While Matilda was preparing for her lying-in, her husband’s attention had been diverted by events in the north. Of all the regions in his newly conquered kingdom, Northumbria and Yorkshire were the least under his control. The proximity of the former to the Scottish border did not help matters, for the Scottish king, Malcolm III, was all too ready to assist any rebels against William. The brother earls, Edwin and Morcar, had been dispatched to their estates in the north after Matilda’s coronation, and although they had sworn fealty to William, they soon began whipping up opposition to the Norman regime. At about the same time, to make matters worse, Edgar the Aetheling had left court and taken refuge with the king of the Scots.

Fearing a rebellion, in the summer of 1068 England’s new king hastened to York, the principal city of the north, from where he could prepare his own forces to quell any uprisings. According to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, he fortified other key strategic towns on the way. “Then when the king was informed that the people in the north had gathered together and would stand against him if he came, he went to Nottingham and built a castle there, and so went to York, and there built two castles, and in Lincoln, and everywhere in that region.”¹ Within a matter of months, large swaths of the Midlands and north were littered with these new defenses, which, being built from wood and according to tried and tested Norman designs, could be constructed with staggering speed. Jumièges also described this tactic, in typically admiring prose: “The king surveyed the less fortified places of his realm, and to meet the danger he had powerful strongholds built at strategic sites, which he entrusted to excellent military garrisons and large numbers of mercenaries.”² The distinctive motte-and-bailey-style castles that were so prevalent in Normandy symbolized William’s predominance, and by the end of the eleventh century at least eighty-four had been erected across England.³ The building of these castles necessitated the destruction of thousands of dwellings in order to make way for them, as Domesday Book testifies. They proved one of the most effective means by which the king could advance and consolidate his conquest of the country, effectively placing the English in a stranglehold.

As William’s reign progressed, he gradually replaced the more strategically important castles with stone structures. As well as being easier to defend, they were also more comfortable for the inhabitants, because they kept out the elements. The risk of fire was not as great as in wooden buildings, so large hearths could be installed, and there were few if any leaks during wet weather. Among the first of the king’s fortresses to be rebuilt was what became known as the Tower of London. Given that the inhabitants of London were among the most hostile in the country, William wanted to ensure that this new fortress would be stronger and more imposing than any the city had ever seen. The mighty stone tower (the White Tower) took several years to complete, so thick and high were its walls. It would dominate the capital for centuries to come.

At Winchester, the other major city of the south, the royal palace was already a fitting residence for England’s new king and queen, but since Edward the Confessor had bequeathed it to his wife Edith, it would have been a public relations disaster to wrest it from her. William therefore set about building another, buying up land from the monks of the New Minster “upon which in the fourth year of his reign he built a new hall and palace in handsome fashion.”⁴

But William and Matilda were able to make use of some of the residences that they had inherited from their predecessors. These included King Edward’s former palace in Westminster, which is featured in the Bayeux Tapestry, and although heavily stylized, it still gives an impression of grandeur. William’s court soon outgrew the palace, however, and in around 1069, the king ordered a substantial extension, effectively doubling the size of the old palace and adding a new hall.

Meanwhile, at Gloucester, the old royal palace used by William’s predecessor served for the royal court’s Christmas gatherings each year. This was probably the old palace of Kingsholm to the north of the city, which is referred to as “the king’s hall” in twelfth- and thirteenth-century documents. There are no descriptions of what the palace might have looked like, and it subsequently disappears from the records, but it must have been of sufficient size and grandeur to accommodate the vast court that assembled for the Christmas celebrations.

Although the Conqueror’s strong-arm tactics intimidated the hostile inhabitants of the north of England, they did little to gain their loyalty and respect. Perhaps sensing an opportunity to win over their recalcitrant subjects another way, in late summer 1068, Matilda decided to join her husband in Yorkshire. She must have been motivated by more than the desire “to enjoy her husband’s company,” as one chronicler asserted. Assuming she was then at the court in London, this involved a journey of some two hundred miles—a considerable enough feat in itself, let alone for a woman who was by then heavily pregnant. It is a testament to the bravery and physical fortitude of this diminutive woman that she should embark upon such a venture. At around thirty-seven years old, she would have been considered of an advanced age to be giving birth. It was rare for a woman to experience a successful pregnancy beyond the age of thirty—most women by then would have endured many years of childbearing, as was the case with Matilda—and many did not survive long beyond their twenties. To take such a long and arduous journey in her condition suggests a definite determination on Matilda’s part: it seems she was intent on giving birth to her child in Yorkshire and thus inspiring greater loyalty among her subjects there.

Indeed, Matilda was always prepared to set aside her own comfort in the interests of the Norman kingdom. Her royal life was an exhaustingly peripatetic one. All travel in the eleventh century was slow, uncomfortable, and dangerous. Roads were rudimentary and took the form of dusty or muddy tracks, according to the season. Men tended to travel on horseback, whereas noblewomen enjoyed the relative luxury of riding in wagons covered with richly decorated cloth to denote their rank. Although this shielded them from the worst of the elements, they would have been uncomfortable—particularly on long journeys—as they bumped and jolted over the uneven roads. This was also the slowest mode of transport, particularly in wet weather, when the carts laden with goods and passengers frequently became stuck along the muddy tracks. The considerable entourage by which Matilda was accompanied would have made progress even more cumbersome and difficult.

Moreover, Matilda’s new kingdom required her to make an exceptional number of journeys by sea. Between her first visit to England in 1068 and her last in 1080, she crossed the Channel at least eight times. These are just the occasions that are recorded in the contemporary sources—the number may have been higher, her ceaseless energy and visibility being so vital to the success of the Norman dynasty. Despite involving greater exposure to the elements, often in cramped and unsavory conditions, Matilda’s cross-Channel voyages would still have been preferable to her travel within Normandy and England. A calm crossing would be infinitely more comfortable than arriving sore and bruised after an arduous journey by road. If travel within her domains required a great deal of time and organization, Matilda’s frequent crossings to and from England would have constituted a major operation. The evidence suggests that both she and her husband retained a household that comprised many of the same officials in both England and Normandy. They would serve and follow the king and queen wherever they went.

The rigors of travel were—for the royal couple at least—partially offset by the comforts of the residences that were waiting for them on their arrival. One of the most detailed descriptions of the royal living quarters is provided by Baudri, the abbot of Bourgueil and archbishop of Dol in Normandy, who was also something of a poet. In a long verse that he later addressed to William and Matilda’s daughter, Adela, he describes her bedchamber:

The walls are covered with tapestries, woven according to her [Adela’s] design, and all seem alive: on one wall, creation, the fall and fratricide, the flood with fish on mountain tops and lions in the sea; sacred history from Noah to Abraham, Jacob, Joseph, the glory of Moses, and David to Solomon on a second wall; the Greek gods and myths, Phaethon, Ganymede, Cadmus, Pyramis and Thisbe, Hermaphroditus, Orpheus, Troy, and Roman kings on a third … On the ceiling, the sky with its constellations, the signs of the zodiac, the stars and planets described in detail. On the floor, a map of the world with its seas, rivers, and mountains, named along with their creatures, and the cities on the land masses of Asia, Europe, and Africa. The bed is decorated with three groups of statues, of Philosophy and the liberal arts, the quadrivium (music, arithmetic, astronomy, geometry) at the head of the bed, the trivium (rhetoric, dialectic, and grammar) at the foot. The third group represents medicine, with Galen and Hippocrates, the humors and physical characteristics, herbs and unguents.

Baudri goes on to describe “a wonderful tapestry” that surrounded Adela’s bed. This sounds remarkably similar to the Bayeux Tapestry, for it included scenes depicting the comet, the Norman council and preparations, the fleet, the Battle of Hastings with the feigned flight of the Normans and the real one of the English, and the death of Harold. However, from Baudri’s description it seems that the work was on a much smaller scale than the Bayeux Tapestry and was fashioned from richer materials than the original. Nevertheless, it still provides an interesting insight into the pride that Adela felt in her father’s achievements.⁵

Baudri would at best have caught only a glimpse of the chamber of which he paints such a vivid picture, so much of the detail must be imaginary. He himself admitted: “I described what would be most appropriate more than what existed.” But his account still provides a valuable insight into contemporary tastes and fashions, and hints at the lavish and luxurious style in which Matilda and her family might have lived.

Without accounts such as these, it can be difficult to imagine the color and spectacle of the palaces and churches that Matilda knew, both as queen of England and duchess of Normandy. Those buildings that do survive have plain, imposing stone walls that show little sign of the vibrantly painted murals and rich decorations that would have adorned them originally. Such decorations had long been in fashion. The Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf describes a hall bedecked with drapes “embroidered with gold” and “many a sight of wonder for those that delight to gaze on them.”⁶ But such grandeur was not just hollow opulence; it served a vital purpose: to reinforce William and Matilda’s right to the English throne.

There were no such lavish palaces in the place where Matilda was obliged to halt her progress northward in 1068. Despite her determination to give birth to her latest child in York, in the end she made it only as far as Selby, some fourteen miles south of the city. It is possible that William had sent word that it was not safe for her to venture farther, given the fragile state of affairs in the region. Or perhaps the onset of labor had forced her to rest there. Whatever the reason, the fact that Matilda sought refuge smacks of a hasty rather than a preplanned decision. Even though Selby was a sizable town, it was by no means as fitting a venue for the birth of a royal prince as York, the “capital” of the north.

Matilda’s confinement would be her last. It resulted in a fourth son, who was named Henry after Matilda’s uncle, King Henry I of France. This may seem an odd choice given the difficult, rivalrous relationship that had existed between William and the French king before the latter’s death in 1060. However, the royal couple clearly wished to further legitimize the boy and the family in the eyes of their subjects by reminding them yet again of Matilda’s impeccable pedigree. Moreover, she herself was always keen to emphasize her affinity with the French royals, and in many of the charters that she attested she is described as “niece of Henry, most illustrious king of the French.”⁷

By giving birth to a male heir on English soil, Matilda had achieved a vital step toward Anglo-Norman integration, inspiring greater loyalty among her subjects than her husband had during the many hard-fought campaigns he had waged since the Battle of Hastings two years earlier. Indeed, many Saxons would come to regard Henry as the only legitimate heir to the throne, taking precedence over Robert, Richard, and William. According to Orderic Vitalis, Matilda encouraged this view by making him heir to all of her lands in England, probably soon after his birth.⁸ It is equally possible that she did so out of a special fondness for her youngest child, and William also seemed to favor the boy. Malmesbury records that Henry enjoyed “his father’s blessing and his mother’s inheritance” and that he was “well supplied with money.”⁹ Matilda and William founded a Benedictine abbey at Selby the year after his birth, presumably to give thanks to God for the safe delivery of their son.¹⁰

Henry might have been viewed as the rightful heir to the throne by most Englishmen, but for all the royal commemoration of his birth, it was out of the question that he would supplant his three elder brothers. It would set a dangerous precedent to so flagrantly disregard the natural order of succession. Instead, William and Matilda intended for him to follow the usual path of youngest sons and embark upon a career in the church. To this end, he was given a more extensive schooling than his brothers, and was tutored by their father’s closest adviser, Lanfranc, who from about 1070 had held the post of archbishop of Canterbury, despite his initial reluctance.¹¹ So effective was Henry’s education that he grew up with a passion for intellectual pursuits, and is said to have remarked that an illiterate king was little better than a crowned ass.¹²

Among Henry’s most important lessons was English, and he became more fluent in this language than any of the rest of his family—a fact that further endeared him to the native population. He could also read and write in Latin, which, together with his command of English, later earned him the nickname “Beauclerc.” Moreover, the young Henry apparently possessed the opposite temperament to his father, for Malmesbury claimed that he “preferred contending by counsel, rather than by the sword.” He would grow up to be much more withdrawn than his outgoing and flamboyant elder brothers, Robert and William Rufus, but his natural reserve masked a shrewdness and cunning that would one day make him the most successful of all Matilda’s sons.

It seems the royal family overestimated the healing effects of Henry’s birth on the Saxon population. At the end of 1068, they felt their monarchy secure enough to return to Normandy to celebrate Christmas, where they no doubt enjoyed the traditional festivities at court.

But William had misjudged the situation. The imposing fortresses he had erected across the country had become a target for rebellion, and within a few short weeks, fresh trouble had broken out. Edgar the Aetheling, who had been steadily building support from his base in Scotland, headed south to Northumbria and led a huge uprising. His intention was to seize the throne from William and thus reestablish the Anglo-Saxon monarchy. His cause attracted large numbers of men hostile to the Norman regime, and in February 1069 the rebels won a major victory by taking the city of York in William’s absence.

William had no choice but to set sail for his new kingdom once more. He left Matilda behind, presumably as regent—her position being that much higher than that of her son Robert, who had guarded the kingdom in his parents’ absence. By April 1069, he had succeeded in retaking York. Any conciliatory feelings toward the English that this victory, together with the birth of his fourth male heir, might have inspired were soon forgotten. Outraged, the king exacted a terrible revenge. Throughout 1069 and well into the following year, he launched a series of blistering attacks on a vast swath of territory stretching from the Humber to the Tees. During this “Harrying of the North,” his forces showed no mercy as they razed villages, destroyed crops and livestock, and slaughtered thousands of men and women—innocent and guilty alike. Over a period of two years, thousands more—one account estimates as many as a hundred thousand—died of starvation after their food stores had been laid to waste.¹³ As Malmesbury observed: “the citizens perished by famine or sword.”¹⁴ According to Orderic, the severity of the attack was such that William himself later repented of it: “In mad fury I descended on the English of the north like a raging lion, and ordered that their homes and crops with all their equipment and furnishings should be burnt at once and their great flocks and herds of sheep and cattle slaughtered everywhere. So I chastised a great multitude of men and women with the lash of starvation and, alas! was the cruel murderer of many thousands, both young and old, of this fair people.”¹⁵

Even by William’s standards, this was ruthlessness on an unprecedented scale. It appalled contemporaries and alienated many who had previously been sympathetic to the Norman cause. The horror of it was still raw when Orderic Vitalis wrote his account forty years later:

He [William] cut down many in his vengeance; destroyed the lairs of others; harried the land, and burned homes to ashes. Nowhere else had William shown such cruelty … My narrative has frequently had occasion to praise William, but for this act which condemned the innocent and guilty alike to die by slow starvation I cannot commend him. For when I think of helpless children, young men in the prime of life, and hoary greybeards perishing alike of hunger I am so moved to pity that I would rather lament the griefs and sufferings of the wretched people than make a vain attempt to flatter the perpetrator of such infamy.¹⁶

Another contemporary, Simeon of Durham, was appalled by the devastation that he witnessed firsthand:

So great a famine prevailed that men, compelled by hunger, devoured human flesh, that of horses, dogs, and cats, and whatever custom abhors; others sold themselves to perpetual slavery, so that they might in any way preserve their wretched existence; others, while about to go into exile from their country, fell down in the middle of their journey and gave up the ghost. It was horrific to behold human corpses decaying in the houses, the streets, and the roads, swarming with worms, while they were consuming in corruption with an abominable stench. For no one was left to bury them in the earth, all being cut off either by the sword or by famine.¹⁷

Even William’s apologist, Jumièges, admitted: “by sword and fire they [the Normans] massacred almost the entire population from the very young to the old and grey.”¹⁸

But even this dreadful campaign did not stamp out the resistance of William’s most recalcitrant subjects. Thousands rose in support of Sweyn Estrithson, King of Denmark, when he invaded Yorkshire in the summer of 1069, assisted by William’s now-perennial enemy, King Malcolm III of Scotland. The rebels recaptured York in September. Although Sweyn was in theory acting in support of Edgar the Aetheling, he had long coveted the English throne for himself, so his intervention added a dangerous new dimension to an already highly volatile state of affairs.¹⁹

Matilda had returned to England in early spring 1069.²⁰ Jumièges claims that during her absence from Normandy, the regency was again entrusted to Robert, who, being a minor, was no doubt still surrounded by strong advisers.²¹ It may seem puzzling that she should leave Normandy at a time when her husband’s attention was so diverted by his English kingdom. Although the duchy was stable by comparison, this stability could never be taken for granted, with ambitious noblemen ever watchful for an opportunity to seize power. Matilda had already proved adept at keeping all threats to ducal power at bay, so it might reasonably have been expected that William would have wished her to remain there as regent until the situation in England had improved. Yet perhaps she and her husband recognized the importance of having a figurehead for the royal family in the south of their new dominion. While William struggled in the north, a strong presence was required to guard against any sympathetic uprisings elsewhere. Matilda, already gaining favor among the English people thanks to her dignified bearing and gentle demeanor, formed a welcome contrast to her husband’s brutality. She was therefore ideally suited for this task.

Having returned to England, Matilda embarked upon a series of carefully planned public relations opportunities. These included the Easter celebrations that were held at the court in Winchester. Here, in a display of family unity no doubt intended to remind the populace of the strength of the Norman dynasty, she was joined by her second son, Richard, as she presided over the ceremonials. But while she was intent upon promoting goodwill, her husband had other ideas. At a council meeting held as part of the Easter gathering, he confirmed the perpetual security of a grant of property to the abbey of Holy Trinity in Rouen “by a knife which the king playfully gave the abbot [Rayner] as if about to stab his hand.” Given William’s notorious cruelty, the poor abbot must have been greatly alarmed. Matilda was there to witness her husband’s tasteless prank, for her signature appears on the grant that Abbot Rayner hastened away with.²² No doubt thanks to her influence, the rest of the celebrations passed without incident.

Religious festivals such as Easter and Christmas provided an important focus for court ceremonials. William and Matilda were quick to realize the potential of such dates as a means of showing off their power and majesty. Malmesbury describes the splendor of these occasions, and was clearly not fooled by the intention that lay behind them:

The dinners in which he [William] took part on the major festivals were costly and splendid—Christmas at Gloucester, Easter at Winchester, Whitsun at Westminster in each of the years in which he was free to stay in England; all great men of whatever walk of life were summoned to them by royal edict, so that envoys from other nations might admire the large and brilliant company and the splendid luxury of the feast. Nor was he at any other season so courteous or so ready to oblige, so that foreign visitors might carry a lively report to every country of the generosity that matched his wealth.²³

A medieval queen played a crucial role in such gatherings. She acted as housekeeper, the traditional duty of women at every stratum of society—only on a much greater scale. One of her primary concerns was the provision of hospitality. The ninth-century commentator Hincmar claimed that the queen was responsible “for good order … for the presentation of the king in dignified splendour, for annual gifts to the men of the household.”²⁴ Thus the feasting, pageantry, and other social aspects of life at the royal court would have been superintended by Matilda, just as they were in Normandy. She would preside over feasts and entertainments, ensuring that every detail was in place for the comfort and enjoyment of her guests. This was regarded as a natural feminine duty, and any queen who did not fulfill it would be much criticized. In the poem Beowulf, the fictional queen Radegund courted disapproval by leaving the care of the royal hall to others, arriving late to meals and failing to preside at the nobles’ feasts.²⁵

A whole host of attendants would be on hand to serve the royal couple at these banquets. Duties included “giving the king water for his hands … bearing a towel before the queen … serving the king with his cup … being the king’s butler … being the king’s pantler … making wafers when the king wears the crown … being turnspit.”²⁶ The king’s table was covered with a cloth, and the servants would carry clean napkins for the use of the most important guests. They would serve the king and queen on bended knee with a selection of dishes and wine.

Even the royal couple’s daily meals retained an element of grandeur and ceremony. Although William and Matilda ate breakfast in private, they were joined by the rest of the court for dinner (which was usually taken at around eleven o’clock in the morning) and supper (at five or six o’clock in the afternoon), supplemented by substantial snacks in between. No matter what the occasion, they and their courtiers were presented with a staggering array of dishes to choose from at each meal.

Fish was an important part of the eleventh-century diet. Much of it was fresh, as it was common for fishponds to be created at royal palaces and castles. Otherwise, it was salted. The royal diet was also rich in meat, except during Lent and on certain other religious days, and it tended to be roasted on spits. Beef, mutton, pork, and venison were all popular fare, along with a vast array of poultry, ranging from swans, ducks, and herons to blackbirds, pigeons, and greenfinches. The scarcity of fresh meat during the winter months meant that most of it was salted, and its pungent flavor would often be disguised by spices imported from the East. Bread was also a staple of the Norman diet. The highest ranks of society ate wheat bread, which was served in the shape of flat cakes embellished with a cross or other decoration, whereas the lower ranks had to make do with rye bread.

Other dishes would include dillegrout, a soup made from capons, almond milk, and spices, which had become popular since being served at Matilda’s coronation. This would have been eaten with a spoon, but Norman diners—including the king and queen—used their fingers to eat most of the food that was put before them. “Forks were not among the royal luxuries at the board of the mighty William and his fair Matilda, who both, in feeding themselves, verified the proverb which says ‘that fingers were made before forks.’ ”²⁷ It was therefore customary for diners to wash their hands before and after a meal. Anything they did not wish to eat was thrown on the floor for the dogs or beggars who frequented the feasts. All of the fare served at court was washed down with vast quantities of wine, as well as a beverage called Neustrian cider, which was famous throughout Normandy.²⁸

The luxury enjoyed by the court was essential to uphold the royal dignity. But this dignity came at a price. Keeping the court supplied with food was an enormous undertaking, particularly for landowners in the south of England. Domesday Book recorded that each year the estate of Edward of Salisburys, sheriff of Wiltshire, yielded “130 porkers, 32 bacon hogs … 480 hens, 1,600 eggs, 100 cheeses, 52 lambs, 420 fleeces and 162 acres of unreaped corn”—and this was just in case the royal household’s usual suppliers ran out of produce.²⁹ Even on an average day, the queen’s table was furnished with viands costing forty shillings, and each of her female attendants received a daily allowance of twelve pence for her sustenance.³⁰

Such luxury was also evident in the queen’s apparel. Matilda, keenly aware of her status, “dressed in queenly purple, in a prosperous condition, with sceptre and crown,” according to one eyewitness.³¹ The contemporary accounts suggest that her attire was much more lavish as queen of England than it had been as duchess of Normandy. She commissioned dresses from English embroideresses, who were renowned as being the best in the world. Among the possessions mentioned in her will is a “tunic, worked at Winchester by Alderet’s wife, and the mantle embroidered in gold … two golden girdles.”³² She also employed a woman from Wiltshire named Leofgeat, “who made and makes the King’s and Queen’s gold fringe.”³³

Both Matilda and William kept their jewels and robes in a small chamber adjoining their bedroom, which became known as the wardrobe. During the winter months, they and their attendants wore fur-lined garments to guard against the cold and drafty interiors of their palaces and castles. Surprisingly, though, the custom was to go to bed naked, swathed in rich fur-lined coverlets. Contemporary artists did not shy away from sketching images of kings and queens in bed wearing only a crown to delineate their rank.

Superintending the spectacle of court life was just part of Matilda’s role as queen of England. Appreciating the need to be as visible as possible during her latest stay there, she subsequently traveled to Wells for the Whitsun Council in late May or early June 1069 and witnessed a charter to the city’s cathedral. It may be a measure of the queen’s success in generating support for the Norman regime that there were no reported troubles in the southern counties during this time.

Despite the relative calm that prevailed in the south, it is an indication of just how threatening the situation had become elsewhere that William sent “his beloved wife Matilda” back to Normandy soon afterward, charging her “to pray for the speedy termination of the English troubles, to encourage the arts of peace in Normandy, and to take care of the interests of their youthful heir.”³⁴ According to Orderic, this visit was simply “so that she might give up her time to religious devotions in peace, away from the English tumults, and together with the boy Robert could keep the duchy secure.”³⁵ It is unlikely that either William or Matilda envisaged her having much peace. Indeed, the evidence suggests that the duke was concerned to maintain his authority in Normandy and prevent his overmighty subjects from taking advantage of the troubles in England and the young regent in his homeland. Unable to make the visit himself at this critical juncture, he would have known that his wife was more than capable of flying the ducal banner on his behalf.