Queen of the Conqueror: The Life of Matilda, Wife of William I (8 page)

A
s a potential bride, Matilda of Flanders was not the only appealing prospect for leading potentates across Europe; other noble families possessed beautiful, accomplished daughters. Of course, the prestige of her lineage and the strategic importance of her father’s principality increased Matilda’s value, as did the fact that any alliance with Flanders would effectively also mean alliance with France. But what set her apart was the fact that she herself was not as politically sheltered as many other eligible daughters. The years that she had spent in the comital court had given her a keen understanding of international affairs, particularly those relating to England.

None of this escaped the notice of Duke William of Normandy. His pride and arrogance bolstered by his recent military success at Val-ès-Dunes, he resolved to establish his dynasty by taking a wife. According to Jumièges, he was prompted to do so by his magnates, who “urgently drew his attention to the problem of his offspring and succession.”
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William of Poitiers agreed that he was “given divergent counsels about his marriage” by the many advisers who occupied his “crowded court.”
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Society dictated that a “youth” became an adult only when he established for himself an independent household with a wife and children. Having proved his masculinity on the battlefield, it was now time for William to do so in the marriage bed.

It was essential that William’s bride should be of impeccable pedigree,
in order to help erase the stain of his own birth. No less vital was the need to strengthen Normandy’s position by forging an advantageous alliance with a foreign potentate. Matilda was ideal in both respects. The fact that she was the niece of the French king was particularly valuable, for even though Val-ès-Dunes had helped to establish William’s authority, his hold upon Normandy had been lately threatened by the count of Anjou’s capture of Maine, which had brought a hostile power dangerously close to his borders. He knew, therefore, that this authority was still dependent upon the notoriously fickle loyalty of his magnates, and moreover on the support of the king of France as his overlord.

William of Poitiers claims that the young duke need not have confined his marital ambitions to a bride from a neighboring province, for “Kings from far away would gladly have given him their very dearest daughters in marriage.” But he admitted that his protagonist had “many weighty reasons” for choosing Count Baldwin’s daughter.
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Not all of them were political. Although there were rumors that he was impotent, William was apparently drawn to Matilda as much for the accounts of her beauty as for her lineage. Jumièges claims that upon hearing that Count Baldwin of Flanders “had a daughter called Matilda, a very beautiful and noble girl of royal stock,” William immediately sent envoys to ask for her hand in marriage.
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Personal desire seemed to have merged with political strategy. The negotiations may have begun around May 1048, when Duke William and Count Baldwin attested a charter by the French king at the city of Senlis, a favored royal residence some thirty miles north of Paris.
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The Flemish count, who had no doubt considered (and rejected) various suitors for his daughter in the past, was said to be “very pleased” with William’s proposal. Normandy was as useful an ally to him as his own principality was to Duke William. A union with his powerful Norman neighbor would greatly enhance Flanders’s growing status in western Europe. Moreover, he was particularly in need of support at this time because the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry III, was threatening his frontiers, and King Edward of England had assembled a fleet to help serve against Flanders if necessary. In such circumstances, it was vital for Baldwin to make a friend of the Norman duke rather than add him to the already dangerous coalition of adversaries. Furthermore, he already had
firsthand experience of how obstructive a hostile duke of Normandy could be—when he had attempted to seize power from his father in the early 1030s, he had been thwarted by William’s father, Robert I. He therefore eagerly grasped the opportunity to put relations between the two countries on a better footing.

The records attest that Count Baldwin gave the young Norman duke’s envoys a courteous reception when they arrived at the Flemish court, probably in late 1048 or early 1049.
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Only now, however, was Matilda herself consulted. Far from sharing her father’s enthusiasm, she flatly refused to lower herself so far as to marry a mere bastard. Worse still, she made no secret of her rejection, and it was soon being gossiped about throughout the court. Count Baldwin was mortified, and admonished his daughter for such outrageous defiance: women were expected to obey their male superiors in all matters. He was determined that Matilda would not jeopardize the alliance. But in vain he urged her to remember her filial duty to obey him in all things. She remained implacable—a telling indication of the same force of character that would bring a conqueror to heel.

Matilda’s refusal caused such a stir that it was not long before the news reached her rejected suitor. According to the
Chronicle of Tours
, William was outraged at being rejected so publicly and with so little ceremony, and he rode with all speed to Baldwin’s palace at Bruges. He encountered Matilda as she was leaving church. Without hesitation, he dragged her to the ground by her long hair and beat the diminutive girl almost to death “with his fists, heels, and spurs,” rolling her in the mud and ruining her rich gown. The young duke then, without a word, strode back to his waiting horse, “sprang to the saddle, and setting spurs to the good steed, distanced all pursuit.”
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Shocked and humiliated, Matilda was helped to her feet by her terrified gentlewomen and conveyed to her bedchamber.
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Considering that Matilda had already made her distaste for the young duke clear, it is reasonable to assume that his behavior would have strengthened her resolve to have nothing to do with him. But according to these accounts, just a short while later she announced—astonishingly—that she would marry none but William, since “he must be a man of great courage and high daring” to have ventured to “come
and beat me in my own father’s palace.”
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Her father, who had immediately declared war on the duke, was left utterly bewildered. In the very brief interim, he and his wife had already chosen another husband for their daughter—the duke of Saxony. But their attempts to reason with Matilda were again in vain: her mind was set. “I will have no other husband but my fiancé, the incomparable Duke William,” she told them.
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The count therefore gave his consent to the match—no doubt consoled by the significant advantages that it would bring to his own position and that of his domain. A cease-fire was declared with Normandy, and the two principalities were brought to terms. The duke formally renewed his proposal at the peace talks, and this time Matilda declared that “it pleased her well.”
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She and William were betrothed a short while later.

How much of this tale is true cannot be known for certain, but the sources are highly suspect. They were written almost two hundred years after William and Matilda’s betrothal, and there is no known origin for the story among the contemporary chronicles. Moreover, the
Chronicle of Tours
was a satirical tome, full of anti-Norman sentiments, so it can hardly be relied upon. It seems unlikely that a betrothal between two members of the most high-profile families in Europe could begin with something akin to a tavern brawl. Even if some of the details were true, the violence must have been exaggerated, for if William had kicked Matilda with his spurs, she would almost certainly have died from the wounds—eleventh-century spurs had a sharp spear-shaped point.
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There are also conflicting versions of the tale. Two other thirteenth-century accounts claim that William had forced his way into Matilda’s bedroom and soundly beaten her, and that the encounter had taken place at Lille, rather than Bruges.
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Although these sources differ in their telling of the story, they agree that Matilda refused the duke on account of his bastardy. From what we know of the strong sense of pride that she felt in her own ancestry, this is not beyond the realm of possibility. Equally, the extreme sensitivity that William harbored about his shady origins was likely to have provoked furious indignation at such a rejection. And given that he was a notoriously violent man, he may well have resolved to punish this impudent woman as if she had been a recalcitrant servant.

But what of Matilda? Can we really believe that she was so impressed
by the “rough wooing” on the part of a man for whom she had hitherto shown the utmost disdain that she instantly changed her mind and resolved to marry him at any cost? This would hardly have been consistent with the pride and strength of will that had already become evident in her character. Neither is it feasible that, as one nineteenth-century historian has surmised, she was so terrified of “encountering a second beating” that she gave her consent immediately.
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Matilda had enough protection at the Flemish court to guard against that. It is therefore likely that either the accounts were exaggerated, or, if Matilda had initially rejected William’s proposal, there was some other explanation for her subsequent change of heart. Such an explanation could lie in Matilda’s earlier relationship with Brihtric of England. Had this scandalous encounter sufficiently tarnished her reputation that she was now obliged to accept proposals that she would otherwise have disdained? Unless new evidence comes to light, the story of Matilda’s betrothal to William will remain forever subject to the vagaries of myth and legend. But this should not obscure the real drama of their betrothal, which was just about to unfold.

Although the papacy was a weak institution in the first half of the eleventh century and rarely intervened in matters beyond Rome, its sanction was still desirable for a betrothal of the importance of that between William and Matilda. The young duke was particularly keen to secure it in order to help erase the stain of his bastard status. He did not have long to wait until the matter was under review. It was decided that it would be discussed at an ecclesiastical council to be held by Pope Leo IX at Rheims in October 1049. This was the first time in many years that a pope had made such a journey, and William might have been forgiven for thinking that it was a mark of respect. He could not have been more wrong. To his utter dismay, he learned that the council had summarily condemned his betrothal to Count Baldwin’s daughter.
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This sent shock waves across Western society: William had not been alone in assuming that the papacy’s sanction would be easily given. It would prove a turning point in the history of papal authority, creating a volatile situation in which the Pope vied with secular leaders for supremacy over ecclesiastical matters.

Surprising though the council’s decision was, the evidence suggests that it was not entirely unexpected by William. His proposed marriage to Matilda of Flanders had already been debated by high-ranking members of the Norman church, who expressed misgivings about its legitimacy. Although for centuries marriage had been a civil institution that was only loosely regulated, in the eleventh century the papacy began to take an interest in the custom as a means of asserting its growing authority over ecclesiastical matters throughout western Europe. It therefore set down—and was determined to enforce—a series of laws to govern it. Among these was that the individuals concerned must not be connected within seven degrees of kinship.

The origin of such extreme strictures regarding consanguinity lay in the fifth and sixth centuries, when the Western church had first prohibited the marriage of cousins. The reasons are not altogether clear, although within the religious community there seems to have been a general horror of incest. There may also have been a financial imperative, because by limiting marriage—and thereby the inheritance of estates—within families, the church itself could secure large landed endowments. However, it was not until the eleventh century, when the papacy and its satellites embarked upon a program of zealous reform, that the laws regarding kinship were tightened up as part of the creation of a clear, uniform, and enforceable definition of marriage. By this time, consanguinity was the most commonly invoked impediment in declaring a marriage invalid. It was defined so broadly that it was something of a challenge to find a partner to whom one was not related, particularly within the closeted world of royalty and nobility. Equally, few people in any age or society could confidently name their seventh cousins; some would even struggle to name their first or second. At the same time, though, the consanguinity rules presented an opportunity for those wishing to escape from childless or otherwise unsatisfactory marriages. This had been the case with Matilda’s grandfather, Robert the Pious, and his second wife, Bertha of Burgundy. Opposition had already been raised during the early days of their union by Robert’s father on account of the closeness of their kinship, and when Bertha failed to give Robert the heir he needed, he used this as a convenient excuse to seek an annulment.
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