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Visit Bayeux in the height of summer, and you’ll be confronted by crowds. The town may be home to only 14,000 people, but it receives that number of visitors many times over each summer. Some come for the well-preserved Gothic cathedral, others for the Museum of the Battle of Normandy. But the biggest draw is to be found in a dimly lit but well apportioned room in the Musée de la Tapisserie, in the heart of the town. Here the crowds are thick and you’re advised to arrive early. Pay your entrance, join the growing queue, and soon enough, you’ll be confronted by a treasure far greater than any manuscript, war memorial or cathedral.
This is, of course, the Bayeux Tapestry. Despite its modern designation, the Tapestry is an embroidery, produced in the final third of the eleventh century to commemorate the dramatic events of 1066. By far the most iconic monument to the Conquest, it adorns objects from ties to greeting cards the world over. It’s also the medium through which thousands of school children learn about William and the Norman Conquest every year, in Britain and beyond. Consciously or not, the Tapestry frames the way we all think about these events. It has, therefore, attracted the interest of hundreds of scholars, from dyed-in-the-wool historians to literary critics and art historians. Scarcely a year passes without a new interpretation being offered.
Yet for all its fame, we know remarkably little about the Tapestry’s early history. Our first record of its existence comes from an inventory of 1476 from Bayeux. At this point, the Tapestry was being displayed annually at the cathedral for eight days (the octave) before the Feast of the Relics (5 November), a tradition alive as late as 1728. Thereafter, the Tapestry led a rather chequered existence. It narrowly escaped destruction during the French Revolution and was almost carted off to Berlin by the Nazis in the Second World War. Thankfully, it emerged from these scrapes (largely) unscathed, finding its present home at the Musée de la Tapisserie in 1983, where it has welcomed over 14 million visitors.1
Tapestries and embroideries were extremely popular in medieval Europe. They adorned the walls of castles and noble residences, commemorating past feats and inspiring future ones. Yet in scale and ambition, the Tapestry exceeds all other surviving textiles of the era. In its present form, it stretches to an imposing 68 m (or 224 feet). And since a number of scenes have been lost towards the end, it must once have exceeded this. Given the scale of the enterprise, it’s scarcely surprising that those responsible chose to produce it as an embroidery rather than a woven tapestry. Embroideries are sewn directly onto a background, making them much quicker to produce, if no less elegant in the right hands.
Our knowledge of the Tapestry is fragmentary, much like the textile itself. Part of the problem is that we know so little about its early history. It was almost certainly produced in England but has been in Bayeux more or less continually since 1476. And the presumption is that it arrived there probably early in the reign of the Conqueror (and certainly before the loss of Normandy by King John in 1204). There are many conceivable routes by which the Tapestry may have been passed to the cathedral, but by far the most likely intermediary is Bishop Odo, the Conqueror’s half-brother and close associate.
The key evidence for Odo’s involvement comes from the Tapestry itself. Its artwork reveals close associations with manuscript illumination from Canterbury; and the most likely place of production (or at least artistic inspiration) is the abbey of St Augustine there.2 We are thus dealing with an artwork produced within Odo’s Kentish earldom, celebrating the Conquest, and preserved at his cathedral. Recent work suggests that the tapestry’s original dimensions would have fitted perfectly into the nave of the new eleventh-century cathedral church at Bayeux, just behind the choir screen.3 It was probably designed for display there, by someone who knew the dimensions of the cathedral well. We know that Odo enjoyed good relations with the monks of St Augustine’s – unlike the neighbouring cathedral canons of Christ Church, with whom he repeatedly locked horns – making his patronage all but certain.
Just as significant is the narrative presented within the Tapestry. Odo is far more prominent here than in any other account of the Conquest. Only the Tapestry presents Odo playing a leading part in preparations for the invasion, and it’s also unique in having Harold swear his oath to Duke William at Bayeux (other sources place this at Bonneville-sur-Touques or Rouen). The Tapestry is likewise alone in depicting Odo’s involvement at the Battle of Hastings, where he helps steady the ranks at the decisive moment when the first Norman cavalry charge is repulsed. And if that weren’t enough, three of Odo’s tenants are mentioned by name in the text: Turold, Wadard and Vitalis. Besides the mysterious Ælfgyva (Ælfgifu), these are the only minor figures to be named.4
The production of the Tapestry must post-date the Battle of Hastings and presumably precedes 1082, the year Odo would be politically disgraced. Given the likelihood that it was designed for display at Bayeux, it was probably produced shortly before or after the consecration of the new cathedral there in 1077. This period falls conveniently within the abbacy of Scotland (1072–87) at St Augustine’s in Canterbury, the first Norman abbot of the abbey. Scotland had previously been a monk at Mont-Saint-Michel, a monastery with its own proud tradition of artwork and manuscript illumination, and has long been identified as the probable artistic vision behind the composition.5
In many respects, the Tapestry is an encomiastic account of the Conquest, a propaganda piece which compares well with the narratives of Guy of Amiens and (in particular) William of Poitiers. It’s clearly designed to celebrate the events it depicts, opening with Harold’s Norman expedition of c.1064 and closing (probably) with William’s coronation on Christmas Day 1066. At a number of junctures, it takes the ‘Norman’ line on events, presenting Harold early on swearing a solemn oath to William (at Bayeux!) and having the controversial Stigand preside over Harold’s later coronation. Other details also speak of Norman sympathies. William is presented in exalted terms throughout; and the depiction of the duke’s efforts to stem the flight of his cavalry, lifting his helm and addressing his men, closely recalls the accounts of William’s Norman panegyrists.
At other points, however, the Tapestry reveals more ‘English’ sympathies. William may be the star of the show, but the focus is largely on Harold, at least in the extant sections: the Tapestry opens with the earl’s expedition to Normandy and then follows Harold back to Edward’s side, only returning to Normandy after Harold’s accession. And Harold himself is depicted with a sympathy entirely out of step with our other Norman narratives. On the Breton campaign, he heroically saves one of William’s men, earning knighthood at the duke’s hands – details recorded by neither William of Poitiers nor William of Jumièges. More significantly, the artists and designer leave no doubt that Harold was a bona fide king. In his final hours, Edward is presented conferring with his wife and leading men, then reaching out and touching Harold’s hand in what is apparently an act of designation. This closely recalls the account in the Life of Edward the Confessor, commissioned by Queen Edith (Harold’s sister) and completed in the years following the Conquest. (So closely, in fact, that it may rely on this.) And while Stigand’s presence at the ensuing coronation may subtly undercut this act, Harold is accorded the full royal title (Latin: rex) throughout.
In fact, what impresses most about the Tapestry is its studied ambiguity. In part, this is a function of its form. As a visual depiction, only furnished with minimal narrative gloss, it is open to interpretation. Take Harold’s famous oath. Viewers acquainted with the tales spun at the ducal court would swiftly see this as confirmation of the Norman version of events: here Harold promises William the English throne. Yet the Tapestry does not actually say this, and the accompanying text simply states that ‘Harold made an oath’ (but concerning what?). The Tapestry thus looks both ways. This can also be seen in the scene of Edward’s death and Harold’s consecration. A Norman audience would have been quick to read this as a coup on Harold’s part, the terrible consequences of which are soon presaged by the appearance of Haley’s Comet.6 Yet an English audience might simply see Edward’s designation of Harold and the latter’s ill-fated (but entirely lawful) accession.
Of all the accounts of 1066, the Tapestry is probably the most important – and certainly the most compelling. Precisely because of its visual form, it furnishes details that no written narrative can. Thanks to it, we know of the English custom of sporting long moustaches and the Norman preference for shaving the lower part of the hair, immediately above the neck. The Tapestry also furnishes precious evidence for the early Romanesque abbey at Westminster. The most famous (and controversial) scene of all is that of Harold’s death. The difficulty here is that two figures are shown at the decisive moment: first, a man standing, clutching what seems to be an arrow in his eye; and second, a man who’s in the midst of being cut down by a mounted horseman. Above the first is written the name ‘Harold’, while above the second are the words ‘was killed’ (Latin: interfectus est). Normally, we might expect other sources to come to our aid here. But they, too, are divided on the nature of Harold’s death. The earliest account (that in the Carmen) has him cut down by a group of William’s leading magnates, led by the duke himself. The next to provide any detail, Amatus of Montecassino (c.1080), has the famous arrow-in-the-eye story. To make matters worse, this section of the Tapestry has been heavily restored. It’s conceivable that the first figure originally had a spear or javelin in his eye (rather than an arrow) – but if so, it’s hard to explain why so many early written sources report an arrow.
A popular solution has been to accept and combine both reports. Harold was first struck by an arrow in the eye, then cut down by a cavalry charge led by the duke. Yet no written source reports a two-fold death scene, and there are grounds to doubt that this is what the Tapestry’s designers had in mind either. To start with the obvious, the two dying figures are depicted very differently. The falling man’s socks are of a different colour from those of the figure with an arrow to the eye; and the former bears a shield and spear, while the latter has just dropped an axe. Unless we are to imagine a mid-death wardrobe and weapon change, it’s hard to believe that these are indeed meant to be the same man. Which of the two is Harold is, of course, the million-pound question. While certainty is impossible, there remains a strong case in favour of the man with the arrow in his eye. It is his head which interrupts the name Harold in the text; and it is he whose fate mirrors that reported in the largest number of early sources, including Baudri of Bourgueil, who was writing for William’s own daughter Adela.7
The search for a single solution may, in any case, be misguided. Medieval battles were chaotic affairs and few of those present at Hastings would have had any idea what was going on outside their immediate field of vision. It’s entirely possible no-one knew who’d been responsible for Harold’s death or how it had transpired.8 Yet because this was the decisive moment of the battle, competing tales soon emerged to fill this gap.
If the Tapestry has much to tell us about the events of 1066, it has even more to say about the career and ambitions of Odo, its patron. As noted, Odo was William’s half-brother, probably the first child born of Herleva’s marriage to Herluin, the viscount of Conteville. It’s clear that Herluin and Herleva were figures of independent means; and throughout his reign, William drew readily on the support they and their children (his half-siblings) proffered. An early vote of confidence was the appointment of Odo to the strategic see of Bayeux in 1049, and Odo remained one of William’s most trusted supporters over the next three decades.
As his early elevation to episcopal dignity revealed, Odo was not a world-shy prelate. He was a courtier bishop, a man equally comfortable in secular and ecclesiastical circles. This is not to say that Odo was not pious after a fashion: he donated generously to the Church and oversaw an impressive building programme at Bayeux. But he combined religious and secular duties in a manner later reformers would find troubling. For William, this was a boon. Odo had been appointed to help secure ducal authority in the Bessin; from the start, it was his job to be active beyond the cathedral cloisters.
We know little of Odo’s early activities, but all indications are that he performed them well. Orderic Vitalis reports that he and Guy of Ponthieu were the commanders during the conquest of Le Talou, Bray and the Pays de Caux in 1054.9 And Odo starts coming into sharper focus during the Hastings campaign. The Tapestry may exaggerate his role here, but other sources confirm that he played an important part. Ducal charters place Odo in regular attendance on William during the spring and summer of 1066, often alongside his younger brother Robert of Mortain.10 And the list of the ships supplied to William at this point records that Robert and Odo furnished 120 and 100 vessels respectively – more than any other Norman magnate. (By comparison, Roger de Montgomery and Roger de Beaumont – two of William’s longest-standing allies – only provided sixty each.)11
Odo was one of two Norman bishops to march with the army, the other being Geoffrey of Coutances. Together, they were William’s spiritual advisers during the campaign. The Tapestry presents Odo blessing the first meal the army enjoyed upon arrival in England. And William of Poitiers famously reports that Odo and Geoffrey jointly celebrated Mass on the morning of the fateful battle. Whether Odo’s involvement extended beyond the spiritual sphere is less clear, however. The Tapestry presents Odo alongside William steadying the ranks, when the first cavalry charge wavered. And it’s often been suggested that he wields a mace here in order to circumvent Church restrictions on clerical combat and bloodshed. Yet the Tapestry is careful not to depict Odo as part of the mêlée and he’s simply said to have ‘comforted the lads’ in the accompanying text – an act of encouragement, not of combat. Moreover, the object Odo brandishes is not a mace but a staff (or at least so the text claims), the traditional symbol of episcopal authority. But if Odo is not in the midst of the fray, he certainly is wearing armour and a helmet – indeed, he has to be labelled here because we cannot see his distinctive tonsure. And there may well be an element of studied ambiguity, since the same type of staff (or perhaps mace, after all?) is also wielded by Duke William at points in the battle. These were not the bishop’s first military manoeuvres, nor would they be his last.12
Following the Conquest, Odo was generously rewarded for his service. In the Domesday Survey, he is England’s wealthiest magnate after William. And as earl of Kent he controlled the strategic castle of Dover, overlooking the sea passage to Boulogne, the home of the restless Count Eustace.13 The D version of the Chronicle presents Odo as one of William’s de facto regents in 1067, when the duke returned to Normandy.
Like his elder half-brother, Odo directed much of the wealth won in England back to his Norman homeland. He probably embarked on his ambitious building project at Bayeux before departure; but it’s only in the years following 1066 that the new cathedral began to take shape. Relations with William remained strong; and in the summer of 1080, Odo led a force to ravage the region between Tees and Tyne on the king’s behalf.
Such evidence of continuing cooperation makes Odo’s sudden downfall in 1082 all the more surprising. In this year, the bishop is said to have been deposed from his earldom in Kent, deprived of his English lands and imprisoned at the ducal capital of Rouen. Odo’s betrayal apparently lay in syphoning off men from William’s service, in order to pursue his own ambitions on the papal throne. It’s difficult to credit these reports. But the sources nearest the events all agree. And the only alternative explanation, offered by Guibert of Nogent, is even less credible: Guibert has Odo deposed for seeking to deprive William himself of the crown.14 What connects all these reports, however, is that they have Odo brought down by his own pride.
Like William, Odo was an unusually ambitious man, willing to risk everything for fame and fortune. Odo was well aware that his countrymen had been making inroads into southern Italy in recent years, and he may have hoped to find support for his prospective papacy from these circles. More to the point, there were worrying signs for him in England. By 1082, William was an old man and factions were beginning to form around his sons. Odo was a partisan of the eldest of these, Robert Curthose. But Robert was only to be William’s successor to Normandy, a situation which risked depriving Odo of rich lands and offices in England. Just the previous year (1081), Matilda had deputised for William in England, a role previously performed by Odo. Add to this Odo’s strained relations with the reform-minded archbishop of Canterbury, Lanfranc, and the writing was very much on the wall.
Odo would spend the next five years in prison. Only on his deathbed would William release his half-brother, restoring him to his former position of dignity. But Odo was now a man with few friends. The following year, he threw in his lot with the rebels against William Rufus, who’d succeeded to the Conqueror’s English domains. The plan was to replace Rufus with his elder brother Curthose. But the rebellion was a failure, and Odo soon skulked back to Bayeux a much diminished man. Still, he was not an entirely spent force. When the First Crusade was announced a few years later (1096), Odo took up the cross with Duke Robert, enticed by new prospects of plunder and conquest. By this point, however, Odo was in his sixties, and the journey took its toll. While wintering with his Norman kinsmen in Sicily, he died in early 1097, without having reached the Holy Land. An adventurer to the last, he found his final rest in the cathedral of Palermo.
Contemporary opinion on Odo was divided. Until 1082, his loyalty had been unswerving, and his acumen and generosity were the stuff of legend. But he forgot the old proverb: pride comes before the fall. He was not, however, alone in rebelling against his brother. In the years following 1066, the English would rebel, repeatedly, against their new monarch.