Whatever the date or location of her death, the loss of Adeliza must have grieved Matilda sorely, especially if she, like her brother Richard, died young. The idea that the girl had been wretched at the seemingly relentless string of failed betrothals, for which she had harbored increasing resentment against her parents, would have aggravated her mother’s sorrow. But one of Matilda’s other daughters assuaged her grief. Cecilia had apparently flourished in the cloistered world of her mother’s abbey at Caen, and at Easter 1075 she was ordained as a nun by Archbishop John of Rouen. Both William and Matilda were present for the lavish celebrations that accompanied the ceremony, and they would no doubt have looked on with great pride as their daughter took her final vows. It had been almost nine years since Cecilia had entered La Trinité as a novice, which was an unusually long period of training. It is possible that William and Matilda arranged that she should not become a fully ordained nun until their other daughters—who were all destined for political marriages—had survived the perilous years of childhood.
The poet Fulcoius of Beauvais wrote a poem in honor of the occasion, comparing William with the biblical hero Jephthah, an illegitimate son who triumphed over his enemies and offered his daughter to God as a sacrifice before the battle. One of the lines implies that Matilda had felt the loss more keenly than her husband, and that her grief was still raw nine years later, for the girl declares: “I am the only daughter of my father and my wholly wretched mother.”43 Although Cecilia was not the only surviving daughter, this declaration would have been consistent with the closeness that seemed to exist between the duchess and her daughters, over whose upbringing she had taken such assiduous care. It is not known how often—if at all—Matilda had seen Cecilia during the intervening years, but it cannot have been as often as she would have liked, as a result of both her own and her daughter’s obligations.
Despite the turmoil and tragedy of her family life during the middle years of the 1070s, for Matilda it was still a case of business as usual. For example, the queen’s name can be found on a charter that was signed shortly after, if not actually at, the ceremony for Cecilia’s dedication.44 It seems, then, that if Matilda felt any resentment toward William for the loss—in different ways—of her daughters, she did not let it interfere with her official duties. This suggests a certain hardness to her character, a pragmatism honed from her years at the heart of Normandy’s political affairs. These qualities may not have made her the most tender of mothers, but they did equip her well to deal with the duties expected of her as William’s consort. Besides, another of her daughters provided her with ample consolation. Adela, who at the time of her siblings’ deaths would have been about ten or eleven years old, had grown into a remarkably intelligent and precocious young woman. Despite the pressures of Matilda’s political role in Normandy and England, she had taken the same care over Adela’s education as she had that of her other daughters, and the girl was probably educated for a time at the abbey of La Trinité in Caen, along with Cecilia.
Adela responded to her studies with enthusiasm. Recognizing her daughter’s ability, Matilda encouraged her learning by advising her that academic prowess was one arena in which women could surpass men—a lesson that she herself had learned as a child. Adela took this to heart and would grow up to become a noted literary patron, something that few women could lay claim to in that age. Her talents would be widely praised by contemporary writers and intellectuals. Baudri de Bourgueil, Archbishop of Dol, enthused: “She surpasses her father in her appreciation of poetry and her knowledge of books. She rewards the merits of poets, she has critical judgment, and she has her own store of songs and poems to dictate.”45 Others noted her accomplishments, and she would receive letters, poems, and dedications from various celebrated intellectuals during her lifetime, including St. Anselm and Hugues de Fleury.
However, the pride that Matilda took in her youngest daughter was soon to be overshadowed by a dramatic turn of events concerning her eldest son. These events would shatter the unity not just of her marriage, but of the entire ducal family.
For the first twenty-five years of her marriage, Matilda had been a model wife. Loyal, steadfast, and wise, she had proved an exceptionally capable regent and consort, enabling William to both consolidate his victory in England and maintain his hold over Normandy. United by matrimony and ambition, theirs seemed to be an invincible partnership. As one contemporary observed: “The queen adorned the king, the king the queen.”1
But toward the end of the 1070s, free at last from the unrelenting cycle of childbirth, Matilda began to display the independence of spirit that had caused such ructions with her husband in the very earliest days of their courtship. It would transform her from model wife and consort into one of William’s deadliest enemies.
Around this time, rumors began to circulate that her husband was looking elsewhere for sexual gratification. Perhaps Matilda, who was by now in her mid- to late forties, had begun to lose her famed beauty. The many pregnancies and births that she had endured must also have taken their toll on her body. Some of the rumors can be easily dismissed, however. For example, William was said to have fathered two sons outside his marriage: Thomas of Bayeux, Archbishop of York, and William Peverel. Both stories stem from local tradition, and neither has any basis in fact. Thomas of Bayeux was of the right age to have been William’s son and was close enough to him to write the epitaph for his tomb, but there is nothing else to support the theory. Neither is there a case for believing that William Peverel, mentioned in Domesday Book, was a natural son of the Conqueror. The only reference to it is in an account by the seventeenth-century antiquarian William Dugdale.2 It is possible that he consulted sources that have since been lost, but the fact that a tale of such significance is not mentioned by any of the major chroniclers of the period makes it dubious in the extreme. Neither is there any reliable evidence to support the rumor that William had a bastard daughter, who later married Hugh du Château-sur-Loire.3
The eighteenth-century novelist known as the Abbé Prévost was responsible for some of the other aspersions as to William’s fidelity. He confidently asserted that when William’s marriage began to grow stale, he “se mit à garçailler” (took up wenching). Although he based his account upon references in the contemporary sources, some of his tales were almost certainly of his own invention. There is, for example, one particularly winding story, which not only questions William’s uxorious qualities, but also casts Matilda as a jealous, retributive spouse. The tale goes that one day, while hunting in the forest of Pont-Audemer, which lay in the heart of Normandy, William encountered two pretty young novices from the abbey of Préaux. The girls had been placed in the convent against their will and were making their escape. They were greatly alarmed when they saw the duke, but he allayed their fears and escorted them to one of his hunting lodges in the forest of Lyons. Although he assured them that they would be safe from harm, he confided to his men that he intended having his way with “one of the two or perhaps the two together.” But such was William’s respect for his wife that by the time he returned the following day, his conscience had gotten the better of him and he decided instead to find husbands for the girls.
In the meantime, word had reached Matilda that under the pretext of going hunting, her husband was meeting two mistresses in secret every morning in the forest. In a fit of jealous rage, she sent an armed guard to drag the girls from their secret hiding place and bring them to her. But her husband intercepted the men on his way back from seeing the young novices and, suspicious of their intentions, killed three of them and put the rest to flight. He was shocked to discover afterward that they had been sent by his wife.
When the duke returned to court, he sought out Matilda and assured her that it had all been a misunderstanding. Far from having any adulterous intent, he had merely been concerned for the girls’ welfare. Meanwhile, he secretly arranged marriages for them. But the young girls would have been better advised to stay at Préaux, for both of them di
ed within a year of their wedding. Upon hearing this, the duke immediately suspected that his wife had ordered their deaths, and as a punishment he had her dragged through the streets of Caen by the tail of a horse.4
This story is of course typical of the salacious novels of the eighteenth century, and it has only the barest relation to the known facts. William did have connections with the abbey of Préaux through his daughter Adeliza, but nothing else about the tale rings true. Indeed, from the point of logistics alone, it would have been impossible, because the locations that Abbé Prévost mentions are too far-flung for the protagonists to have visited on foot. Moreover, the ending is identical to that other scandalous rumor about William and Matilda’s marriage—when the duke returned to Normandy after the conquest of England to discover that his wife had been unfaithful—which in itself is suspicious.
Rather more intriguing is a persistent rumor that resulted from malicious gossip by the wife of Hugh of Grantmesnil, an influential Norman nobleman whom William had appointed governor of Winchester. This lady had “conceived a particular ill-will against her sovereign” and therefore determined to cause trouble for him in Normandy.5 She began by circulating reports among the wives of absent Norman nobles that their husbands were being unfaithful during their long sojourns in England. This caused such a furor that many of the husbands in question were obliged to return home and defend themselves, thus creating a void in the government of England.
Lady Grantmesnil then turned on William directly, claiming that the king had tried to seduce her. This story was seized upon by Gytha, mother of the late King Harold, who then sent word of it to the king of Denmark—but not before she had added an embellishment of her own. According to her version of events, William had also tried to seduce the daughter of one of the canons of Canterbury Cathedral. The young girl in question was the niece of a Kentish nobleman named Merleswen, who joined a rebellion (possibly the Kent rebellion of 1067) against the king upon hearing of it.6
Such rumors were prevalent, and William of Malmesbury could not resist including some of them in his twelfth-century history of the English kings. No doubt anxious to safeguard his credibility as a chronicler, he derided the “scandal-mongers” who had circulated such stories to begin with, but he repeated them with such relish that he was little better than they. He related the claims that William had “abandoned his early continence when royal power came to him.” The tale that seems to have fired Malmesbury’s imagination the most was that of Merleswen’s niece. He told how William had “wallowed in the embraces” of the sixteen-year-old daughter of a priest, and recounted that when Matilda found out, she was so enraged that she “sent her packing.”7 According to his account, the queen then exacted a terrible revenge by having the girl hamstrung—an appallingly cruel practice that involved crippling the victim by cutting the tendons of their legs. The tortures that Matilda was said to have inflicted upon the poor girl grew more grisly with time. A later history of William’s reign claimed that she had ordered her jaws to be slit. This scandalous story was in turn surpassed by the thirteenth-century chronicler Robert of Gloucester, who told how “the priest’s daughter was privily slain by a confidential servant of Matilda, the queen.” To such rumors is added the even more outlandish claim “that the Conqueror was so enraged at the barbarous revenge taken by his consort, that, on his return to Normandy, he beat her with his bridle so severely, that she soon after died.”8 He subsequently sent the offending servant into exile.
The idea that Matilda was murdered by her husband is entirely false: her death occurred some years later and is well attested by the sources. Neither is there much reliable evidence to support the rest of Lady Grantmesnil’s story. Her slander, and that of Harold’s mother, was referred to only in sources considerably later than the period in which it was supposed to have happened. None of the contemporary records mention it: indeed, they consistently praise William’s fidelity. Malmesbury himself admitted that the story was “lunacy.”9 Even if the king had forsaken his marriage vows, it is unlikely that a woman of Matilda’s dignity and restraint would so far forget herself as to murder a mistress.
It is interesting, though, that both this and the rumor of Matilda’s actions toward Brihtric depict her as a ruthless, vengeful queen, capable of inflicting untold cruelty upon any who crossed her. Even if she was innocent of both crimes, it is possible that the chroniclers may have used these stories as a device to portray a darker side to her character.10
Despite the rumors, and the undercurrents they might suggest, as the 1070s wore on, Matilda was still performing her role with customary aplomb. As usual, whenever an opportunity presented itself for the ducal couple to reinforce their supremacy, she made sure that they took it. They presided at the dedication ceremonies of three magnificent new churches in 1077, including St.-Évreux and William’s newly completed abbey of St.-Etienne.11 According to Orderic Vitalis, the latter ceremony attracted “an immense multitude of people” and the duke was “puffed up with worldly pride.”12 Arguably the greatest of these occasions, though, took place in July that year, when Matilda joined her husband at the head of the galaxy of notables from both sides of the Channel who attended the consecration of Odo’s new cathedral at Bayeux. It was a truly dazzling occasion. A man of extravagant tastes, William’s half-brother had not stinted in his creation. Towering columns and exquisite monumental carvings made it one of the most magnificent buildings that western Europe had ever seen. With the queen at the height of her powers, this should have been one of the proudest moments of her life. Among the assembled dignitaries were two of her surviving sons, Robert and William.
Although Matilda had dominated her eldest son during their period as coregents of the duchy, it was still expected that he would one day come into his full inheritance. His status as heir was formally acknowledged on at least two further occasions before 1078, and there is evidence to suggest that he was already being styled “duke” or “count” in some quarters well before his father’s death.13 Indeed, William allowed his eldest son to witness charters as “Count Robert” or “Robert Count of the Normans,” which might have been meant to appease him lest he grow impatient to take hold of the duchy.14
While his titles might for the present have been empty of authority, Robert had little cause to complain. Indeed, he was able to enjoy considerable personal independence during the late 1060s and early 1070s, a period that coincided with his most impressionable teenage years. However, he had built up a military household that included the younger sons of some of the most powerful Norman families. This following, which was described as “a swarm of obsequious sycophants,” flattered his vanity and encouraged the more rebellious aspects of his nature.15
Moreover, free from the shackles of his father’s overbearing authority, Robert was indulging in a life of excess. His court became notorious for dissolution and debauchery, as etiquette and ceremonials gave way to pleasure and lasciviousness. As well as jesters and other entertainers, his entourage included prostitutes of both sexes. Orderic Vitalis decried the loose morals that existed in Robert’s court and criticized his followers for their effeminate appearance. Their long hair and extravagant clothes contrasted sharply with the clipped military style of the Conqueror’s entourage.16
Even though Orderic was fond of harking back to an idealized past, the number of references to Robert’s decadent lifestyle suggests that the criticism was at least partly justified. He lavished enormous sums on keeping himself and his courtiers entertained and was said to always accede to requests for money from his “foolish companions.”17 This implies a gullible, easily led side to his nature, which would have fatal consequences in the years to come.
There are also particular stories that hint at Robert’s licentious behavior. Among them is an account that tells of a woman who arrived at court one day claiming that she had two bastard sons by him. Robert denied this, but when she continued to press her claim, it was decided that she should prove her case by ordeal. If she
was willing to undertake the challenge of holding a red-hot iron with her bare hands and abide by her story even while suffering the intense pain that it involved, then it must be true. The woman duly did so, and was judged to be in the right. Robert was forced to acknowledge that the boys were his, and they were subsequently brought up at court.18
By the time William returned to Normandy in 1072, Robert had developed a dangerous streak of arrogance, together with an overblown sense of his own status and authority. Realizing this, his father was determined to slap him down. Far from involving his eldest son in matters of government as a means of preparing him for the task that lay ahead, William determined to keep him from enjoying any real authority in either Normandy or Maine. As Jumièges observes: “The cause of their disagreement was that King William did not allow his son to act according to his own free will in matters concerning the duchy of Normandy, even though he had appointed him as his heir.”19 Robert would inherit upon his father’s death, but not before. In the meantime, the only useful function he could serve was as a member of William’s military entourage. Robert bitterly resented this, and by the time of the Bayeux consecration in 1077, simmering resentment had turned into open hostility. During one heated exchange, Robert even accused William of treating him like a hired soldier.20
That there was tension between William and his eldest son was neither surprising nor unusual. Some of the most vicious conflicts in history have involved an heir impatient for power and a father reluctant to give him any. In Robert and William’s case, this friction was heightened by personal antipathy. William had long felt an aversion toward his eldest son, as suggested by the derogatory nickname of “Curthose” that he had coined. This must have rankled with Robert, who was desperate to assert himself as a man to be reckoned with, rather than—as his father seemed to think—a boy to be made fun of.
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