APPENDIX F
No estimate of early Norman history or of the character of William the Conqueror can afford to neglect the possibility that poisoning was rife in the duchy in his time. Steenstrup in fact called attention to this point, and examined some of the testimony which relates to it.1 Nevertheless, the subject invites further consideration in this place. Among the persons intimately connected with Norman history who are alleged to have perished by poison are the Dukes Richard III and Robert I; Alan III and Conan II, counts of Brittany; Walter, count of the Vexin, and Biota his wife; Robert, son of Geré; Arnold of Échauffour; and Gilbert, brother of Roger II of Montgomery. The list is, indeed, astonishing, and if it reflected the truth it would throw a lurid light on Norman conditions. The subject has therefore its own importance, and its consideration may have some relevance to the development of Anglo-Norman chronicles. It merits, therefore, some examination.
Duke Richard III's death is attributed to poison by William of Jumièges, albeit with a certain reservation: ‘ Many people say that he died from poison.’2 And William of Malmesbury in due course elaborates this by adding that the instigator of the crime was Duke Robert I: ‘There is certainly a widespread rumour that he was poisoned with the connivance of his brother Robert.’3 The same story is given in the Gesta Consulum Andegavorum4 – and it appears once (but only once) in the numerous references to Duke Richard III in the History of Ordericus Vitalis.5 The evidence that a crime was committed cannot therefore be regarded as strong, and weaker still is the testimony that Duke Robert was the culprit. On the other hand, it deserves emphasis that a belief that poison was here used was current at a very early date, for the assertion appears in Adémar of Chabannes, who wrote before William of Jumièges, and indeed very shortly after the event. He baldly states: ‘Richard succeeded [to the duchy of Normandy] … and not long after he perished by poison.’6
Duke Robert I died at the Bythinian Nicaea on one of the first three days of July 1035; and some time before 1060 it was being reported that he had been poisoned. The author of the Miracula S. Wulframni remarks (again with some reservation): ‘As we are told, he died from poison at Nicaea.’7 Later, William of Malmesbury, relying apparently on some rumour which convinced him, not only repeated the story, but added to it many circumstantial details:
On his return home, Robert ended his life at Nicaea, a city of Bythinia. He died, it is said, by poison administered to him by an official named Ralph Mowin. This Ralph committed the crime in the hope of obtaining the dukedom, but when he came home his offence became known, and, shunned by all, he departed into exile.8
Both the name of the alleged culprit and the motive ascribed to him prompt the liveliest scepticism, and it is noteworthy that Rodulf Glaber, who was much nearer the event and who was himself deplorably avid of scandal, never mentions venom in connexion with the death of Duke Robert I.9 It was left to Wace and his successors to develop the tale.10
Alan III, count of Brittany, died as it seems on 1 October 1040, and Ordericus, three times in his History, asserts that he was poisoned.11 The story was later to be repeated, but I have found no reference to it before the time of Ordericus, and its credibility would seem further to be weakened by the treatment accorded by Ordericus to the death of Alan's son, Conan II. Here he twice suggests that Conan also was poisoned and at the instigation of Duke William himself. Thus in his History he makes the rebels of 1075 state that Duke William ‘poisoned Conan, the valiant count’,12 and in an interpolation to William of Jumièges he expands the story yet further. Conan is here alleged to have refused to join the expedition in 1066 because of the poisoning of his father, Alan, by the Normans at Vimoutiers, and ‘when Duke William heard this he was much troubled’:
But God soon deigned to free him from the threat of his enemies. For one of the Breton lords who was a vassal both of Conan and William, and who acted as an intermediary between them, smeared with poison Conan's hunting horn, the reins of his horse, and his gloves. … Conan was at this time laying siege to Château-Gonthier. … Having put on his gloves and touched the reins of his horse, he unfortunately raised his hands to his lips, and thus became infected with poison. He died soon afterwards. … The man who had betrayed him, seeing that his purpose had been achieved, left Conan's force and went to tell Duke William of his death.13
The tale itself hardly commands credence, and it seems unsupported by any adequate testimony. Moreover, Conan did not die until 11 December 1066;14 that is to say, considerably after the expedition to England had taken palace. His death is concisely recorded in the necrology of Chartres Cathedral: III Idus Decembris: Obit Conanus Britannorum comes.15
The case of Walter, count of the Vexin, and his wife Biota presents somewhat similar features. This man, who was nephew to Edward the Confessor, married a daughter of Herbert ‘Wake-Dog’, count of Maine, and in due course laid claim to Maine against Duke William.16 Thereupon (says Ordericus) ‘… the noble duke attacked the rebels, and while the warfare was continuing with varying fortunes, Walter and Biota his wife died as a result, it is said, of poison treacherously given them by their enemies’.17 The caution of ‘as they say’ should be noted, and also the discretion with which Ordericus here refrains from assigning the crime specifically to the duke. Nevertheless, he makes the particular accusation through the mouths of the rebellious earls of 1075 who are made to declare of Duke William: ‘He caused to perish by poison on one and the same night Walter, count of Pontoise, nephew of King Edward, and Biota his wife, and this while they were both his guests at Falaise.’18 Though M. Latouche accepts the story at its face value,19 it may be doubted whether Ordericus himself fully believed in the tale, which in any case is out of character and otherwise unconfirmed.
When individually considered, all these accounts tend to invite scepticism to a greater or lesser degree. There is a similar pattern to be discerned in many of them, and often the earliest mention of venom is accompanied by some phrase suggesting uncertainty. It is not quite true to say with Steenstrup20 that all the accounts are somewhat late, for the testimony of Adémar of Chabannes and the Miracula S. Wulframni as cited above is reasonably early. None the less, it is from the twelfth century that most of the stories of eleventh-century Normandy poisonings derive. Moreover, the practice of Ordericus in becoming more definite in the words he puts into the mouths of his characters than when speaking in his own person is also significant. Nor should the lamentable conditions of eleventh-century hygiene and eleventh-century diet be forgotten in considering the bodily disorders of that age. The dysentery which afflicted the army of William the Conqueror after Hastings is easily explicable, and sometimes (as may be suspected) a less criminal interpretation than that of deliberate poisoning can be placed on some of these deaths from illness. The last hours of King Henry I were described in almost embarrassing detail.21 His death was evidently due to a commonplace mishap: a dose of purgative physic, honestly if over-enthusiastically prescribed, carelessly dispensed and injudiciously administered – a routine hazard, at all times, of any sick-bed.
Yet, if it would be hard to find any particular case of alleged poisoning in eleventh-century Normandy where the evidence is wholly convincing, the frequency with which this accusation was made must of itself challenge attention. It might almost seem that any writer on Norman affairs was prone to attribute to venom any sudden death that could not be explained by reference to more obvious violence, and the regularity with which this was done invites comment.
It is here that a comparison with contemporary England becomes instructive. Here an accusation of poisoning was very rare. There were, moreover, between 1042 and 1057 at least three notable and sudden deaths in England which might have invited suspicion, and would undoubtedly have done so if they had occurred in Normandy. These were the deaths of Harthacnut, of the atheling Edward, and of Earl Godwine. Concerning Harthacnut, two versions of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle remark:
[Harthacnut] was standing at his drink, and he suddenly fell to the ground with fearful convulsions, and those who were near caught him, and he spoke no word afterwards. He died on 8 June.22
Here, as will be seen, there is no suggestion of poisoning, and the account falls rather into line with an earlier tradition of continental writing, as when Richer of Rheims attributed the death of Duke Richard I of Normandy in 996 to ‘the minor apoplexy’.23 And even more significant was the case of the atheling Edward whose death occurred suddenly after his return to England in 1057, and in circumstances which undoubtedly contained an element of mystery:
We do not know for what reason it was brought about that he was not allowed to visit his kinsman King Edward. Alas, that was a miserable fate and grievous to all his people that he so speedily ended his life after he came to England – to the misfortune of this poor realm.24
The author is puzzled, but the obvious temptation to speak of venom (which few Norman writers would have repelled) is here firmly resisted.
There remains the case of Earl Godwine whose death in 1053 occurred in circumstances which might have seemed to call for an accusation of venenation. The Vita Edwardi Regis, however, merely remarks: ‘There died the earl of happy memory.’25 But the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle is fuller:
On Easter Monday, as he was sitting with the king at a meal he suddenly sank towards the footstool bereft of speech, and deprived of all his strength. Then he was carried to the king's private room, and they thought it was about to pass off. But it was not so. On the contrary, he continued like this without speech or strength right on to the Thursday, and then departed this life.26
Such are the earliest accounts, and they voice no suspicion of foul play. Nor does any such appear in the twelfth-century elaboration which Ailred of Rievaulx supplies in a remarkable passage which for more than one reason merits some attention:
One day which was a popular festival, the king was sitting at table, and Earl Godwine was in the royal company. During dinner a waiter in his haste struck one foot against some obstacle, and nearly fell. But advancing his other foot, he recovered his balance, and remaining upright, he suffered no mishap. Many of those present exclaimed at the incident saying how right it was that one foot should help another. The earl jokingly cried out:’ So should one brother help another, and a man support his friend in time of need.’ To which the king, turning towards him, immediately replied: ‘So would my brother have helped me if Godwine had allowed it.’ At this Godwine turned pale, and with a distorted countenance he exclaimed: ‘Well do I know O king that in your mind you hold me guilty of your brother's death. Well do I know, also, that you do not disbelieve those who say I was a traitor to him and to you. But let God who knows all secrets be my judge! May this crust which I hold in my hand pass through my throat and leave me unharmed to show that I was guiltless of treason towards you, and that I was innocent of your brother's death!’ He spoke; and putting the crust into his mouth he thrust it into the midst of his gullet. He tries to push it further and cannot. He then tries to pull it out but it sticks ever more firmly. The passage of his breathing soon becomes choked; his eyes turn up; and his limbs grow rigid. The king watches him die thus miserably, and, conscious that the divine vengeance has been fulfilled, he says to those standing by: ‘Drag out that dog.’27
The description, whose dramatic power may appear even in a translation, is an obvious elaboration connected with the developing cult of Saint Edward.28 On the other hand, certain of the details, notably the picture of the tripping waiter and the jokes which followed his mishap, possess an actuality which it is hard to ascribe to pure imagination. What, however, is important, in the present context, is that in all these accounts of the death of an English magnate when feasting in hostile company, there is no suggestion whatever of poison having been either contemplated or administered. The contrast with the narratives relating to Normandy is very striking.
Why then was the suspicion of poison so readily entertained respecting any sudden death in eleventh-century Normandy whereas, in respect of England there was apparently little disposition to indulge in these accusations? Was it because the fear of venom was, during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, wider spread in the duchy than in the kingdom? And was there any special justification for these apprehensions in Normandy?
Perhaps certain stories related by Ordericus Vitalis have some relevance to any attempt to answer these questions. Thus of Robert, son of Geré, who died in 1060, he says:
He was at table, and snatched an apple which his wife held. It was poisoned, and he died five days after eating it.29
And, later, Ordericus expatiates on this fatal consequence of such deplorable table-manners:
One day when [Robert son of Geré] was sitting happily by the fire, he watched his wife, Adelaide, holding in her hand four apples. He playfully snatched two of these from her, and ignorant that they were poisoned, he ate them despite his wife's protests. The poison soon took effect – and after five days he died.30
Whatever the insinuation, there is no necessary implication of foul play in a death following the over-hasty eating of rotten apples. But another story from Ordericus is more sinister. Mabel of Bellême, wife of Roger II of Montgomery (we are told), plotted to poison her husband's enemy, Arnold of Échauffour. She prepared the lethal dose, and placed it in readiness. But Gilbert, her husband's brother, returning heated from riding, drained off the poisoned goblet, and in consequence perished. Nor was this all. After this abortive attempt which ended so disastrously, Mabel is stated to have bribed the chamberlain (cubicularius) of Arnold, and entrusted to him poisons to be offered to his master. This time her plans were successful, with the result that, ‘after some days’, Arnold died.31
To accept these tales at their face value would indeed be rash. But it might be possible to underestimate their significance. Ordericus, if credulous, was neither malicious nor a liar; and these accounts concerned people of whom he had special knowledge. Both Arnold of Échauffour and Robert, son of Geré, played an important part in the history of Saint-Évroul where Ordericus was a monk, and Ordericus had himself been brought up in the household of Mabel's husband, Roger II of Montgomery, where his father held a position of trust.32 Ordericus may even, when a boy at Shrewsbury, have seen Mabel of Bellême of whom he paints a convincing portrait. It is thus noteworthy that he did not expect such stories concerning the wife and brother of his father's lord to be received with incredulity or with indignation. They evidently did not appear either to Ordericus or to his readers as too monstrous to be believed.
In this connexion it is perhaps relevant to repeat another story relating to the family of Montgomery in which poisoning is neither mentioned nor implied. The Lady Mabel (we are told) was wont constantly to visit the abbey of Saint-Évroul with an over-large retinue which she expected to be lavishly entertained. The abbot's protests were disregarded, and at length:
[the abbot] warned her that such folly must stop. To this Mabel angrily replied: ‘When next I come my retinue will be much more numerous.’ Whereupon the abbot said: ‘Believe me, unless you repent of this wickedness you will suffer something you don't like.’ And so it happened. For that very night she suddenly became ill and began to suffer great pain. Immediately she caused herself to be carried out of the abbey, and hurrying from the estates of Saint-Évroul she passed by the house of a certain man called Roger Suisnar. She ordered that his baby girl should be made to suck her paps which were causing her particular pain. This was done. The baby gave suck, and soon afterwards died. … But Mabel got better and returned to her own home.33
The story is highly coloured, but circumstantial physical details perhaps carry some conviction. It would, doubtless, be uncharitable to suppose that the abbot had doctored the lady's supper,34 but the possibility cannot be wholly set aside.
A review of the available evidence may therefore suggest that in no case is it safe to accept without the utmost reserve any assertion that a particular Norman magnate during the earlier half of the eleventh century perished as a result of deliberate poisoning. Each surviving accusation when individually tested fails to carry conviction. On the other hand, the exceptional frequency with which such accusations were made respecting Normandy (by contrast, for example, with England) deserves note. It might even suggest that such crimes were held to be possible, and might even be expected. Did an apprehension of venom haunt the households of the Norman aristocracy between 1035 and 1066 when Normandy was rising to greatness in the age of William the Conqueror, Lanfranc, and Saint Anselm?35
1 Normandiets Historie, p. 284.
2 Will. Jum., p. 100.
3 Gesta Regum, p. 211.
4 Ed. Halphen and Poupardin, p. 50.
5 Ord. Vit., vol. II, p. 366.
6 Ed. Ghavanon, p. 189.
7 Soc. Hist. Norm., Mélanges, vol. XIV (1938), p. 47.
8 Gesta Regum, p. 212.
9 Ed. Prou, p. 108.
10 Roman de Rou (ed. Andresen), vol. II, p. 159; Benoit (ed. Michel), vol. II, p. 574.
11 Ord. Vit., vol. II pp. 252, 369; vol. III, p. 225.
12 Ibid., vol. II, p. 259.
13 Will. Jum. (ed. Marx), pp. 193, 194.
14 Lobineau, Histoire de Bretagne, vol. I, p. 97.
15 Cart. Notre-Dame de Chartres, vol. III, p. 220.
16 Above, pp. 174, 175.
17 Ord. Vit., vol. II, p. 102.
18 Ibid., vol. II, p. 259.
19 Comté du Maine, p. 34.
20 Op. cit., p. 290.
21 Ord. Vit., vol. II, p. 79; interp. Will. Jum., p. 185.
22 AS. Chron., ‘C’, ‘D’, s.a. 1042.
23 Ed. Waitz (1877), p. 180.
24 AS. Chron., ‘D’, s.a. 1057.
25 Ed. Barlow, p. 30.
26 AS. Chron., ‘C’, s.a. 1053.
27 Historiae Anglicanae Scriptores X (Twysden), 1632, cols. 294, 395.
28 See F. Barlow, Vita Edwardi regis. Appendix ‘D’.
29 Ord. Vit., vol. II, p. 28.
30 Ord. Vit., vol. II, p. 73.
31 Ibid., vol. II, pp. 106, 107.
32 Ibid., vol. II, pp. 220, 416–420.
33 Ibid., vol. II, pp. 52, 53.
34 Cf. G. H. White, R. Hist. Soc., Transactions, series 4, vol. XXII, p. 87.
35 The subject of medieval poisoning is inexhaustible, and its fascination has to be experienced to be believed. I cannot, however, risk robbing my readers of possible entertainment by failing to cite O. Sheperd, The Lore of the Unicorn (1930), or the fantastic but erudite Chronicles of the House of Borgia (1901), written as was said by ‘Baron Corvo’, but in reality by Frederick Rolfe in circumstances that are felicitously described by A. J. A. Symons in The Quest for Corvo (1935).