Queen of the Conqueror: The Life of Matilda, Wife of William I (36 page)

Robert also sought the help of his uncle, Count Robert of Flanders. Though Matilda had waged war against her brother when he had usurped
the rightful succession, the count now proved a willing ally to her son. He was already one of Duke William’s most troublesome enemies, and like King Philip, he was keen to exploit any political weakness in Normandy. Robert went to visit his kinsman in Flanders to secure his support and was delighted when it was swiftly given, for now he could potentially invade Normandy from two of its major frontiers.

News of Robert’s rebellion spread rapidly to England. The
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
notes: “Robert, the son of King William, ran from his father to his uncle Robert in Flanders, because his father would not let him govern his earldom in Normandy which he himself and also the king Philip with his consent had given him; and the best who were in the land had sworn with oaths and taken him as lord.”
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This overstated the case and was perhaps wishful thinking on the part of the author. Despite trawling the courts of Europe—including Germany, Aquitaine, and Gascony—Robert received fair words but no firm promises. According to Orderic, any financial support he did receive was soon “recklessly squandered” on “jongleurs and parasites and courtesans.”
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But help was soon to arrive from an altogether unexpected source.

Exactly what Matilda felt upon hearing that her beloved son had sought the assistance of her relatives can only be imagined. She would already have been grieved at his self-enforced exile, and extremely fearful for his safety if he should launch an attack. Perhaps she regretted not having curbed his waywardness when she had the chance. Now it was too late. Robert’s actions had pitted her son and her natal family against her husband. It was a severe case of divided loyalties.

Although society dictated that Matilda should support her husband, it was not as simple as that. Where Robert was concerned, the strength of the maternal bond was greater than her sense of duty and pragmatism. She adored her eldest son and felt a mother’s natural protectiveness toward him. By contrast, the feelings that she had toward William seemed more about duty than love. It is also possible that Matilda empathized with Robert’s plight. She, too, had had to endure her husband’s overbearing nature and implacable will, which grated against her own tact, learning, and ambition, so she would perhaps have understood the
frustration her son experienced at being denied his inheritance. What was more, the prospect of having Robert, rather than her husband, as duke of Normandy might well have held an appeal of its own. It would have increased her own influence, given the power dynamic between mother and son established during the various regencies. Even if Robert had wished to gain a greater measure of authority, the closeness of their relationship meant that she would always be guaranteed a share of his power. The dramatic events that unfolded shortly afterward support the idea that her loyalties lay firmly with her son.

Matilda certainly remained in contact with Robert during his exile, and the evidence suggests that she exchanged secret messages with him via trusted servants.
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The fact that he resided in her native land for a time no doubt made this easier than it would otherwise have been. From this contact, she got to know where her son was and what his plans were with regard to Normandy. If she tried to persuade him against an invasion, there is no record of it. Instead, she took a step that would shock her contemporaries and tear her family apart: she sent him money to fund the enterprise. According to Orderic Vitalis, she “often used to send him [Robert] large sums of silver and gold and other valuables without the king’s knowledge.”
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Although both Orderic and Malmesbury claim that she diverted revenues from the royal estate in order to supply her son with a troop of soldiers, it seems more likely that she used money from her own resources.
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This would have enabled her to act with the necessary secrecy.

After a quarter of a century of playing the dutiful wife and consort, Matilda had at last shown her true colors. Her loyalty to her husband had crumbled in the face of the love she felt toward her wayward son. The latter had reignited her long-dormant willfulness and passion—and her ambition. William’s more permanent presence in Normandy had inevitably lessened the autonomy she enjoyed as regent, and now Robert’s rebellion presented her with the chance to carve out a powerful new role for herself. Who knew what authority she might enjoy as the much-beloved mother of the new duke? And if Robert succeeded in wresting control of the duchy, then England might follow. It was treason, but—in Matilda’s eyes—it was worth it. Setting aside her accustomed caution, she threw herself behind Robert’s cause.

A rebellious son and heir was troublesome but not exceptional; a rebellious wife was deeply shocking in an age when any degree of female independence was problematic. Moreover, there was the deep-seated belief that queens should be responsible for family unity, which was in itself crucial to the successful government of medieval states. The sources are full of familiar idealized images of consorts presiding benevolently over their loving sons, daughters, and husbands. Among them was Matilda’s namesake, the wife of Henry I, king of the Germans, who in the previous century took pride of place at a family reunion: “All the royal progeny of either sex gather, brought together by divine mercy and in love at seeing one another … and that renowned mother queen Mathilda, rejoicing in the birth of such great children, was received in great honour.”
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But it seems Matilda was tired of bowing to social convention. She had decided to follow her own inclinations.

In the spy-ridden world of the Norman court, it was inevitable that Matilda’s treachery would soon be found out.
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When William heard that his wife had been secretly supporting his upstart son, he was furious and ordered her, “in a passion, never to do such a thing again.”
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Such leniency was surprising, given that Matilda had committed treason, and it no doubt owed much to the strength of his feelings for her. Still, a nineteenth-century account claims that he “flung her from her horse in one of the principal streets of Caen”—although this is not substantiated by any of the contemporary chroniclers.
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Matilda’s reaction to being upbraided by her husband is not recorded, but it is likely that she vowed not to send any more money to her son—even if she had no intention of keeping this promise. However, the fact that she had so easily escaped punishment seems to have given her confidence, because just a short while later, she was discovered to have “recklessly renewed her offence.”
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In so doing, she had placed both herself and those closest to her in great danger. William was now beside himself with fury that his formerly dutiful wife should betray him so soon after her last transgression. Worse still, she had repeated exactly the same treachery. If he needed any more proof of the superior place his despised son held in her affections, he now had it.

Matilda’s younger sons, William Rufus and Henry, may have stirred
up their father’s anger. They were probably jealous of the obvious favor that their mother showed toward Robert, and the incident at L’Aigle proves that they were capable of spiteful and vindictive scheming. But the duke needed little encouragement. Determined to punish Matilda, he resolved upon humiliating her in front of the entire court. “How very true here and now is the maxim of a certain sage, ‘A faithless wife brings ruin to the state,’ ” he railed. “After this who in this world shall ever find himself a trustworthy helpmate? The wife of my bosom, whom I love as my own soul, whom I have set over my whole kingdom and entrusted with all authority and riches, this wife, I say, supports the enemies who plot against my life, enriches them with my money, zealously arms and succours and strengthens them to my grave peril.”
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Retaining her composure, Matilda sank to her knees in front of her husband and pleaded for forgiveness—both for herself and for their son. Her words were recorded by one of the leading chroniclers of the time—apparently verbatim:

O my lord, do not wonder that I love my first-born child with tender affection. By the power of the Most High, if my son Robert were dead and buried seven feet deep in the earth, hid from the eyes of the living, and I could bring him back to life with my own blood, I would shed my life-blood for him and suffer more anguish for his sake than, weak woman that I am, I dare to promise. How do you imagine that I can find any joy in possessing great wealth if I allow my son to be burdened by dire poverty? May I never be guilty of such hardness of heart; all your power gives you no right to demand this of me.
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This is the only surviving record of the words that Matilda spoke, and it therefore gives us an invaluable insight into her character and state of mind at this time. Even if there are inaccuracies in the account, it still conveys a sense of the fierce love and protectiveness that she felt toward her firstborn son and the desperation with which she pleaded for his life. It portrays her as a woman capable of intense passion, of true and abiding affection.

On the surface, it was a masterly performance. Matilda had betrayed
one of the most feared leaders in western Europe, a man notorious for his ruthlessness and brutality. He could well have sent her into exile—or worse. She judged that a display of humble contrition was unlikely to win him over. A natural bully, William scorned weakness in others and would pursue any who displayed it with the same relentlessness that he showed when hunting down a stag in the woods. Rather, she pleaded the strength of her maternal feelings—something that was both expected and admired in a royal spouse—and used these to justify her otherwise treacherous actions. That she dared to turn the tables on William by accusing him of trying to make her forget her motherly duties constituted a level of bravery that few showed when faced with the mighty Conqueror.

That Matilda had the audacity to turn herself from accused into accuser is also a measure both of the confidence that she had in her husband’s devotion and of how deftly she thought she could play him. Yet she knew that she had to strike a delicate balance between self-righteous indignation and wifely deference. By delivering her words while kneeling at his feet, she emphasized her position as William’s inferior and supplicant. She had played her role to perfection.

William’s immediate reaction, however, suggests that she had gravely miscalculated. It seems that until now he had not realized the depth of his wife’s feelings toward their eldest son. Confronted with the strength of her affection for Robert and the contrast with her obviously cooler feelings toward himself, he was consumed by jealousy.

Orderic describes how “the stern duke grew pale with anger and, bursting with rage, he commanded one of the queen’s messengers named Samson, a Breton, to be arrested and blinded.” The force of William’s rage suggests that Samson may have been responsible for conveying his mistress’s gold to her son. Fortunately, Matilda had her own network of supporters at court, who succeeded in getting word to the poor man before the terrible sentence could be carried out. Samson fled to refuge in the monastery of St.-Évroult, where “at the queen’s plea he was received by Abbot Mainer, and prudently adopted the monastic way of life to save both body and soul.”
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While there, he met Orderic Vitalis, a fellow resident of the abbey, which is perhaps why the latter was able to recount the scandal in such detail in his
Ecclesiastical History
.

Apart from being upbraided in front of the court, Matilda escaped further reprisals. The horrific fate that her servant only narrowly escaped no doubt struck terror into her. It certainly seems to have shocked her into obedience, for there is no further evidence of her supporting Robert against her husband. Malmesbury, surely playing things down, recalls that the “small disagreement” between the couple was soon forgotten and claims that it “occasioned no lessening of their affection as man and wife he [William] himself made clear.”
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But the atmosphere between the royal couple must have been strained. As Malmesbury himself quoted: “Kingship and love make sorry bedfellows and sort but ill together.”
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On the surface, they soon resumed their accustomed cordiality toward each other, but their relationship would never recover. As a result of Matilda’s betrayal, William would never again trust her to enjoy the full powers of regency. In future, she would be obliged to act alongside her husband or younger sons. Her days as one of the most powerful women in western Europe seemed to be over.