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Lucy of Bolingbroke: The Woman Behind Lincoln Castle's Lucy Tower
She paid a king five hundred marks for the right to be left alone. She outlived three husbands, presided over one of the most strategically significant castles in England, and left such an indelible mark on Lincoln Castle that a tower still bears her name nine centuries later. Yet Lucy of Bolingbroke remains one of the least-known powerful women of the Norman era – overshadowed, perhaps, by the very castle she helped to shape.
Today, I’m bringing this important but forgotten woman back into the light (as much as I can).
Who Was Lucy of Bolingbroke?
Lucy of Bolingbroke, also recorded as Lucia Thoroldsdottir of Lincoln, was an Anglo-Norman heiress who died around 1136 or 1138. Her precise origins have been the subject of considerable historical debate, but the most widely accepted view among modern scholars is that she was the daughter of Thorold, Sheriff of Lincoln, by a daughter of William Malet, a prominent Norman lord who died in 1071. Through both lines she inherited a vast collection of estates centred on Spalding in Lincolnshire, a landholding so substantial it acquired its own administrative identity: the Honour of Bolingbroke. It is from this that she takes the name we know her by.
There is one further thread in Lucy's ancestry that demands mention, even if it cannot be confirmed. The Crowland Chronicle claims that Thorold of Lincoln (Lucy's father) was the brother of Godgifu, the noblewoman better known to history as Lady Godiva. If true, it would make Lucy the niece of one of the most legendary women in English history, and the granddaughter's generation of Leofric, Earl of Mercia, one of the most powerful Saxon magnates England had ever produced! Historians treat the Crowland source with caution, noting that the charter is now considered likely spurious and that it contradicts itself on the precise relationship. But the tradition exists, and so many times in history, tradition has shown to have some truth.
What this document does point to is something the broader historical record supports regardless: Lucy's family were English nobility, rooted in the great Saxon aristocracy of the East Midlands. Her father Thorold had been Sheriff of Lincoln before the Conquest, and her mother's line ran through William Malet, a figure with English maternal ancestry himself. Lucy was, in the most meaningful sense, an heiress of pre-Conquest England, and that’s precisely what made her so valuable to the Normans who came after 1066.
This is a pattern readers of this blog will recognise immediately. It’s exactly what happened with Muriel of Lincoln, Nicola de la Haye's grandmother, whose strategic marriage to the Norman knight Richard de la Haye transferred the hereditary legitimacy of Lincoln Castle from Saxon hands into Norman ones. The Normans were extraordinarily adept at using marriage to English heiresses as a tool of conquest - not by force alone, but by wrapping Norman ambition in the cloak of English legitimacy. When Ivo Taillebois married Lucy around 1088, he didn’t simply acquire a wife; he acquired her lands, her lineage, her father's sheriffdom, and the social authority that came with being connected, however tenuously, to the house of Mercia. The Conquest was legitimised, estate by estate, through women like Lucy.
What made Lucy exceptional, even by the standards of a period in which Anglo-Norman noblewomen wielded considerable indirect power, was the degree to which she held and exercised authority in her own right rather than simply transmitting it to the men around her. She appears to have been castellan of Lincoln Castle, the dominant landholder across Lincolnshire, and the woman whose name the castle's great tower would carry long after her death, so Lucy was not merely a conduit for Norman ambition, but a power in her own right - a woman who outlived three Norman husbands and, in the end, paid a king for the freedom to answer to no one else.
She was also a significant religious patron throughout her life. Spalding Priory, a Benedictine house and the primary religious institution of her family's patronage, was founded (or re-founded) in 1085 by Lucy and her first husband Ivo Taillebois, and she continued to endow it generously across the decades that followed. In the 1120s she and her third husband Earl Ranulf of Chester granted it the churches of Minting, Belchford and Scamblesby, and in 1135, widowed for the last time, she granted the priory her own manor of Spalding for the permanent use of the monks. The records show that she took care to bind her sons to honour those gifts after her death - a detail that speaks to a woman who understood perfectly well that her intentions might not survive her unless she made them impossible to ignore. That same year, she founded the Cistercian convent of Stixwould entirely on her own initiative, becoming, in the words of one historian, one of the very few aristocratic women of the late eleventh and twelfth centuries to achieve the role of independent lay founder.
Three Husbands, One Constant: Lincolnshire
She Didn't Wait for Permission
International Women's Day asks us to celebrate the women who refused to accept the limits placed upon them. Who pushed back. Who led. Who endured. And every year, we tend to look to the recent past — to suffragettes, trailblazers, and glass-ceiling-breakers of the modern era.
But what about the women who did all of that eight hundred years before anyone thought to name it?
Meet Nicola de la Haye. Sheriff of Lincolnshire. Castellan of Lincoln Castle. The woman who, in 1217, successfully defended one of England's most strategically vital fortresses against a French-backed rebel army: at the age of approximately seventy. She didn't wait for permission, and she didn’t expect plaudits: because no one was going to give it.
What the Twelfth Century Said Women Were
The medieval world had very clear ideas about women's place in society, and those ideas were enforced from pulpit, court, and custom alike. Women were considered intellectually weaker than men, legally subordinate to their fathers and husbands, and spiritually suspect - daughters of Eve, prone to temptation and manipulation(!!!). Church fathers and contemporary writers were emphatic on the subject. Women should be silent, obedient, and invisible in public life.
I've explored just how relentless and inventive that misogyny was in my medieval misogyny series, including a look at the men who competed, with some enthusiasm, for the title of Worst Villain to Women of the 12th Century. It's a crowded field.
What Nicola de la Haye Actually Did
Nicola inherited the hereditary castellanship of Lincoln Castle from her father, and she held it through two marriages, through political upheaval, through sieges and civil wars, and with a grip that no one could prise loose. She administered justice, she negotiated with kings, defied a rogue justiciar who threatened the kingdom whilst Richard the Lionheart was on crusade, and she commanded garrisons and organised castle defences - incredibly well.
When King John's reign collapsed into civil war and a French prince threatened to take the English throne, Nicola was the one defending Lincoln.
She was also, at various points, told she was too old, too female, and too inconvenient. She resigned her position as castellan (constable), but was promptly reappointed, because no one else could do it as well as she could.
And one of King John’s last acts was to make her the first female sheriff in England - Sheriff of Lincoln.
This is the woman at the heart of my novel Lady of Lincoln: not a fictional heroine invented to fit a modern template, but a real woman whose story has simply been waiting to be told.
The Saxon Secret to Avoiding a Bad Ruler
What if the worst rulers in English history didn't have to happen?
Bad kings - the weak, the cruel, the catastrophically incompetent - weren't inevitable. They were the consequence of a system that handed the most powerful job in the kingdom to whoever happened to emerge from the right womb in the right order!
Primogeniture, succession by (male) birth order, gave England Edward II, whose personal failings and political incompetence ended in his deposition and probable murder. It gave England Richard II, whose erratic tyranny triggered a constitutional crisis and cost him his throne. It gave England Henry VI, whose mental collapse plunged the country into thirty years of civil war. These weren't accidents of fate. They were what happens when a system prioritises birth order over every other human quality.
But before the Normans locked this system in place, the Anglo-Saxons did something far more interesting.
The Aetheling System: Choose the Best, Not the First
Herstory Refuses to Be Forgotten!
ady of Lincoln opens in 1168, when a fourteen-year-old Nicola de la Haye stood in the barracks of Lincoln Castle, a young girl surrounded by sleeping soldiers, determined to help a boy who didn't belong. It was a small act of defiance in a world that would soon demand much larger ones.
I'm honoured to share that Lady of Lincoln has been named a semi-finalist in the 2025 Chanticleer Chaucer Awards for Early Historical Fiction.
The novel has already won awards, and this is a highly prestigious one. Chuffed as I am, it’s not really about awards and recognition that I can weave a good tale (although I’m thrilled about that!). It's about what Nicola's story represents—a woman who inherited a barony and a castle in her own right, who found herself caught between impossible loyalties when her husband joined the Great Rebellion of 1173-4, and who chose to defend what was hers.
That’s what inspired me to write about her in the first place.
Fastrada: Charlemagne’s Queen History Tried to Forget
Charlemagne is usually thought of as the iron-willed king, crowned Emperor of the Romans in 800, architect of a European empire and champion of learning and reform. What we never hear about, however, are the women who stood beside him: women whose influence shaped politics, justice, and the fragile stability of his realm.
One of the most controversial of these women was Fastrada, Charlemagne’s fourth wife and queen, a woman remembered less for what she did than for how male chroniclers chose to describe her.
A Frankish Noblewoman in a Dangerous Court
Fastrada was born into the high Frankish nobility around the mid-8th century, the daughter of Count Radulf. Her marriage to Charlemagne in 783 was not a romantic match but a strategic one, strengthening ties between powerful families within the Frankish heartlands. This was a period when Charlemagne’s empire was expanding rapidly through conquest, forced conversion, and ruthless suppression of revolt.
Queens in the Carolingian world were not crowned consorts in the later medieval sense, but they were far from ornamental. They managed households, acted as intermediaries, dispensed patronage, and, crucially, advised the king. Fastrada arrived at court at a moment when Charlemagne’s rule was under strain from internal rebellion, particularly in Saxony.
“Cruel” Queen or Convenient Scapegoat?
Our surviving sources paint Fastrada in dark colours. Einhard, Charlemagne’s biographer, describes her as harsh and cruel, claiming that her influence made the king more severe in judgement. Later chroniclers echoed this, blaming her for brutal punishments meted out against rebels and dissenters.
But this raises an uncomfortable question: Was Fastrada truly cruel, or was she blamed for decisions Charlemagne himself made?
Early medieval queens were often held responsible when kings ruled harshly. Advising firmness could easily be reframed as bloodthirstiness, especially when the adviser was a woman. Fastrada’s reputation may tell us more about medieval anxieties over female influence than about her actual character.
It is worth noting that Charlemagne’s most notorious acts of brutality, including the mass executions of Saxons, predated and outlasted Fastrada’s life. Yet only she became a symbol of excessive severity.