Queen of the Conqueror: The Life of Matilda, Wife of William I (15 page)

By contrast, William’s attitude to his wife seems less complex. Both his words and his actions suggest that he adored her. Malmesbury claims that Matilda’s obedience and fecundity “kindled a passionate attachment in the spirit of that great man.”
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In 1079, after some twenty-eight years of marriage, the duke himself would openly declare that he had been “a companion so faithful and devoted in his affection,” and referred to Matilda as “the wife of my bosom, whom I love as my own soul.”
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Even in a letter of business that he wrote to her, he prefaced the formal details with a tender address to “his dear wife,” wishing her “perpetual weal.”
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These sentiments form a sharp contrast to the image of a brutish warrior. It seems that Matilda brought out a softer side to him.

The duke appeared genuinely attracted to his wife, and the sheer number of children that they had together suggests a degree of sexual compatibility. The sources certainly suggest that Matilda was an attractive wife. She regularly won praise for her beauty from the likes of Jumièges and Fulcoius of Beauvais, as well as later writers. A nineteenth-century poet extolled her elegance and poise:

Her forehead’s calm and pure expanse
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Ne’er ruffled by an angry glance
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Those eyes, so steadfast and serene
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That peaceful, still and gracious mien.
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Meanwhile, a French account of the following century described her as “beautiful and blonde,” and like “a freshly bloomed rose.” It also praised the elegance of her dress, with her “fur-lined cloak and close fitting gown, her two plaits falling near to the white veil that surrounded her neck.”
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However, it is not clear upon what this account can have been based, because it matches none of the later engravings of Matilda—all of which were admittedly completed many years after her death. The description of her clothes does, however, tally with the typical apparel of a well-born lady in the eleventh century. As duchess, Matilda would have worn gowns of comparatively simple design, albeit made from rich fabrics. The fashion was for long dresses, reaching to the ground and tied around the waist with a girdle, which was often the most elaborate part of the ensemble. The gown would have been complemented by a matching cloak fastened by shoulder clasps, and a hood. Not until the twelfth century did the fashion change to more decorative and elaborate attire. Although the later engravings of Matilda show her with long, flowing tresses, in general women’s hair was concealed by a wimple, which was wound about the head and thrown over the shoulder. The fact that the monks at Coutances had been so shocked to see Matilda with her hair loose suggests that she usually conformed to this fashion.

A wall painting of the duchess, executed at her command, once adorned the outside wall of an ancient chapel in the abbey of St.-Étienne in Caen, which had been built before the abbey was founded. It was destroyed when the chapel was pulled down in 1700, but an eighteenth-century engraving of it survives.
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Though it does not help us understand Matilda’s physical appearance, it does give us clues as to how she might have dressed. It shows her wearing a simple robe gathered at the waist by a belt of precious metal, possibly gold, with a cloak around her shoulders. A transparent veil covers her long, dark hair and is held in place by a crown bedecked with fleur-de-lys and precious stones. In her right hand
she holds a scepter of the same design, and in her left a book—perhaps an indication of her intellect. Her graceful pose, with head slightly inclined as if to signify compliance or assent, and the simplicity of her apparel give the impression of modesty and serenity.

However, this is a heavily stylized portrait that bears more resemblance to Queen Victoria than to a woman of Norman times, so its accuracy is dubious. There is also a sketch of the fresco, which seems to date from an earlier period. This shows Matilda wearing a similar crown and carrying the same scepter, both adorned with fleur-de-lys, but her features are much plainer and her hair is shorter and fair. However, the provenance of this sketch is no more certain than that of the later engraving.

Some sources claim that Matilda’s image, flanked by two lions, can be found on a capital of one of the columns in La Trinité.
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A statue of her was also erected in the eleventh century on the west front of Croyland Abbey in Lincolnshire, toward which she had proved a generous benefactress, but it was destroyed by fire in 1091. A number of statues of Matilda can be found in French cities today, notably in the Place Reine Mathilde in Caen and the Luxembourg Garden in Paris. But these are stereotypical representations of a medieval queen, and there is no consistency in facial features.

Despite the lack of visual evidence, the written accounts of Matilda’s appearance, which are overwhelmingly complimentary, suggest that she was a striking woman—and, moreover, that she retained her physical charms through much of her life. This might have helped keep her husband in thrall. Almost all of the contemporary accounts attest that William was utterly faithful to his wife. Poitiers was careful to stress that “he had learnt that marriage vows were holy and respected their sanctity.” Malmesbury concurs that from the day of their wedding, “his conduct was such as to keep him free for many years of any suggestion of misbehaviour.”
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While this might be expected of one so devoted, it was highly unusual for a male ruler of the time. Aristocratic marriages being political unions rather than romantic ones, husbands tended to find sexual gratification outside the marital bed, although spousal copulation was required to beget heirs. An extreme example was King Aethelred of England, who devoted himself entirely to his mistresses at the expense
of his wife, Emma. Malmesbury observed with some distaste: “He was so offensive even to his own wife that he would hardly deign to let her sleep with him, but brought the royal majesty into disrepute by tumbling with concubines.”
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Two contemporaries of William, Henry IV and Philip I (later Holy Roman Emperor and king of France respectively), would both become embroiled in similar marital scandals.

Historically, the dukes of Normandy had chosen a different but no less problematic path, not marrying at all but instead keeping a string of mistresses. Perhaps this, as well as the shame of his own birth, made William determined to break the mold, giving him a further incentive to lead a private life beyond reproach. His intense piety was perhaps also a reaction against this shady heritage. He lent his full weight to the church’s campaign to prevent priests from keeping illicit wives and mistresses, and he believed in the strict teachings on marriage propagated by Lanfranc.

Whatever the cause, his sexual restraint still made his contemporaries uncomfortable. William’s temperance must have seemed something of an oddity amid the red-blooded warrior types with whom he was surrounded, and they no doubt sought a more scandalous explanation than that he simply loved his wife. While the rumor that he was impotent had been thoroughly discounted, they bandied about other possibilities—was he carrying on an illicit affair and, unlike so many of his contemporaries, succeeding in keeping it a secret?

Cracks do appear in the idealized vision of William and Matilda’s relationship. For example, the sources contain hints of the duke’s violent behavior toward his wife. One even has him kicking her in the breast with his spur.
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Although most of these accounts were written by hostile English chroniclers, William certainly had a strong streak of cruelty, as evidenced by the treatment that he meted out to the beleaguered citizens of Alençon. Moreover, wife beating was common in the Middle Ages, and it was not just excused but expected of a man to physically chastise his wife. It is therefore possible—even probable—that a man of William’s naturally violent temperament occasionally resorted to physical force in order to quell any disobedience on Matilda’s part.

But to the outside world, the duke and duchess were careful to present themselves as the head of a tight-knit family unit. The birth of two more daughters boosted this image—Matilda in around 1061 and Constance
the following year, the latter named after Matilda’s grandmother. The younger Matilda is the most shadowy of all the daughters. She is not mentioned by any of the Norman chroniclers, but there is reliable evidence for her existence in Domesday Book, which refers to a man named Geoffrey who was employed as her chamberlain.
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The apparent strength and unity of the Norman dynasty was further reinforced by William’s decision in 1063 to formally designate his eldest son Robert as the heir to Normandy. William made the great nobles swear fealty to him—just as his own father had done with him almost thirty years before. He and Matilda witnessed a charter for “Robert, their son, whom they had chosen to govern the regnum after their deaths.”
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It must have been a proud occasion for Matilda, given the strong affection that she felt toward her eldest son.

In the same year, the final piece of the jigsaw was fitted into place when the duke conquered the troublesome province of Maine, which lay to the south of his principality. William had long coveted this territory, and had initially tried diplomacy to obtain it. He had arranged a betrothal between his son Robert and Margaret, a sister of the count of Maine, Herbert II. So determined was the duke to ensure the match went ahead that he had the young girl “guarded with great honour in safe places” until his son was of an age to marry her.
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But all of his efforts proved to be in vain, for Margaret died before the marriage could take place. Malmesbury claims that the count himself subsequently asked William for the hand in marriage of one of his daughters. William agreed, but in March 1062, before the girl was of marriageable age, Herbert fell sick and died.
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It was said that on his deathbed, Herbert promised Maine to William, “adjuring his subjects to accept no one else,” and the latter wasted no time in claiming his inheritance.
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Acquiring Maine established William as the undisputed duke of Normandy. It also ensured that he need fear no interference from northern France in any overseas enterprise that he might undertake—a fact that would prove enormously significant during the following three years. The traditional hostility toward France had in any case been substantially reduced, thanks to Matilda’s family connections. Count Baldwin of Flanders had played an increasingly active part in international politics during the years following his daughter’s marriage to William. He had been assiduous
in cultivating the goodwill of Henry I of France toward his son-in-law, drawing upon the strong blood ties that existed between the two dynasties. So successful were his efforts that the French king had even named Baldwin regent of France on behalf of his infant son, Philip. When Henry died in 1060, Baldwin took charge and “ruled the French kingdom with distinction for some years.”
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The ducal couple, who together had established a spectacularly successful regime on their home turf, were on the brink of international glory. And Matilda, who had rapidly established her independence and authority as duchess of Normandy, would be central to their success.

W
ith their duchy secure and the papal marriage ban a distant memory, William and Matilda’s prestige was greater than it had been at any time during their reign. As a result, the duke had leisure to turn his energies to an enterprise that had long been occupying his thoughts.

Whether or not Edward the Confessor had really promised William the crown of England in 1051 is a matter for debate, but in the early 1060s, bolstered by his military and dynastic success, the duke now chose to press his claim. The situation in England had changed significantly since that time, and there were other contenders for the throne. The person with the best hereditary claim was Edward’s nephew, Edward the Exile, whom he ordered to be brought back to England from Hungary in 1057 so that—as Malmesbury put it—“his own lack of offspring might be made good by the support of his kinsfolk.”
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However, this nephew died shortly afterward in rather mysterious circumstances, and his son, Edgar, who was only around six years of age, inherited the claim. He was given the designation of “Aetheling”—that is, throneworthy—which might indicate that the king considered him as a potential successor. If this was the case, then his promise to William was probably little more than a diplomatic maneuver, aimed at securing a useful ally across the Channel.