Queen of the Conqueror: The Life of Matilda, Wife of William I (41 page)

The life of the ducal family in the immediate aftermath of Matilda’s death may have been dominated by the revival of hostility between William and Robert, but there was also cause for celebration. In the autumn of 1086, William and Matilda’s daughter Constance was betrothed to Alan IV Fergant, Count of Brittany. The wedding, which took place in either Caen or Bayeux,
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brought Normandy an extremely valuable ally, for Brittany had long been a thorn in William’s side.
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But it would prove an all too brief respite. Around the time when his sister was exchanging her vows with the count of Brittany, Robert returned to northern France. It is an indication of just how embattled William now felt that, rather than dismissing his eldest son as ineffective, he immediately went on the offensive. The focus of the duke’s attack was the French Vexin, a strategically important region close to Rouen on the Norman border that was under King Philip’s authority.
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In July 1087, his army sacked the town of Mantes, which had been used as a base from which to attack Normandy in the past. The ferocity with which William fought was astonishing for a man of sixty, and he was every bit as brutal—if not more so—as he had been during any of the campaigns he had fought throughout his long career.

However, during the sack, the great warrior was suddenly taken ill. He seems to have sustained an internal injury when his horse tried to leap a ditch and the pommel of his saddle was driven into his heavy stomach, which was protruding over the front.
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Racked by pain, William was forced to order a retreat. Having left the field of conflict, he
gave way to his injuries. Jumièges tells how he was “overcome by nausea; his stomach rejected food and drink, his breathing became increasingly difficult and, shaken by sobs, his strength deserted him.”
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The duke was taken back to his palace at Rouen, where “the malady increased” and he was obliged to retire to bed.
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A short while later, he was moved to the nearby priory of St.-Gervais. The official reason was that he needed some peace and quiet away from the city, but the choice of a religious house was significant. It was obvious to everyone around him that the great Conqueror was dying.

William himself knew it, and he railed against death as he would the bitterest of enemies.
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The prospect of what would happen to his dominions once he had gone intensified his anguish, for he lamented “that after his death his homeland of Normandy would be plunged into misery.”
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His rebellious son was no doubt foremost in his mind as he contemplated this gloomy prospect. Rather than halting his campaign upon hearing of his father’s illness, Robert was even now attacking Normandy’s borders with the aid of King Philip. His younger brothers, meanwhile, were playing the dutiful sons at St.-Gervais.

Summoning the archbishop of Rouen, the dying Conqueror decreed his wishes for the future of his dominions. He ordered that William Rufus should make haste to England to receive the crown. Triumphant at having superseded his elder brother, Rufus embarked for England straightaway. By contrast, the archbishop and the nobles who were present were aghast at William’s apparent resolve to deny Curthose his rightful inheritance, and “feared that he [William] would remain implacable towards his eldest son Robert, knowing that a wound frequently cut or cauterized causes sharper pain to the wounded.” They urged upon him the fact that they had already sworn oaths of allegiance to the young man, and that these could not be broken without a loss of honor. Eventually, and with great reluctance, William gave in to their persuasions. Mustering his strength, he told the anxious throng: “Because he does not want to come or he spurns to come in order to apologise, I shall do what I think is correct. With you and God as my witnesses I forgive him all the sins he has committed against me, and I grant him all the duchy of Normandy.”
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Shortly after making this bequest, in the early hours of September 9,
the mighty Conqueror conceded defeat in this, his last earthly battle.
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Orderic describes how the late duke’s chamber was robbed by his servants, and his corpse was left “almost naked” on the floor.
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Such disrespect would never have been allowed if Matilda had been alive.

William had decreed that his final resting place should be his abbey of St.-Étienne in Caen. A country knight named Herluin
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took on the task of organizing the funeral out of kindness, but it was hardly the lavish occasion that might be expected for such a formidable ruler. The duke’s body was conveyed “without any ceremony … in a small boat down the Seine.” Even the place that was chosen for the internment was disputed by a “yokel” named Ascelin fitzArthur, who claimed that William had stolen the land from him.
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Ascelin was pacified only when William’s youngest son, Henry, recompensed him for the loss.

The occasion fell woefully short of the dignity and honor that should have been accorded the late king. It was attended by scores of ecclesiastics but, according to Malmesbury, very few laymen. Neither was his family well represented. William Rufus was already on his way to England, “thinking it more to the purpose to secure his own future interests than to attend the burial of his father’s body.”
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Robert had not yet returned from waging war against Normandy. Only their younger brother, Henry, was at the ceremony.

As well as being poorly attended, the funeral also degenerated into the same chaos that had marked William’s coronation more than twenty years before. During the ceremony, one of the houses in the city caught fire, “sending up great balls of flame.”
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The blaze quickly spread to neighboring houses, and the congregation of St.-Étienne was seized with panic. Many of the guests fled, leaving the monks to lay their late ruler hastily to rest.
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Then, as they attempted to force William’s bloated corpse into a sarcophagus that was too small, the body suddenly burst open, emitting “an intolerable stench that soon filled the entire church.” The presiding ecclesiastics hastily concluded the last rites and took flight. In describing these events, Orderic mused that this once all-powerful Conqueror was reduced to nothing by such indignities.
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Without Matilda, the calm and brilliant controller of public spectacle, William’s funeral had been a woeful ceremony, wholly unfit for a king.

Within weeks of the Conqueror’s death, Normandy was on the brink of civil war, and the fragile cross-Channel realm that he and Matilda had created looked set to collapse. Robert soon justified his father’s misgivings by proving a dissolute and ineffective ruler in Normandy, and his authority was easily circumvented by the nobility. Although he and William Rufus had reached an uneasy truce by agreeing to be each other’s heir, upon the latter’s untimely death in 1100, their younger brother Henry seized the crown of England. Robert made a number of unsuccessful attempts to claim what he saw as his rightful inheritance, but he could barely keep hold of Normandy, let alone wrest England from his much more capable brother.

The rapid disintegration of William’s regime during the last years of his life and in the immediate aftermath of his death reveals its underlying fragility. But this regime had been the envy of the world during Matilda’s lifetime. Her efficacy as regent of Normandy and queen of England had been essential to William’s exercise of power on both sides of the Channel. She was the vital ingredient in his success, and without her, the balance that was so crucial to his power broke down irretrievably. If Matilda had outlived her husband, it seems almost certain that his final years and the future of his domains would have been more secure.

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atilda’s achievements as duchess of Normandy and queen of England had been considerable. She had carved out a position of power and influence in the male-dominated political arena of both countries, and in so doing had confounded the conventional stereotypes of women. Far from being a meek and submissive wife and consort, subject entirely to her husband’s will, she had wielded authority in her own right and had enjoyed an independence of action matched by few of her contemporaries.

In the dangerous, brutal world of conquest and rebellion, fragile alliances and bitter familial rivalries, Matilda had possessed all the attributes required for a woman to thrive. Her impeccable lineage, combined with her loving, pious, and loyal nature, had made her a paragon of fidelity and motherhood. But strength, intelligence, and ambition were also prerequisites to survive in such an environment. This side of her character, coupled with a fiercely independent nature, had made her essential to William’s rule, giving her unparalleled influence over the king. She had proved such an able and effective ruler that he had come to rely upon her completely.

Matilda’s ambition and strength of will had ultimately contributed to the fracturing of the Norman dynasty. But without the unifying influence that she had exerted for so long, this fracturing would arguably have
occurred much sooner. It should not therefore detract from the extraordinary achievement of this remarkable woman—an achievement that would prove an inspiration both to her immediate successors and for hundreds of years to come.

Matilda’s influence was particularly apparent in the lives of two of her daughters. Cecilia made a resounding success of her career at the abbey of La Trinité, rapidly gaining renown for her virtue and dedication. The noted intellectual Baudri of Bourgueil, the archbishop of Dol, wrote in praise of her, as did the poet Hildebert of Le Mans. To them, she was “a queen, a goddess and a royal virgin married to a heavenly husband.”
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Cecilia lavished care and attention upon the abbey that she seemed to have come to love as much as her mother had, and she commissioned a number of improvements. She also played a leading role in the administration of La Trinité, acting as coadjutor to its long-lived abbess, Matilda. Her efforts were rewarded in 1113, when she was appointed abbess upon the death of her superior. That same year, she granted her first charter—an indication of her newfound power.
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She held that exalted position until her death fourteen years later, at the age of sixty-eight.
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While Cecilia inherited her mother’s piety, her youngest sister, Adela, echoed her political achievements. Of all Matilda’s children, Adela seems to have been the closest to her in appearance, character, and spirit. The amorous archbishop of Dol, who seemed to be a little in love with her, praised her “beauty, dignity and grace” and claimed that she had “the brilliance of a goddess.”
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At the time he wrote these words, Adela would have been in her forties. It is interesting to consider whether she inherited her lasting good looks from Matilda, whose beauty had been praised even in middle age and who had held William in thrall for most of their marriage.

Adela certainly inherited her mother’s extraordinary fecundity, giving birth to as many as eleven children during the course of her marriage to Stephen of Blois, including a daughter whom she named after Matilda.
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Having been inspired by the education that her own mother had given her, she paid as much attention to their studies. Like Matilda, Adela was strong-willed and politically astute, and she ruled her husband every bit
as effectively. Malmesbury describes her as “a powerful woman with a reputation for her worldly influence.”
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This was demonstrated most forcefully in 1098, when her husband returned from the siege of Antioch, a key encounter in the First Crusade. Rather than welcoming him home like a dutiful wife, Adela promptly ordered him back to rejoin the crusade.
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At first Stephen shrank from the idea of returning to the danger and hardships of the crusading life, but Adela eventually wore him down with “these speeches and many more like them.”
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