adeliza should not blame herself for her sorry fate.39

  The date of Adeliza’s death is not recorded, but the sources imply that she was still very young—“of marriageable age,” according to Orderic.40 The letter from St. Anselm was written while he was still prior of Le Bec, which dates it to 1078 or earlier. This means that Adeliza was probably in her early twenties at most. Bayeux and La Trinité are both cited as her place of burial, even though she was probably not serving at either when she died.41 Despite suffering so many tragedies during her short life, her faith remained unshaken to the end. Malmesbury claims that “after her death the callus found on her knees bore witness to her constancy in prayer.”42