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 b
ut 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
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