For the first twenty-five years of her marriage, Matilda had been a model wife. Loyal, steadfast, and wise, she had proved an exceptionally capable regent and consort, enabling William to both consolidate his victory in England and maintain his hold over Normandy. United by matrimony and ambition, theirs seemed to be an invincible partnership. As one contemporary observed: “The queen adorned the king, the king the queen.”¹

But toward the end of the 1070s, free at last from the unrelenting cycle of childbirth, Matilda began to display the independence of spirit that had caused such ructions with her husband in the very earliest days of their courtship. It would transform her from model wife and consort into one of William’s deadliest enemies.

Around this time, rumors began to circulate that her husband was looking elsewhere for sexual gratification. Perhaps Matilda, who was by now in her mid- to late forties, had begun to lose her famed beauty. The many pregnancies and births that she had endured must also have taken their toll on her body. Some of the rumors can be easily dismissed, however. For example, William was said to have fathered two sons outside his marriage: Thomas of Bayeux, Archbishop of York, and William Peverel. Both stories stem from local tradition, and neither has any basis in fact. Thomas of Bayeux was of the right age to have been William’s son and was close enough to him to write the epitaph for his tomb, but there is nothing else to support the theory. Neither is there a case for believing that William Peverel, mentioned in Domesday Book, was a natural son of the Conqueror. The only reference to it is in an account by the seventeenth-century antiquarian William Dugdale.² It is possible that he consulted sources that have since been lost, but the fact that a tale of such significance is not mentioned by any of the major chroniclers of the period makes it dubious in the extreme. Neither is there any reliable evidence to support the rumor that William had a bastard daughter, who later married Hugh du Château-sur-Loire.³

The eighteenth-century novelist known as the Abbé Prévost was responsible for some of the other aspersions as to William’s fidelity. He confidently asserted that when William’s marriage began to grow stale, he “se mit à garçailler” (took up wenching). Although he based his account upon references in the contemporary sources, some of his tales were almost certainly of his own invention. There is, for example, one particularly winding story, which not only questions William’s uxorious qualities, but also casts Matilda as a jealous, retributive spouse. The tale goes that one day, while hunting in the forest of Pont-Audemer, which lay in the heart of Normandy, William encountered two pretty young novices from the abbey of Préaux. The girls had been placed in the convent against their will and were making their escape. They were greatly alarmed when they saw the duke, but he allayed their fears and escorted them to one of his hunting lodges in the forest of Lyons. Although he assured them that they would be safe from harm, he confided to his men that he intended having his way with “one of the two or perhaps the two together.” But such was William’s respect for his wife that by the time he returned the following day, his conscience had gotten the better of him and he decided instead to find husbands for the girls.

In the meantime, word had reached Matilda that under the pretext of going hunting, her husband was meeting two mistresses in secret every morning in the forest. In a fit of jealous rage, she sent an armed guard to drag the girls from their secret hiding place and bring them to her. But her husband intercepted the men on his way back from seeing the young novices and, suspicious of their intentions, killed three of them and put the rest to flight. He was shocked to discover afterward that they had been sent by his wife.

When the duke returned to court, he sought out Matilda and assured her that it had all been a misunderstanding. Far from having any adulterous intent, he had merely been concerned for the girls’ welfare. Meanwhile, he secretly arranged marriages for them. But the young girls would have been better advised to stay at Préaux, for both of them died within a year of their wedding. Upon hearing this, the duke immediately suspected that his wife had ordered their deaths, and as a punishment he had her dragged through the streets of Caen by the tail of a horse.⁴

This story is of course typical of the salacious novels of the eighteenth century, and it has only the barest relation to the known facts. William did have connections with the abbey of Préaux through his daughter Adeliza, but nothing else about the tale rings true. Indeed, from the point of logistics alone, it would have been impossible, because the locations that Abbé Prévost mentions are too far-flung for the protagonists to have visited on foot. Moreover, the ending is identical to that other scandalous rumor about William and Matilda’s marriage—when the duke returned to Normandy after the conquest of England to discover that his wife had been unfaithful—which in itself is suspicious.

Rather more intriguing is a persistent rumor that resulted from malicious gossip by the wife of Hugh of Grantmesnil, an influential Norman nobleman whom William had appointed governor of Winchester. This lady had “conceived a particular ill-will against her sovereign” and therefore determined to cause trouble for him in Normandy.⁵ She began by circulating reports among the wives of absent Norman nobles that their husbands were being unfaithful during their long sojourns in England. This caused such a furor that many of the husbands in question were obliged to return home and defend themselves, thus creating a void in the government of England.

Lady Grantmesnil then turned on William directly, claiming that the king had tried to seduce her. This story was seized upon by Gytha, mother of the late King Harold, who then sent word of it to the king of Denmark—but not before she had added an embellishment of her own. According to her version of events, William had also tried to seduce the daughter of one of the canons of Canterbury Cathedral. The young girl in question was the niece of a Kentish nobleman named Merleswen, who joined a rebellion (possibly the Kent rebellion of 1067) against the king upon hearing of it.⁶

Such rumors were prevalent, and William of Malmesbury could not resist including some of them in his twelfth-century history of the English kings. No doubt anxious to safeguard his credibility as a chronicler, he derided the “scandal-mongers” who had circulated such stories to begin with, but he repeated them with such relish that he was little better than they. He related the claims that William had “abandoned his early continence when royal power came to him.” The tale that seems to have fired Malmesbury’s imagination the most was that of Merleswen’s niece. He told how William had “wallowed in the embraces” of the sixteen-year-old daughter of a priest, and recounted that when Matilda found out, she was so enraged that she “sent her packing.”⁷ According to his account, the queen then exacted a terrible revenge by having the girl hamstrung—an appallingly cruel practice that involved crippling the victim by cutting the tendons of their legs. The tortures that Matilda was said to have inflicted upon the poor girl grew more grisly with time. A later history of William’s reign claimed that she had ordered her jaws to be slit. This scandalous story was in turn surpassed by the thirteenth-century chronicler Robert of Gloucester, who told how “the priest’s daughter was privily slain by a confidential servant of Matilda, the queen.” To such rumors is added the even more outlandish claim “that the Conqueror was so enraged at the barbarous revenge taken by his consort, that, on his return to Normandy, he beat her with his bridle so severely, that she soon after died.”⁸ He subsequently sent the offending servant into exile.

The idea that Matilda was murdered by her husband is entirely false: her death occurred some years later and is well attested by the sources. Neither is there much reliable evidence to support the rest of Lady Grantmesnil’s story. Her slander, and that of Harold’s mother, was referred to only in sources considerably later than the period in which it was supposed to have happened. None of the contemporary records mention it: indeed, they consistently praise William’s fidelity. Malmesbury himself admitted that the story was “lunacy.”⁹ Even if the king had forsaken his marriage vows, it is unlikely that a woman of Matilda’s dignity and restraint would so far forget herself as to murder a mistress.

It is interesting, though, that both this and the rumor of Matilda’s actions toward Brihtric depict her as a ruthless, vengeful queen, capable of inflicting untold cruelty upon any who crossed her. Even if she was innocent of both crimes, it is possible that the chroniclers may have used these stories as a device to portray a darker side to her character.¹⁰

Despite the rumors, and the undercurrents they might suggest, as the 1070s wore on, Matilda was still performing her role with customary aplomb. As usual, whenever an opportunity presented itself for the ducal couple to reinforce their supremacy, she made sure that they took it. They presided at the dedication ceremonies of three magnificent new churches in 1077, including St.-Évreux and William’s newly completed abbey of St.-Etienne.¹¹ According to Orderic Vitalis, the latter ceremony attracted “an immense multitude of people” and the duke was “puffed up with worldly pride.”¹² Arguably the greatest of these occasions, though, took place in July that year, when Matilda joined her husband at the head of the galaxy of notables from both sides of the Channel who attended the consecration of Odo’s new cathedral at Bayeux. It was a truly dazzling occasion. A man of extravagant tastes, William’s half-brother had not stinted in his creation. Towering columns and exquisite monumental carvings made it one of the most magnificent buildings that western Europe had ever seen. With the queen at the height of her powers, this should have been one of the proudest moments of her life. Among the assembled dignitaries were two of her surviving sons, Robert and William.

Although Matilda had dominated her eldest son during their period as coregents of the duchy, it was still expected that he would one day come into his full inheritance. His status as heir was formally acknowledged on at least two further occasions before 1078, and there is evidence to suggest that he was already being styled “duke” or “count” in some quarters well before his father’s death.¹³ Indeed, William allowed his eldest son to witness charters as “Count Robert” or “Robert Count of the Normans,” which might have been meant to appease him lest he grow impatient to take hold of the duchy.¹⁴

While his titles might for the present have been empty of authority, Robert had little cause to complain. Indeed, he was able to enjoy considerable personal independence during the late 1060s and early 1070s, a period that coincided with his most impressionable teenage years. However, he had built up a military household that included the younger sons of some of the most powerful Norman families. This following, which was described as “a swarm of obsequious sycophants,” flattered his vanity and encouraged the more rebellious aspects of his nature.¹⁵

Moreover, free from the shackles of his father’s overbearing authority, Robert was indulging in a life of excess. His court became notorious for dissolution and debauchery, as etiquette and ceremonials gave way to pleasure and lasciviousness. As well as jesters and other entertainers, his entourage included prostitutes of both sexes. Orderic Vitalis decried the loose morals that existed in Robert’s court and criticized his followers for their effeminate appearance. Their long hair and extravagant clothes contrasted sharply with the clipped military style of the Conqueror’s entourage.¹⁶

Even though Orderic was fond of harking back to an idealized past, the number of references to Robert’s decadent lifestyle suggests that the criticism was at least partly justified. He lavished enormous sums on keeping himself and his courtiers entertained and was said to always accede to requests for money from his “foolish companions.”¹⁷ This implies a gullible, easily led side to his nature, which would have fatal consequences in the years to come.

There are also particular stories that hint at Robert’s licentious behavior. Among them is an account that tells of a woman who arrived at court one day claiming that she had two bastard sons by him. Robert denied this, but when she continued to press her claim, it was decided that she should prove her case by ordeal. If she was willing to undertake the challenge of holding a red-hot iron with her bare hands and abide by her story even while suffering the intense pain that it involved, then it must be true. The woman duly did so, and was judged to be in the right. Robert was forced to acknowledge that the boys were his, and they were subsequently brought up at court.¹⁸

By the time William returned to Normandy in 1072, Robert had developed a dangerous streak of arrogance, together with an overblown sense of his own status and authority. Realizing this, his father was determined to slap him down. Far from involving his eldest son in matters of government as a means of preparing him for the task that lay ahead, William determined to keep him from enjoying any real authority in either Normandy or Maine. As Jumièges observes: “The cause of their disagreement was that King William did not allow his son to act according to his own free will in matters concerning the duchy of Normandy, even though he had appointed him as his heir.”¹⁹ Robert would inherit upon his father’s death, but not before. In the meantime, the only useful function he could serve was as a member of William’s military entourage. Robert bitterly resented this, and by the time of the Bayeux consecration in 1077, simmering resentment had turned into open hostility. During one heated exchange, Robert even accused William of treating him like a hired soldier.²⁰

That there was tension between William and his eldest son was neither surprising nor unusual. Some of the most vicious conflicts in history have involved an heir impatient for power and a father reluctant to give him any. In Robert and William’s case, this friction was heightened by personal antipathy. William had long felt an aversion toward his eldest son, as suggested by the derogatory nickname of “Curthose” that he had coined. This must have rankled with Robert, who was desperate to assert himself as a man to be reckoned with, rather than—as his father seemed to think—a boy to be made fun of.

By contrast, Robert’s two surviving younger brothers were “blessed and favoured” by their father.²¹ The nine-year-old Henry had been accorded a much higher standard of education than any of his brothers. Meanwhile, by 1077, William Rufus, who was in his late teens, had already been allowed to grant many charters on the duke’s behalf. He had perhaps done more to earn this privilege than Robert, for he is portrayed in the contemporary sources as a loyal and compliant son, “always obedient, displaying himself in battle before his [Duke William’s] eyes, and walking by his side in peacetime.”²² Such obvious favoritism must have caused Robert considerable annoyance.

The image of Robert that emerges from most of the contemporary sources appears to justify his father’s dislike. Moreover, his father’s nickname for him seems appropriate: his appearance reflected the rather indulgent lifestyle he enjoyed. As well as being short, he was also rather stocky, and Malmesbury describes him as “pot-bellied.”²³ Orderic Vitalis agrees that he was “short and stout,” and he was often derided as “Gambaron” (fat legs). He goes on to paint him as an ungrateful child who spurned the opportunities his father had given him, and refers to him as a “proud and foolish fellow” who was “reckless” and “extravagant.”²⁴

But Orderic was writing with the benefit of hindsight; knowing that Robert’s life would end in failure made him exaggerate the deficiencies of his character. By contrast, Jumièges, whose account was compiled in the early 1070s, described him as “brilliantly shining in the blossoming flower of his handsome body and his advantageous age” and added the hopeful prediction “may he, with his noble virtue and his name follow the example of his great ancestors in famous works which we hope to describe in many pages.”²⁵ Even Malmesbury concedes that apart from Robert’s small stature, “there was nothing to criticise, for he was neither unattractive in feature nor unready in speech, nor feeble in courage nor weak in counsel.”²⁶ Indeed, Orderic Vitalis at least concedes that he was “talkative … with a clear, cheerful voice and a fluent tongue.”²⁷

It appears, then, that Robert was a complex character: indulged, impetuous, and easily led, he was also gregarious, generous, and brave. All these qualities would have made him popular with the aristocracy—particularly its younger members, many of whom were tired of William’s puritanical, avaricious, and overbearing ways. Orderic Vitalis describes the men who joined Robert’s circle as being “of noble birth and knightly prowess, men of diabolical pride and ferocity terrible to their neighbours, always far too ready to plunge into acts of lawlessness.”²⁸ They included William fitzOsbern’s son and successor, William de Breteuil; Roger, son of Richard fitzGilbert; and Robert of Bellême, the son of William and Matilda’s chief adviser, Roger de Montgomery. Robert had therefore effectively established a rival court to his father’s, filled with members of the new generation eager to oust the old.

The fact that there was such a marked difference in the temperaments of Robert and his father exacerbated the tension that existed between them. But in one trait the two men were united, and that was their military expertise. Malmesbury asserts that by his early teens, Robert was “already a young man of established prowess … his courage was proven.”²⁹ William acknowledged his son’s ability, and it may well have been the only compliment he ever paid him. Ironically, the one quality that the duke admired in Robert would almost cost him his own life.

Matilda’s relationship with her firstborn son formed a dramatic contrast to William’s. From the moment of his birth, she doted upon him. Disregarding the flaws in his character and behavior, she looked with fond maternal pride upon his qualities and skills. The fact that in appearance he was very much his mother’s son may have strengthened the bond between them. The diminutive stature that his father so derided was probably inherited from her, and his handsome looks and engaging manners also owed more to Matilda than to William. It may have been at least partly due to his mother’s indulgence that Robert was able to enjoy such license during the years that his father was in England. If she disapproved of the debauchery and other vices that were reported to her, then she either thought them exaggerated or chose not to act. Certainly her authority as regent on her son’s behalf would have enabled her to curb his excesses if she had wished to.

The tenderness that Matilda showed toward Robert indicates a side of her character that had apparently been repressed in her marriage to William, for the qualities that had marked her actions during these years were all somewhat devoid of emotion. Duty, tact, wisdom, and political guile made her an ideal consort, and her husband had been grateful for it, but she had apparently acted with her head rather than her heart. Where Robert was concerned, the reverse was true. Here we see flashes of the rashness and passion that had incited her as a young woman to offer herself in marriage to a Saxon lord and then spurn the advances of the young duke of Normandy. From the late 1070s, it was feelings such as these, rather than her accustomed shrewdness, that would dictate Matilda’s actions.

In 1077, the first stirrings of serious trouble were felt in William’s family. Now in his fiftieth year, the duke’s character was firmly set. Determination and strength of will had hardened into intolerance and ruthlessness. He was used to getting his own way and hated the unexpected. Up until now, he had controlled his family as he controlled his domains. In contrast to his recalcitrant subjects in England or his overmighty nobles in Normandy, they had been for the most part compliant. Matilda had set the example for their children with her loyalty and conscientiousness, and William might confidently have expected to see out his days surrounded by a submissive and obedient brood.

However, the disregard that William showed for his eldest son blinded him to the seriousness of his resentment. The duke neither cared about nor respected Robert’s wishes with regard to his inheritance. The young man’s followers, eager to share in his glory, encouraged him to press for control of the duchy while his father was still alive. They also stoked his resentment against William by claiming that he was forced to live “in wretched poverty” because “your father’s minions guard the royal treasure so closely that you can scarcely have a penny from it to give to any of your dependents.”³⁰ Robert, “filled with the hot blood of youth” and “the fatal advice of his comrades,” was all too easily fired up by their self-seeking arguments.³¹ He therefore sought an audience with his father and begged him to let him assume the title of duke at once so that he might prove his ability to rule. Assuring his father that he was not prepared to be his “hireling” any longer, he continued: “I ask you therefore to grant me legal control of the duchy, so that, just as you rule over the kingdom of England, I, under you, may rule over the duchy of Normandy.”³² He also demanded possession of the county of Maine, which had been promised to him for some time.

Robert was at least partly justified in expecting his requests to be granted: after all, his father was now king of a new domain—one that had required all his energies ever since he had conquered it eleven years previously. But his proposal elicited a furious response from William, who thundered: “It is not to be borne that he who owes his existence to me should aspire to be my rival in mine own dominions.” Determined to humiliate his upstart son, he laughed at him for thinking that he was capable of leading the duchy, “driving the young man away with jeers in that terrific voice of his.”³³ Robert stormed from the room “in a passion,” his mind set upon revenge.³⁴ If his father would not give him the duchy, then he would take it by force.

Such was William’s scorn for his son that, far from taking this encounter as a warning, he apparently dismissed it from his mind. The idea that he should hand over his duchy to him now was ludicrous. It was bad enough that as his eldest son he would one day inherit it. As William himself once said: “Let no one doubt this for a moment: as long as I live I will surrender my duchy to no one, and will allow no living man to share my kingdom with me.”³⁵

Things came to a head in late 1077 or early 1078, when the ducal family was staying at L’Aigle on the southern border of Normandy.³⁶ William was there on military business, preparing an assault against the recalcitrant lords of the Corbonnais with the assistance of his eldest son and his followers. Robert, however, had chosen to stay in the house of one Roger Cauchois rather than with his own family, who were lodging with a nobleman named Gunher. It is hard to imagine that the castle was not large enough to house the whole of the duke’s family, so this was probably an act of defiance on Robert’s part.

Orderic Vitalis describes the events that unfolded in seductively dramatic detail.³⁷ According to his account, Robert’s younger brothers, William and Henry, went to visit him there, accompanied by the group of rowdy young warriors whose company they often kept. Given the uneasy relations between the brothers, it is likely that this visit was paid out of mischief rather than courtesy. Robert stayed out of their way, preferring to remain outside with his companions. William and Henry, however, went into the upper rooms of Cauchois’ house, which were reserved for the family and important guests, and began to play dice. Their game soon got out of hand, and their wild antics disturbed the peace of the entire household—and no doubt the surrounding dwellings. Keen to goad their brother into a fight, they threw fetid water or urine onto him and his party below.

Robert was outraged. All the resentment he felt toward these young upstarts came spilling out. His fury was stoked by his companions, who told him that he ought not to tolerate such unruly behavior from his younger brothers and added that their occupation of the upper floor was symbolic of their superior place in his father’s favor. “Don’t you see what this means?” they urged. “Even a blind man could. Unless you punish this insult without delay it will be all over with you: you will never be able to hold up your head again.” Intent upon avenging the insult, Robert tore off upstairs in a “towering rage.”³⁸ A furious row ensued with his brothers. The commotion became so loud that somebody must have raised the alarm, for shortly afterward the duke himself arrived to break it up.

An uneasy filial truce followed, but Robert was by no means appeased. The following night, he and his entourage deserted William’s army and stole away from the town. They rode northward to Rouen and attempted to take the castle there by surprise. This was nothing short of treason. Robert’s intention was now clearly to wrest control of the duchy from his father by force. However, this attempt on Rouen was foiled by the vigilant castellan, Roger of Ivry, and Robert had little choice but to hurriedly flee Normandy with his followers.³⁹

Roger of Ivry immediately sent word to the duke. According to Orderic Vitalis, William “flew into a terrible rage, and ordered all the conspirators to be seized.”⁴⁰ Malmesbury presents a rather different version of events, claiming that when the duke heard the news, he merely scoffed: “By God’s resurrection! He’ll be a hero, will our Robin Curthose!”⁴¹ Given the scorn he had always showed toward his eldest son, this is easy to believe. But William would soon have cause to regret his words.

Indeed, Robert had in fact assembled a group of notable allies. Besides the sons of William’s leading nobles, who continued to follow his cause in the hope of personal gain, there were followers drawn from within the establishment. For example, William’s half-brother Odo, who was at this time regent of England, was rumored to have lent a sympathetic ear to his nephew’s complaints. Ever on the lookout for an opportunity to augment his power, Odo surely realized that a division between William and his heir apparent could turn to his own advantage.

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.”⁴² 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.”⁴³ 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.⁴⁴ 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.”⁴⁵ 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.⁴⁶ 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.”⁴⁷ 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.⁴⁸ 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.”⁴⁹ 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.⁵⁰

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.”⁵¹ 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.”⁵²

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.⁵³

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.”⁵⁴ 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.”⁵⁵

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.”⁵⁶ 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.

The stress caused by this rift and consequent demotion seemed to damage Matilda’s health. At around the same time as the debacle with her husband and son, this formerly energetic and robust woman sought a cure for lethargy from “Saint” Adelelme, a former soldier who had begun his religious career at La Chaise-Dieu abbey in southern France. She apparently did so in some secrecy, for the sources indicate only that an anonymous English queen made the request. Edward the Confessor’s queen, Edith, having died in 1075, it could only have been Matilda.

In the late 1070s, Adelelme had become dissatisfied with the monastic life and had moved to the Spanish court at the invitation of Constance of Burgundy, the wife of Alfonso of León—now emperor of a reunited Spain—to whom Matilda’s daughter had once been betrothed. It was while there that he grew famous for performing miracles. Having heard tales of his amazing feats, Matilda dispatched messengers to him pleading that he might bless some bread and send it to her as a cure for her disease. Adelelme resisted at first but eventually sent the bread that she had requested. As soon as Matilda ate it, so the tale goes, she was cured. In gratitude, she tried to reward the abbot with money, but he refused to accept it. She therefore chose a more fitting gift, and sent him a “precious priestly vestment,” together with £100 toward the cost of the monks’ dormitory—equivalent to around £70,000 today.⁵⁷

Left to their own devices, Robert and his followers would probably have languished in exile, frittering away what was left of their money and possessions in a life of excess. But their existence presented an irresistible opportunity for the duke’s enemies to make trouble. The rebels had secured a strategically advantageous base, thanks to Robert of Bellême’s brother-in-law, Hugh de Châteauneuf, who had offered them the use of his castle at Rémalard, just twenty-five miles south of L’Aigle. From here, they—and any supporters they managed to attract—could easily make raids into Normandy. William was quick to retaliate. He bribed Hugh de Châteauneuf’s overlord, Count Rotrou of Mortagne, to support him, and promptly built four fortifications of his own at Rémalard. He also confiscated the estates of his son’s followers and used the revenues from them to swell his forces with mercenaries. The contest was finely balanced. “Now one and now another took up arms either for or against the king. Frenchmen and Bretons, men of Maine and Anjou and other peoples vacillated, not knowing which side they ought to support.”⁵⁸

But Robert had another ace up his sleeve. Once more, this was thanks to his mother. He approached King Philip of France, with whom he could claim kinship on the strength of Matilda’s family connections. The French king was at this time enjoying a resurgence of power and was keen to exploit any opportunity to regain the initiative over his rival, William. He therefore lent a sympathetic ear to Robert’s request for assistance. The very fact that the two men entered into negotiations meant that William could now no longer dismiss his eldest son as a powerless fool.

Robert’s lobbying with the king of France paid off, and in late 1078 Philip granted him the castle of Gerberoy, which was the most powerful fortress on the frontier with southeastern Normandy.⁵⁹ This provided him with a much stronger base from which to plan his campaign, and he soon amassed a considerable body of support from within his father’s duchy by promising riches that he did not possess to any man who would fight on his behalf. He proceeded to lead his augmented rebel forces on a series of raids across the Norman frontier: “he ravaged in Normandy far and often, burnt townships, killed people, and caused his father much trouble and worry,” recorded one chronicler.⁶⁰ Robert’s aim was to prove himself a serious contender to his father and thus draw even more supporters to his cause. The tactic was devastatingly effective. “So Normandy was more sorely vexed by her own people than by strangers, and was eaten away by inward sickness.”⁶¹

The duke was characteristically swift to react. He ordered that all the Norman castles close to Gerberoy should be fortified. In the meantime, he opened his own negotiations with King Philip and persuaded him—no doubt with a substantial bribe—to stay out of the quarrel thenceforth. Then, shortly after Christmas 1078 (which he had probably spent with Matilda at Rouen), he gathered his forces and laid siege to his son’s fortress. For three long weeks he battered the castle with siege engines and trebuchets until Robert and his garrison sallied forth and engaged the duke’s army in battle.

Stoked by fury at his son’s treachery, William—by then in his fifties—fought with more stamina and ferocity than his much younger opponents. His horse was shot from under him, “and he who brought up another for him was straightway shot with a cross-bow.”⁶² Undeterred, William carried on relentlessly, felling opponent after opponent, until he met his match. In the confused mêlée, he encountered one rebel who fought just as fiercely and unyieldingly as himself. Heavily armored, the two men hurled themselves against each other, slashing with their swords. In the struggle, the duke was struck on the hand and fell back, vanquished. His opponent, the first man ever to triumph over the most feared warrior in Europe, was his own son, Robert.

According to the early-twelfth-century chronicler John of Worcester, it was only when William cried out that Robert—horror-struck—grasped the identity of his opponent. He promptly ordered his father to mount his horse “and in this way allowed him to leave.”⁶³ This version of events is possible. Both men would have been heavily armored, and this was the age before heraldic devices identified the major players in a battle. But William was so distinctive by his height, girth (he had grown corpulent in recent years), and overall bearing that it seems inconceivable that his eldest son would have failed to recognize him. Moreover, Robert had been trained by his father since his youth and had fought alongside him in many encounters, so he would have been well used to seeing him heavily clad in armor. Given the by now implacable hatred that he felt toward the man who had taunted him since his youth and restricted his powers in adulthood, the more likely conclusion is that Robert knew full well who his opponent was. But why did he refrain from killing him? That he shrank from the final deed was perhaps due to a dawning realization of the enormity of the act. He would have been murdering not just his father, but his duke and king.⁶⁴

The Battle of Gerberoy marked a turning point in William’s reign. It was the first defeat he had suffered, either in Normandy or England, since the revolts of Le Mans and York in 1069. The fact that it was inflicted upon him by his own son made it even harder to bear. It is a testament to the humiliation that William felt that all subsequent accounts of the battle were strictly censored. The authors of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, for example, went too far. Although claiming, “We do not want, though, to write more here of the harm which he [did] his father,” they evidently went on to do so, because that part of the manuscript was cut away.⁶⁵ Malmesbury was more tactful, portraying the encounter as an unfortunate blot upon William’s otherwise flawless military career. He admits, though, that the duke’s troops suffered “heavy casualties.”⁶⁶ Among the wounded was Robert’s younger brother, William Rufus, who had shown his loyalty toward their father by entering the fray on his side. The apparently tight-knit family unit that had once been the envy of Europe had unraveled with alarming speed.

In the immediate aftermath of the battle, William retreated to Rouen, while Robert again fled into exile—possibly to his mother’s homeland of Flanders. Even though he had won a significant victory over his father, the mighty duke was far from vanquished, and Robert knew that he would be thirsting for his blood. Matilda was deeply distressed by what had happened. If she allowed herself to rejoice secretly at her beloved son’s victory over her husband, her joy was overshadowed by the sorrow that she felt at his continued exile. She was also terrified of what the future might hold for him: William, if he were to capture his son, would be fully justified in putting him to death. His reaction to the pleas of his counsels to restore peace suggests that he was quite prepared to do so. “Which of my ancestors from the time of Rollo ever had to endure such hostility from any child of his as I do?” he demanded angrily. “He would not hesitate, if he could, to stir up the whole human race against me and slay me and you as well. According to divine law, given to us through Moses, he is deserving of death.”⁶⁷

Orderic claims that after failing to persuade her husband to relent toward Robert, Matilda fretted desperately and resorted to increasingly odd measures to gain reassurance. For instance, shortly after the Battle of Gerberoy, it was rumored that she sent gifts via her messengers to a famous hermit in Germany, held to be a prophet, imploring him to pray for her husband and son and asking him what should befall them.

The hermit whom Matilda had consulted “received the messengers of this great lady courteously” and requested three days to prepare his reply. When the stated time had elapsed, he sent for the men and told them of a troubling vision he had had that augured ill for the future of Normandy. He had seen a meadow, “fairly decked with grass and flowers,” in which a “highly-mettled horse” was grazing. All around stood a great herd of cattle, longing to feed from the same meadow, but they were driven off by the horse. However, “the brave and stately steed suddenly fell down dead” and the herd at once rushed in and “greedily devoured its former beauty without fear of the defender.” The hermit explained that the meadow signified Normandy and the grass its people, “who enjoy peace and abundance of goods in it.” The horse represented William, and the greedy cattle were the French, Bretons, Angevins, Flemings, “and other frontier peoples, who are jealous of the prosperity of Normandy, and are eager to seize some of its riches as wolves their prey.” The hermit foretold that after William’s death, Robert would succeed to the duchy, whereupon “enemies from all sides” would invade the land and devour its riches, and “disregarding its foolish ruler” would “trample all Normandy contemptuously under foot.”

The fate that the hermit predicted for Robert must have grieved his mother sorely. He claimed that the young man would “give himself up to lust and indolence” and would plunder the wealth of the church in order to distribute it among his lecherous followers. “In Robert’s duchy catamites⁶⁸ and effeminates will govern, and under their rule vice and wretchedness will abound … Towns and villages will be burned … and many thousands of men will be destroyed by fire and sword.” In conclusion, he told Matilda’s messengers that under her son’s leadership, Normandy, “who once so proudly lorded it over her conquered neighbours will now, under a foolish and idle duke, be despised, and will long and wretchedly lie at the mercy of the swords of her neighbours. The weak duke will enjoy no more than an empty title, and a swarm of nobodies will dominate both him and the captive duchy, bringing ruin to many.” The hermit ended by offering Matilda the cold comfort that she herself would not live to see the evils that would befall Normandy, for she would die before her husband. She would therefore be spared “the misfortunes of your son,” which would lead to “the desecration of your beloved land.”⁶⁹

The existence of the prophet is at best dubious. It is more likely that the whole tale and the reported vision was a means by which Orderic, with hindsight, was able to vent his disapproval of Robert’s failings and of the disaster that his later rule would prove to be. None of the other sources refer to Matilda’s exchange with the hermit, and it seems unlikely that a woman renowned for her shrewdness and wisdom would resort to such a whimsical strategy. But while the details of the prophecy may owe more to Orderic’s poetic license than to reality, it is possible that Matilda did seek the help of mystics during what was arguably the greatest crisis of her life. This was, of course, an age dominated by superstition, and Matilda was by no means immune to it, as had been proved on various occasions in the past—notably when her husband was preparing to invade England. Fortune telling—or divination—was widely used by people at all levels of society who were anxious to perceive, and thus avoid, potential harm to either themselves or a loved one.

For Matilda, Robert’s rebellion, and William’s unbending refusal to forgive him, was a moment as crucial as the Conquest. It forced her to make a choice between marital and maternal loyalty. The situation was further complicated by the fact that another of her sons, William Rufus, had sided with her husband. It was a scenario for which there was no clear script, and it would take all of Matilda’s shrewdness and tenacity to survive the bitter aftermath of the conflict.