Deaths Disasters and Destinies E-Book

Val Morgan

• Herausgeber: Europa Edizioni
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Val Morgan is a retired academic with a lifelong passion for literature and history. She taught at Essex University between 2002 – 2015. Living in the south-east of England, her interest in the Anglo-Norman period was triggered by the local landscapes, the mottes and baileys, the castles, churches and scattered ruins that still lie in an enduring pastoral countryside. Her four novels set in that period required extensive research in museums, strongholds, churches, landscapes as well as studying the biographies of many astonishing and little known personalities, reading the chronicles and making use of the latest academic research and secondary historical sources. In this book, drawing on these resources and going beyond the novels, she has created a vivid collection of true life stories, told through the dramatic interplay of personalities. Val Morgan was born in Ipswich but has spent most of her life in Colchester. She is a keen walker in the landscapes of the Essex-Suffolk border. She has been married since 1973 and has two grown up children.

Leseprobe

Val Morgan

Deaths Disasters and Destinies

Anglo Norman History in Twelve Lives

© 2023Europe Books| London

www.europebooks.co.uk | [email protected]

ISBN 9791220144056

First edition: November 2023

Deaths Disasters and Destinies

Anglo Norman History in Twelve Lives

To all the chroniclers and historians of every age.

Grateful thanks to my husband, first reader of the manuscript, to Anat who generously contributed her invaluable insights, and thanks to all who have helped with the making of this book.

“Since we have seen many strange changes in England in our days, and developments which were quite

unknown in former days, I committed to writing a brief record of some of these things, lest the knowledge of them should be entirely lost to future generations.”

Eadmer, opening words of The Life of St Anselm (12th century)

INTRODUCTION

1066 is a date everyone knows, the date of the invasion and conquest of England by William, Duke of Normandy, who became the only English monarch to bear the title ‘Conqueror’. People have remembered it for nearly a thousand years.

Our earliest knowledge of these events derives in large part from the first scribes and writers who remain relatively unknown. They were mainly monks keeping chronicles and cartularies for their own abbeys or monasteries. They had many reasons for writing about the conquest. Some were trying to understand it, some to celebrate it, some trying to grasp its significance, locate its causes, observe its actors and record its effects. Some wanted to understand the meaning of these events as part of the unfolding order of God’s great creation because few doubted that God disposed all things. In the Western Christian world view, everything was understood to be guided by divine authority. One monk wrote at the time that the Norman victory of 1066 could be explained by “nothing else than the miraculous intervention of God.”

Among the first to record the astonishing events of 1066 and its aftermath were the small group of monks who, over many years, had been writing what has become known as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. This was not a single work, as the name suggests, but rather a collection of chronicle manuscripts. They took the form of expanded annals and were written in English. The great abbeys and monasteries of England including Peterborough, Abingdon, Worcester, Canterbury and Winchester, contributed to these chronicle histories.

The church needed to know the saints’ days and how to calculate a moveable date for Easter. Therefore, keeping a ‘chronicle’ (literally a record of events in order of time) was not only useful but vital. Just as important for the annalist, however, was to know when one year ended and another began. Some writings accept December 25th as the starting point of the calendar year. Other entries in the eleventh century begin the year on March 25, the Feast of the Annunciation. Other writers claim the Feast of the Circumcision, January 1st as the beginning of the year. These discrepancies were adjusted by later authorities to produce a uniform calendar for the purposes of stabilising the Christian year and a reliable chronology for the purposes of history writing.

A Christian calendar to order the year of observance, a chronicle to record events across successive years; these developments gave rise to an increasing sense of God’s plan for his Creation, a new focus on the events that had been divinely ordered in God’s universe.

Our modern sense of history sees an established area of knowledge with rules for research, presentation and analysis which is very different from the medieval view. But common ground can be found in the very human need to tell stories. A need that stretches back into the dimmest parts of human memory and comes back in vivid form as myths and fables, a need that has been answered in every age in innumerable ways and is never exhausted. We are fascinated by our own lives and the lives of others wherever and whenever they lived.

The emphasis in the twelve lives depicted in this book, therefore, is on people, on the personality of individuals, the relationships between them and on the interconnectedness of contemporaries. Most of the people in this book knew each other, very often over a long period, their lives touched in many different places in different ways; they were related, they had relationships, whether hostile or friendly -- or both – or, ranging from one to the other with sometimes astonishing speed. For example, Ranulf Flambard, who was imprisoned by Henry I for a number of crimes, was not only forgiven but subsequently employed on spying missions later in the reign. Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury was twice exiled, then recalled; people changed sides, enemies became friends, family members fell out, war and peace were made with equal readiness. By tracking these connections, it is possible to view the characters in various modes of life, through a range of experiences that give insight into their personalities. Many of the following chapters deal not only with events but processes which happen over time. What they reveal, very often, is how these people develop and interact over the course of years, how they reach different understandings, have different priorities and so on. What the book seeks to do is to highlight the complexity of these threads. While the characters are the heroes of their own tales, they are also part players in the stories of others, they appear each time in a slightly different light, revealing different aspects of themselves, under new variations of light and colour.

Medieval recordists and chroniclers, perhaps with a few honourable exceptions, habitually offer us the record of outward actions and events. Personality is often missed. But the subtle undercurrents of historical causes are sometimes irreducible to anything but personality, the inestimable conflux of what makes an individual at a particular time. The very idea of an ‘individual’ when applied to the Middle Ages, often comes under challenge. We tend to think of people as stamped with ‘sameness’ by the church that created their belief structure and controlled their behaviour. This is a stereotype, of course, and does an injustice to the diversity of the personalities and temperaments at play. From William Rufus’s sardonic humour and penchant for bad jokes, to Edith/Matilda’s sharp intelligence, to Anselm’s scrupulosity which sometimes caused debilitating inertia, to Henry I’s political savvy and Robert Curthoses’s unfortunate penchant for wrong choices, not to mention the bright frenetic span of Ranulf Flambard’s active years as a political fixer to the powerful - there are many clues to personality which give insight into the common threads of these interconnected life stories.

What we most often mean by ‘history’ is ‘historiography’ - written histories. But the written narratives of the Anglo-Norman period are often unreliable, partisan and fraught with interpretive hazards. The chronicler, even though he may be living very close to the time about which he is writing, often has to rely on earlier works whose veracity cannot be established. In this way he is in a similar situation to the modern historical novelist, but the novelist is in the happy position of being able to fill in the blank spaces with imaginative invention. Yet the difference hasn’t always been well-established. To the writing monks and chroniclers of that period, the differences between history and fable, myth, sacred legend and other forms of imaginative writing were not strongly defined. This was particularly so in the case of the hagiographies. Writing the biography of a saint or holy person was a common undertaking of the monks. But it was not always pleasant or easy. Sometimes it was an onerous obligation. Chapter Five examines the difficulties and drama that Eadmer underwent in trying to complete such a task and how this apparently anodyne activity involved him in great personal anguish.

In general, though, the ‘Lives of Saints’ were concerned to give an account of the special blessedness of the saint in question. They often combined factual details with anecdote and miraculous story. They were religious works rather than ‘History’. These forms of writing were all concerned with telling memorable stories – and this, too, is the main focus of the historical novelist. It might even be the case that the modern historical novelist is at more pains to ‘get the facts right’ than the early historians. For example, Geoffrey of Monmouth’s, Historia Regum Britanniae, or History of the Kings of Britain, written in Latin and finished about 1136, although called a ‘History’, is rather a compilation of legend, fabulous tale, and imaginative invention. This supposed ‘history’ traces the story of the Kings of Britain from mythological beginnings in ancient Troy and portrays figures such as King Lear, Cymbeline, King Arthur and Merlin. It has little veracity as ‘history’but has remained a powerful source of romantic stories, used by many later writers including Thomas Malory, Shakespeare, Dryden and Tennyson. But it is worth noting that Geoffrey of Monmouth claims that he translated the book out of an ‘ancient British language’ as though he felt the need to connect his book with some ‘original’ in order to give it an authentic status. As this was not the ‘original’ of historical fact, he claimed that it derived from the original of a ‘native’ language (probably Welsh), which is also doubtful. The idea implicit here is that you need to anchor your historical narrative in some ‘original,’ or ultimate truth.

***

Who wrote the first Histories?

More reliable than Geoffrey of Monmouth are the great history writers of the time, the best sources for this period:  Eadmer, Orderic Vitalis, William of Malmesbury and Henry of Huntingdon. They write in Latin not English; they may be of mixed parentage or have English and Continental connections. But these writers, along with their contemporaries, offer us a paradoxical state of affairs – an extensive legacy of written texts of uncertain reliability.

Eadmer of Canterbury was born about 1060 and brought up by the monks of Canterbury from about the age of six and became a monk there. When Anselm became Archbishop in 1093, Eadmer devoted himself to writing about his life. The resulting work, the Vita Sancti Anselmi, is an invaluable source about the later years of William II. Eadmer’s Historia Novorum in Anglia (Recent Events in England) sets Anselm’s dealings in a wider context and is a vividly observed record of the times. Although he travelled widely, in England, Normandy, Lyons and Rome, among other places, Eadmer was devoted to Canterbury. He was deeply attached to the English traditions of Canterbury, to the old saints and old liturgy that had been swept aside by the increasing Normanisation of the English church. Although he felt that Anselm could have done more to defend the ancient practices of the English church, Eadmer was a partisan of Anselm and remained loyal throughout his life.

His writing conveys the immediacy of reportage, because, unlike most of the chroniclers, he was present at many of the occasions he describes and lived for many years as companion, secretary and disciple in Anselm’s household. He records some of Anselm’s memories and dreams which, one assumes, were told to him in the privacy of a close acquaintance; he includes certain of Anselm’s letters and their replies, using them to make a point about his character or to illustrate his dealings; equally he records the ‘miracles’ but tells us he did not ever observe any miraculous events himself. In any other age Eadmer would have been widely read; he had imagination and a feeling for the dramatic moment. His style is vivid and at times goes beyond the traditional hagiography. While striving to give us the public face of the saint, Eadmer also gives glimpses of the private man. Sometimes we can overhear Anselm’s conversation through Eadmer’s gift for recording natural dialogue. Without Eadmer’s writings our understanding of the period and of Anselm’s motivation and character would be greatly impoverished. Understanding Eadmer himself, however, is a much more difficult task. An attempt is made in Chapter Five.

Orderic Vitalis was born in or near Shrewsbury in 1075 and was sent to Normandy in 1085 to become a child oblate at the Benedictine Abbey of Saint-Évroult in Normandy where he remained for the rest of his life. This Norman monastery was his home until he died around 1142. His work, Historia ecclesiastica is generally considered the most valuable for Norman, English, and French history in the period 1082–1141.

William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Regum Anglorum, ‘Deeds of the English Kings’, was completed in 1125. William was born of mixed parentage about 1095 and entered the monastery at Malmesbury.  At that time the abbot was a Norman monk from the abbey of Jumièges, which produced the national historian, William of Jumièges. So, in a community of mainly English monks led by a Norman abbot, William of Malmesbury got first-hand experience of living the integrated life in an Anglo-Norman community. How this may have affected his views, we do not know.

Henry of Huntingdon (1088-1157) is the third of the trio of major Anglo-Norman historians. Again, he was of mixed parentage. But perhaps more importantly, he was the first of the great historians who was not a monk. He was a secular priest and was married, as many priests at that time still were. His great work, Historia Anglorum, commissioned by the Bishop of Lincoln, carried the Norman story up to 1154 when King Stephen died, making way for Henry II, the first of the Plantagenets.

Hériman de Tournai (after 1090 - 1147) Abbot of Tournai (then in Flanders, now in Belgium). Wrote what might be called a town chronicle in Latin prose. The third abbot of Saint Martin of Tournai, he was a chronicler of his abbey and, in many anecdotal accounts connected with St Martin’s, a social historian, giving a view from the perspective of his abbey which was an important ecclesiastical centre at the crossroads of Europe.

William of Jumièges

Perhaps the foremost chronicler from the Norman point of view was the Benedictine monk who wrote the ‘Gesta Normannorum Ducum’ or ‘Deeds of the Norman Dukes’ between the 1050s and 1070. We know very little about his personal life beyond his association with Jumièges, a monastery of ancient foundation and great prestige. It is thought he was born about the year 1000 and he died some time after 1070 when he finished the Gesta. He has the distinction of giving us the first prose account of the conquest of England in 1066, although he was not an eyewitness to these events and was probably writing at the request of William the Conqueror, to provide a first blast of positive publicity.

The purposes of history

All these historians, with the exception of the last two, identified themselves as English in some way and showed a strong attachment to the country. But unlike the Anglo-Saxon Chroniclers they did not write in English and all of them, except possibly Eadmer, had Continental ancestors. Divided allegiances meant that their judgements and evaluations could be complex and nuanced. They might, for example, be writing in celebration of a particular individual –a saint, a king, an abbot, or commissioned to write from a particular point of view. But, as Christian historians, they were shaped by the historical understanding that God played the dominating role in history. The purpose of history was to teach moral lessons. We still talk loosely about ‘lessons from history’ but the chronicling monks were more actively concerned with the didactic power of history. History, they believed, teaches people about what happened, what can happen, what God allows and what he forbids.

A useful example of this practice can be seen in Orderic Vitalis’s account of the death of William the Conqueror. Orderic emulates classical historians by putting detailed and dramatic speeches in the mouths of protagonists. Thus, the Conqueror is given a moving death-bed speech of contrition, lamenting his manifold sins and the cruelty of his conquest. There is no prior reference to such a speech, though other chroniclers seem to borrow it from Orderic. This is a moral story designed to show the necessity of penance even among the highest. Similarly, the death-chamber scene describes how the king’s faithless hangers-on proceed to ransack his treasures, helping themselves to whatever they can find: arms, vessels, clothing, silks and embroideries, the royal furnishings. Orderic alleges that they left the royal corpse ‘almost naked on the floor of the house.’ Another moral story, this time to show that even the greatest may be reduced to nothing if God so disposes. No evidence exists for these stories and there is no corroborating version. Like so many of the chroniclers, Orderic was not present at the events he was describing and was writing decades afterwards. He was not a witness and the nearest he could get to a first-hand account was perhaps to question a few elderly persons long afterwards.

With the honourable exception of a few writers, this was a time when no critical analysis of the historical process, no sophisticated sense of historical detachment, no real commitment to check facts, question sources, collect data, travel to interviews and so on, was made. History was largely written from the perspective of God’s unfolding plan, historians were, in a sense, trying to record the events that had been ordered in God’s universe. To record was not to explain. God could not be called on to explain.

Constructing the Conquest

Another important influence on the way historians constructed their versions of the Conquest was bound up with the art of literature itself. After all, history was considered to be a part of grammar or rhetoric. History wasn’t a ‘disciplina’ in its own right but a branch of the trivium - grammar, logic and rhetoric. Literary effects such as tropes, metaphors, symbols, allegory, imitatio, were used as techniques of narrative rather than as real attempts to reflect living people or genuine dialogue. All the contemporary or near-contemporary historians of the conquest were using the events of the conquest to provide a framework for their own preoccupations. They would be influenced by their allegiances, their political and religious affiliations, or they were concerned to celebrate a patron. In addition, these historians would be influenced by whichever classical models they were using for their own practice.

There was, in other words, no attempt to analyse the dynamic of history. Thus, many factors converge in these writings – not simply the matter of laying bare ‘historical truth’. In fact, they can be considered complex texts, inscribed with much more than the ‘history’ they purport to tell. Bound up in these writings are other stories of the writers themselves and their world. And it is to the gifted writers of these early texts that we are indebted for our first vision of the Anglo-Norman period.

Normandy not France

The importance of this era in the development of a distinctively Anglo-Norman culture cannot be overstated. On the world stage, too, great changes were happening. What follows is an attempt at scene-setting to illustrate the background against which the lives of our twelve characters play out.

In this era ‘Normandy’ must be distinguished from the ‘France’ of which it is now a part. Normandy was a duchy held by a duke who nominally paid homage to the French king but was in fact often more powerful. ‘France’ was at this time only a little remnant of the great empire of Francia and consisted mostly of the territories around the ‘Ile de France.’ Areas of present-day France such as Blois, Maine, Brittany were in various degrees of relationship to the French king but were not part of a homogenous nation called ‘France.’ After the conquest of England, the power of Normandy increased dramatically and led to constant battles with the French kings who struggled to maintain or increase their borders.

The Feudal System

The first two decades after the Norman Conquest saw a tremendous shift in the pattern of landownership and the imposition of what the historian Michael Woods calls ‘a true feudal system.’ Feudal is a word deriving from the Late Latin feudum and refers to the system of land tenure based on the ‘fief’ where a tenant or vassal holds land on the condition of military service. It is connected with the word ‘fee’ or the expression ‘to hold in fee’ which implies a heritable right to the property held. The system functioned not so much through bureaucracy and written contracts as by oath-swearing and verbal contracts, thus personal loyalty from vassal to overlord played a huge part. Where this failed, we come, of course, to the ‘feud’ which is a word derived from the same root and is what happened when the system broke down.

Last Conquest

This period saw the last time England was conquered by an invading power. Attacks were made from time to time but never a complete conquest in the Norman style. At the time of King John and the Barons’ War the French king’s son, Louis, invaded England, captured Winchester and had himself proclaimed king in London. But all of this was doomed to failure, and, after a wasteful and destructive series of sieges and battles, Louis was forced to negotiate. He gave up his claim to the throne and acknowledged that he had never been king of England. Invasions from France often occurred but they were made mainly by dynastic claimants during the Wars of the Roses and later. Henry Bolingbroke and Henry Tudor ‘invaded’ at different times and made themselves kings but there was never any incursion into England on the scale of the Norman Invasion which changed the nature of English life and the English language permanently or marked a date so crucially central to the English imagination as 1066. In the Raid on the Medway the Dutch famously attacked the fleet at Chatham and Gillingham in 1667; sporadic raiding parties occurred in coastal towns, one of the worst during the American War of Independence when Captain John Paul Jones landed and looted in Whitehaven in 1778. Other invasion attempts were made by the Spanish in 1588 (Armada) and the Nazis in 1940 (Operation Sealion). But as is well-known, there was never a successful invasion of England after 1066, certainly never one that changed the country permanently.

Holy War

In this period occurred the first appeal for a Christian war against the non-Christians of the East, later termed the ‘First Crusade.’ Originally an appeal from the Pope to help Emperor Alexios Komnenos of Constantinople who was in the unenviable position of having to defend Constantinople against growing forces of Seljuk Turks. Pope Urban appealed to Christian knights in the West to volunteer their aid, a task which was touted as so holy that God would forgive all sins for all participants. The defence of Constantinople then morphed into a war against the occupying forces of the Holy Land and resulted in the so-called ‘liberation’ of the Holy Sepulchre.

The Great Schism

Pope Urban’s support of Constantinople was particularly noteworthy because of the Great Schism between the churches of the East and the West that had occurred in 1054. This never-healed rift between the churches occurred over intractable theological, doctrinal and liturgical differences. The Western Roman Catholic Church adopted a creed, a liturgy, a calendar, Feast and Holy days, and other customs and practices that did not please the older, Greek-speaking churches of the East. Differences between the two leaders, the Pope and Patriarch, mounted over the preceding decades until, in 1054, the Christian Church split apart. The result was a permanent division of the Christian Church into the Roman Catholic West and the Orthodox Churches of the East.

Pre-Conquest Norman soft power

In the years leading up to the Conquest, England already had substantial links to the European mainland. This was partly because of the widespread intermarriage of Norman families, who then settled in England, and partly because of the recruitment of high church officials from continental monasteries. Therefore, it is a mistake to think that the Conquest somehow imposed an entirely alien and unknown culture and language on the country. Normans had long been at the court of King Edward the Confessor, who was himself half-Norman. In royal circles, not English but Norman French was spoken. The complexity of this pre-Conquest period is illustrated through a single life in Chapter Two and touched on from a contrasting perspective in Chapter Ten.

It is probably better to think in terms of a Norman-dominated English Court. It was Norman-speaking and had a long acquaintance with the culture. Equally many of the abbeys and monasteries had historical connections with the continental church and had been dealing with the Pope in Rome for centuries. In contrast to these Norman-penetrated institutions around the court, the mass of inhabitants was thoroughly English in culture and customs. The majority of the population lived in rural areas and spoke English. To them the Conquest was something of a shock but probably did not change the labouring lives of the poor as much as one might imagine. They still laboured for someone else, they were still taxed, they were still poor. But the conquest transformed the lives of the English aristocracy, both secular and clerical. Something of this situation can be found in Chapter Ten which illustrates the pressure of these complexities in operation on a single individual.

Post Conquest, Immediate Aftermath

After the single successful encounter known as the Battle of Hastings, the Norman conquest proceeded with speed. This battle, which occurred some distance from the place which bears its name, took place on October 14th. William burned and hacked his way to London and was crowned king on Christmas Day at Westminster, the traditional coronation venue of English Kings. Total subjection of the country followed and, except for the northern borderlands, was accomplished within the next twenty years. Violent suppression in the north, often called the Harrying of the North, caused ruination of the land for a generation and thousands were slaughtered. In other areas of the country the takeover proceeded with less bloodshed. It is clear from the survey of 1086 that a wholesale transference of land had taken place in two decades. The church, too, underwent a mass change of personnel.

By 1075 only one English bishop was left in post, Bishop Wulfstan of Worcester. He was the last surviving pre-Conquest bishop, having been appointed in 1062. He was something of a social reformer and earned a saintly reputation for interesting himself in poor relief in his diocese. Installations of bishops and archbishops proceeded apace after 1066 with monks and priests from prestigious Norman houses, most notably the Abbey of Our Lady at Bec, being placed in key English dioceses. Many of the new appointees were of Italian birth, such as Lanfranc in 1070 and Anselm in 1093. Both these men who became Archbishops of Canterbury were former Abbots of Bec.

In regard to secular society, during these twenty years many dispossessed English women whose menfolk had been killed in battle fled to holy houses, monasteries and nunneries. The nunnery at Wilton in Witshire gave sanctuary to the relatives of the defeated King Harold. One of these was his daughter, Gunhild, who spent many years at Wilton and received a superior education there as we can tell from the letters she later wrote to Anselm. Her story, including her remarkable and tragic love affair with the great Norman magnate, Count Alan Rufus, is the subject of Chapter Three.

Why the church mattered and why it was ‘political’

As in most pre-modern ages, religion was important both as a practice of belief and as a means of social organisation. Throughout this period there was a struggle between the church and the monarch to establish the limits of secular power. One of the hottest issues of the Norman period was Investiture. Not for nothing was its worst phase called the ‘Investiture Crisis.’ This long-running crisis made life difficult for kings, sent churchmen into exile and provoked fierce arguments. It was an issue of burning importance which for many years seemed irresolvable. By a mixture of long custom, lazy habits and lack of reform, kings and other laymen had acquired the power to appoint churchmen to high office. Thus, for example, William the Conqueror appointed Lanfranc of Bec as Archbishop of Canterbury in 1070. Part of the reason was because Lanfranc would largely go along with the king’s policies. In a similar move, William II, known as ‘Rufus’ appointed Anselm of Bec as Lanfranc’s successor.

But this partnership did not work quite so well as Anselm was not always conformable to the king’s wishes. A movement towards reform of this practice became stronger after the death of the Conqueror and, from 1099, Pope Paschal began to make serious noises of discontent, including threats of excommunication. He encouraged bishops to dispute the right of any king, or any layman whatsoever, to appoint men to holy office. Essentially, the dispute was about two contrasting things: money and spirituality. If a king or layman could appoint a bishop to receive the revenue of the episcopal lands, he would to some extent, have a say over the receipt of those monies. Many thought this weakened the church by siphoning off money and authority. But there was a deeper question. Could laymen, whose hands were regularly bloodied by warfare, have the right to appoint men to spiritual office?

The protracted and bitter disputes of the Investiture Crisis form the background to Chapter Four.

Alternatives to War

In the archival records there is evidence of a large number of negotiations and treaties from this time. It suggests that although battles were constantly fought by princes and magnates jostling for power, on occasion more peaceful solutions were sought. Where concessions could be made, they were often to be preferred: treaties, truces, compromises, negotiations, marriages were other means to achieve one’s aims. Kings such as Henry I, who were successful war-leaders and ready peacemakers, were widely respected. Though he did not fail to make war, when necessary, he was often ready to compromise and to that end astutely surrounded himself with good negotiators and advisers. It is most unfortunate that his largely peaceful reign was followed by the Anarchy, a violent and destructive period which threw a shadow over the previous few decades. Some of the events leading to the Anarchy, and the personalities involved, are the subject of Chapter Eight.

Property transmission

During this period, habits of property transmission began to change. Marriage, as always, remained an essential means of property transfer and, even before the conquest, intermarriage between English and Norman families was not unusual. In due course, the youngest son of the Conqueror, Henry, married a lady of the English royal line, Edith, in 1101. Her story is the subject of Chapter Seven. ‘Primogeniture’ (sole succession by eldest son) concentrated lands and power in the hands of a few. Property was not dispersed successively down the generations, but rather retained or augmented by one inheriting branch of the family. The Normans operated this practice but did not impose it all at once. In the course of time, however, it became widely adopted as the primary means of property transference in England. Ironically, this was a problem for William the Conqueror since neither his dukedom of Normandy nor his kingdom of England transferred smoothly on his death. The devastating consequences for his sons, particularly the eldest, Robert, is the theme of Chapter Nine.

The Great Survey of 1086

Perhaps most famously William the Conqueror is associated with what became called in common parlance the Domesday Book but was originally known, among other titles, as the Great Description. In fact, it was, in the words of the historian Michael Woods ‘a tax or geld inquest’, in other words a comprehensive land survey of his English territory. It was the most thorough and extensive survey of its kind, but not a totally new innovation as some may think. As Michael Woods points out: “Domesday inevitably raises the questions as to how detailed such records were before 1066.” It seems that from the later 10th century at least, fairly accurate records were kept by the great monastic foundations about their estates, including some records and genealogies of the peasantry and lists of the animals that lived on abbey land. Also, when you look at the Domesday Book with its endlessly repeated letters TRE you are given a brief glimpse into an even earlier age: Tempus Regis Edwardi, the timeof Edward (1042-1066). These letters occur after the entries recording the property details of 1086 and introduce the corresponding amounts for Edward’s reign. For example, that such-and-such a place is held by so-and-so and comprises 10 pigs, a mill, 5 ploughs and is worth 8 shillings. The entry might then go on to read: ‘TRE 10 shillings,’ meaning that its value in King Edward’s time had been two shillings more. This raises the question: where did the details about King Edward’s time come from? Historians suggest that before the Conquest the country had an efficient system of local and central government with trained officials, systematic tax levies and record keeping. The Domesday Book is therefore making use of a fact-finding structure already in place. It not only records the state of the country as it was in 1086 but also tells the conquerors what its valuation was at an earlier time.

Interestingly, the Domesday Book is not actually a book but rather a collection of manuscripts. Its historic text consists of two volumes known as ‘Great Domesday’, now bound in two parts, and ‘Little Domesday’, now bound in three. ‘Little Domesday’ is not a supplement to the ‘Great Domesday’ but rather: “an undigested remnant of an intermediate stage of the survey,” as Professor G. H. Martin puts it in the Introduction to the Penguin edition of the complete translation. A closely connected collection of manuscripts, known as the ‘Exon Domesday,’ covers the five counties of Cornwall, Devon, Dorset, Somerset and Wiltshire. London is treated separately.

Wider context

The Norman Conquest will probably always inhabit the public mind as a great schismatic event when everything in England changed. As we have seen, that was not exactly the case. Norman influence had been felt for years, not only in England but in the Mediterranean, Sicily, Calabria, Apulia, even as far as Constantinople. How did that happen?

Beginning in the ninth century Norse immigrants from Denmark, Norway and Sweden started landing in the north of France. In a short span of years their descendants had established themselves in the Northern French mainland. Their story begins in 911 when their leader, Rollo, swore fealty to Charles III of West Francia and established a territory later to become the Dukedom of Normandy. The Norsemen adopted the Gallo-Roman language of the Frankish people which they then hammered into shape as Norman French and began to produce the effects and artifacts of culture: manuscripts, poetry, artworks, letters. By the time they invaded and subdued the neighbouring kingdom of England they were thoroughly Christianised, had developed a form of architecture known as Romanesque, and had acquired or invented musical and literary traditions. They were also formidable warriors. The Norman dynasty had a major political, cultural and military impact in many parts of Europe and the Middle East. Some of this story is told in Chapter Nine.

The Conqueror

The presiding spirit of England’s early Norman years is, of course, William, the illegitimate son of Duke Robert of Normandy. He is known by one title only, having swopped the dismissive ‘bastard’ for the enduring and never-to-be-repeated ‘Conqueror.’ Chapter One sets the scene of the period with an intense focus on this magnificent ego. Injured and dying, he lies contemplating his own personal mortality at the moment he is about to pass into the immortality of enduring fame. In this first chapter I wanted to get inside the mind of William the Conqueror, sitting in his brain as the fever burns during his agonising death. Who and what was this phenomenal man? A giant figure on the historical landscape even now, almost a thousand years after his death. While the ‘facts’ in this chapter are well established and can be found in authoritative histories by noted authors, I was tempted to tell the story of this cruel and tortured death in an intensely modern and personal style, dedicating it, in a spirit of thanks, appreciation and respect to the early chroniclers.

Finally, and inevitably, the question will be asked: “Is another such book really needed?” Every time a new work on Churchill or Wellington, Queen Elizabeth I or some other prominent historical person comes out, that question is asked. And the answer is always ‘yes.’ There is always more to say and another way of saying it. New facts emerge through archaeology, archival research, memoirs or new insights into old material. Historiography is rarely unpoliticised but has become increasingly politicised today. We cannot help but bring present day interests and perceptions to our treatments of the past. That is why there is always room for another history book.

Chapter One

The Death of William the Conqueror

The man in the bed was about sixty years old, big-framed and corpulent. He had been in reasonable health until a few weeks ago. He had not caught a disease. No-one had attacked him or plotted to kill him, although plenty of people would have been ready to try. In his life he had made enemies. Many had cause to bear a grudge against him, including members of his own family. But this man was a king. Who would risk God’s punishment by striking down a king? Who could get near enough, who would dare try?

But it wasn’t revenge or sudden illness that brought him down. On the contrary, it was a trivial incident, a banal piece of bad luck. Malign or whimsical, luck will play its sly little tricks, even around the mighty. And so it happened to the King of England, the man who was called the Conqueror.

In July 1087 King William was leading an expedition against French incursions in the Vexin region of Normandy. His own renegade son Robert, in league with Philip of France had dared to make war against him. So William had seized Mantes, burned the town, sacked the monastery and filled the surrounding roads with fleeing townsfolk and monks.

On the way back from Mantes, his horse had suddenly taken fright and reared up. Many times, in his half century of furious riding he had experienced exactly the same response from a spooked horse and instantly regained control, barely shifting in the saddle. But this time he had fallen forward on the stout pommel, and it had dug into his belly, scrunched under the rib cage, broken through the skin and ruptured his innards. It felt like an explosion in his belly. Gasping in pain while trying to hide the seriousness of his injury and bringing his horse under control, he was at length eased from the saddle by his escort and carried to a nearby house. It soon became clear that he was in a condition far beyond serious. Decisions would have to be made by those close to him, quickly.

His knights and nobles grew alarmed and began to argue over what was to be done. A king could not be allowed to die just anywhere, he must get to holy ground. He must receive the viaticum, be shriven, be absolved. Kings have more sins than other men, they reasoned, and without the proper ministrations he would be doomed to the torments of hell. But any monks in Mantes who might have prayed for him a week ago, certainly would not do so now. He must be taken to a monastery or priory elsewhere.

The choice fell on the priory of Saint Gervase. A litter was brought from somewhere and William was carried out to begin the journey to Rouen, nearly fifty miles away. It was not at all certain that he would arrive as a living king and Duke of Normandy. The journey was tedious because the litter went slowly so as to spare the injured man suffering. But suffering could not be spared, so serious was his condition. Sometimes he raged at his attendants. Still believing himself in command, he sent orders to his nobles to withdraw their forces from the Vexin. At other times he lay quiet, or had his chaplain walk alongside to speak consoling words.

At length St Gervase was reached. He was transferred to a hurriedly prepared bedchamber in the abbot’s house, hung with fleabane and pungent with the smell of burning herbs which later mingled with the incense of the monks who came to say mass. Physicians came and discussed among themselves what cures to apply, spoke of Aristotle and Galen, of humours and sutures and what could be done to allay the pain. Various remedies were applied with varying degrees of failure, but no success. Except when sleeping, he was conscious and sometimes alert. He was used to keeping watch, used to hardship, used to being in command of himself. In his long life of battles, pain was just another enemy to be overcome. He thought of his son, Robert, sometimes in rage and sometimes with regret.

‘Why, Robert? Why? What made you a renegade and rebel? Have I ever treated you unkindly?

The answer to this last question, he knew very well, was yes.

***

St Gervase was an abbey dependent on the great monastery of Fécamp, founded by another Duke of Normandy, the king’s grandfather, Richard. Like all Norman dukes, he had been in need of the church’s rites of forgiveness. Fécamp had become very famous because it boasted a relic of the real blood of Christ preserved in the church. But if the relic was brought out to perform a healing after the ordeal of his journey, it failed. William lay in agony for days with suppurating intestines while outside the roads buzzed with messengers. Then, bishops, abbots, monks and physicians with their hangers-on and servants, swarmed into the precincts.

But the people who should have been there weren’t there. His brother, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, was in prison for treason. His eldest son, Robert, had been in the midst of active treachery at the time of the accident and was a positive embarrassment to the whole court. William, his second son, was there, hanging about, itching for the old man to die. Henry, the youngest son, turned up with unseemly haste in the hope of securing a property inheritance, land and fiefs of his own. But the old man dwelt confusedly among the shades of the past.

‘No land to the youngest, that was my motto. Let him go into the church. What use has he for land? Didn’t I give him an education? What else for but that he would enter the church? I let Bishop Osmund take him, teach him Latin, writing, teach him how the interests of the church are best served by obeying kings. Good man, Osmund. And young Henry is an apt pupil. A capable youth, I admit. But sly, like a cat. Always was.’

Dimly aware that Henry was in the room, the old man caught snatches of conversation. Names he knew well were moving from mouth to mouth in excited whispers among the clerics. Lanfranc and Osmund.      

William heard them. It was like being given two crutches to lean on. ‘So, Osmund and Lanfranc are on their way. It must be serious then. Osmund, Bishop of Winchester, my old friend, my son’s tutor. Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury, the ablest minister in the realm. A man of probity and honour. I must tell Lanfranc to support young William for the throne, but even with Lanfranc to look out for him, there will be trouble.’

He still had a grasp of events. He foresaw difficulties. For instance, if William did establish himself on the throne, what would Robert do? And which of his brothers would Henry support?

‘Well, his support won’t count for much if he has no land and no knights. I still say, no land for Henry. But I will be generous.’

In the end Henry got five thousand pounds in silver, in large part from his mother’s dowry. When it was withdrawn from the strong box a few days later, Henry weighed it out to the last ounce.       

In fact, the matter of inheritance had been in a state of ambiguity for some time. But certain assumptions were made. Robert, as eldest son, was always expected to get Normandy, the dukedom, the title and all the appanages. If the second son, Richard, had not met an unfortunate end in a hunting accident in the New Forest, he would have inherited the English crown. On Richard’s death, the next brother, another William, had stepped into the role of second son and expected to be named as heir. But he wasn’t. And the expectation, continually put off, bit into him. All the Conqueror’s sons were dissatisfied, in one way or another. There were no good relations either between themselves, or with their father. Henry, perhaps, as the youngest son, hungered for the recognition he had not received in childhood. If that hunger could be satisfied by lands: estates, a comté, an earldom, would it not be wise to give him a chance?

‘No! I say it was wise to keep him waiting. Keep him on his toes. Well, he never rebelled like his brother, did he? though he had more aptitude for it. Denial sharpened him. So much for Henry. What shall I say of William? By the way, why do they call him Rufus? He’s not choleric or florid or splenetic. Last time I saw him his hair was brown. Why Rufus? No matter. By God, though, the boy is well-humoured, convivial, generous, even. He didn’t get that from me. Or his grandfather. Matilda’s side, perhaps. He stayed loyal while Robert turned traitor. Yes, William will make a good enough king.

This last thought, however, was somehow never formulated, never formally declared or put in writing.

***

It was as if a shard of pain was lying in the bed, raw and bloody, with a man wrapped around it. He lay for days at a time, sometimes awake and breathing heavily, sometimes in a quasi-dream state where thoughts and memories brought the past close, the smells, the colours, the brutish fears, the tenuous joys, going right back to the old days in Falaise where he was born. Given his birth and family he could never have been a tender man. Yet once, he remembered clearly, he had loved someone, his old tutor, Ralph. Perhaps at the moment Ralph was killed, slaughtered in front of his child-eyes for reasons his child-understanding could not fathom, seeing the swift, brutish, finality of the act, he had let go of tenderness and love. Matilda, Matilda, though? Dead these four years. Peerless Matilda! Had it been love?

‘I married a fierce woman, a Flanders countess, a strong, loyal woman who did not demand love but a share of power. Oh, what a couple we made! I could not have done it without her. I respected, I trusted, I adored her. I gave her nine children, or was it ten? But did I ever love her?

Love was not what he felt for his sons. His daughters, perhaps, or at least the thought of them. They had been no trouble. They were faceless, indistinct creatures, although, at a pinch, he could remember their names.

Agatha, Adela, Cecilia, Constance, was it? Adeliza. Oh God, so many! I gave two to the church and married off the others. Well, what would you? Adeliza took the veil, willingly. I say it was willingly. Cecilia though, was it wrong to give her to the church so young? An oblate child, gifted to Holy Trinity in Caen. Shall I send for her? Would she come to me if I did?

It was the boys, the squabbling boys, that wore us down. Even Matilda grew tired of their bickering. She always encouraged Robert, though, always her favourite. Their cursed fallings-out got worse as they grew, often drawing blood. Their flares of anger filled our lives with constant disturbances, shouting, brawling, puerile name calling. Alright, I was at fault, too, I admit. But what was I to do with Robert? Hopeless from the start: plump, short, the butt of grooms and ostlers. They called him ‘Gambaron’, ‘Fat Legs’ ‘Curthose’ and, instead of stopping it, I took it up. Trivial though this seems when measured against all his adult years, it is, I see now, the wounded core of Robert’s character.

***

In the way of fevered men whose sleep is fitful and intermittent, William sometimes spoke and seemed lucid, giving orders to ministers or household servants. Sometimes he lay for hours in hectic sleep, peopled with dreams and loud with voices.

‘If your father had ever made a proper Christian marriage,’ said the voice in his head, ‘you would not have stood a chance. Legitimate sons would have taken all the prizes. You would have been at best a menial, at worst a fatality. Bastard sons like you were put out of the way, often as not, or else consigned to the church. Your father, Duke Robert, never got the sons he wanted, sons sanctioned by the church, born in wedlock with a noble lady. Justice perhaps. He was an old-fashioned warlord. A semi-brute. How I adored him!

And in his rambling William would answer the voices that came and went, weaving into consciousness and out again as he held conversations with himself.

‘And whatever you say of me, you out there in the darkness, hovering by my bed, whatever you say, I was worthy of more than a dukedom, as proved when God gave me victory in England. Cruel, we all were, had to be or else lose power, weaken, become prey. But I was never rapacious, or wanton. No, never.’

At the end of such ravings, he would be calm and descend into fitful sleep, during which time his physicians might come and replace the dressings on his wound, talking in low voices and shaking their heads. They tried poultices of marshmallow and mustard, pigeon innards, pastes of aromatic herbs, and infusions of meadowsweet to ease the pain. Nothing brought relief for more than a blessed hour of slumber.