From History to You …
Why Medieval Boys Were Sent Away: The Fostering System That Shaped Knights
When I was writing Born in Deception, I needed to understand something that seems almost incomprehensible to modern parents: why would you send your 7-year-old son away to live with strangers?
Not for a summer camp. Not for boarding school at age 13. At seven years old—barely out of toddlerhood by our standards—noble boys were packed off to another lord’s household to begin their training as knights.
And here’s the part that really stopped me cold: their parents might not see them again for years. Sometimes decades. Sometimes never.
This wasn’t child neglect. This was how you raised a nobleman. This was the system that produced the greatest knights of the medieval world.
And it was brutal.
The Story That Haunts Me
There’s a famous incident from the 12th century that perfectly captures the emotional reality of medieval fostering.
Young William Marshal—who would become the greatest knight in English history, a regent, and an earl—was about 5 years old when his father, John Marshal, gave him as a hostage to King Stephen during the civil war between Stephen and Empress Matilda.
The deal was simple: John would surrender his castle, and in exchange, little William would be kept safe.
John Marshal didn’t surrender the castle. He reinforced it instead.
King Stephen was furious. He took young William to the walls and threatened to launch him from a trebuchet if John didn’t capitulate immediately.
John Marshal’s response? “I still have the hammer and anvil with which to forge still more and better sons.”
Go ahead and re-read that.
His own father said he was replaceable. That he could make more sons. Better sons.
Stephen didn’t follow through (thank God), and William survived to become one of the most remarkable men of the Middle Ages. But imagine carrying that memory your entire life. Imagine being five years old and hearing your father say you were expendable.
When I wrote Ranulf in Born in Deception, this story was at the back of my mind. Ranulf was held hostage by Empress Matilda. His father reneged on the deal. Matilda threatened to hurl him from a trebuchet.
And his father’s response? The same as John Marshal’s. He could have more sons.
Ranulf survived. But he never forgot. And that childhood trauma—that knowledge that he was disposable—shaped the man he became.
Why Send Your Children Away?
So why did medieval parents do this?
It wasn’t cruelty. It was practicality, politics, and the structure of medieval society all rolled together.
Here’s what fostering accomplished:
1. Military Training Boys needed to learn to fight. Not just swordplay—but how to ride a warhorse in full armor, how to fight in formation, how to command men, how to survive a battlefield. Your own father couldn’t teach you all of that. You needed to be in a household with experienced knights, with a lord who commanded men in battle, with other boys learning alongside you.
2. Political Alliances When you sent your son to another lord’s household, you were cementing a political relationship. That lord would train your boy, protect him, and eventually help him make his way in the world. In return, your son would serve that lord with absolute loyalty. This created networks of obligation that held medieval society together.
3. Emotional Detachment This is the hard one. Medieval parents couldn’t afford to be too attached to their children. Childhood mortality was devastating—you might lose half your children before they reached adulthood. War could kill your sons at any moment. Sending them away at seven created emotional distance that protected parents (and boys) from too much sentiment.
4. Fresh Perspective A boy raised at home might be spoiled by his mother, might not respect his father’s authority, might not learn discipline. Send him to another household? He’s just another page. He’ll be worked hard, disciplined strictly, and taught to obey without question.
But here’s the thing nobody tells you: it worked.
The fostering system produced remarkable men. William Marshal. Richard the Lionheart. Robert Curthose. Ranulf, Earl of Chester. These weren’t just warriors—they were statesmen, leaders, men who could command armies and negotiate with kings.
The system was harsh. But it created knights.
The Journey: Page to Squire to Knight
Let me walk you through what happened to a noble boy from age 7 onward.
Age 7-14: Page
You arrive at your new lord’s household. You’re seven, you’re homesick, and you’re the lowest person in the hierarchy.
Your jobs: - Serve at table (carrying dishes, pouring wine) - Run messages - Care for weapons and armor (cleaning, polishing) - Learn basic horsemanship - Begin weapons training (wooden swords at first) - Learn courtly manners (how to bow, how to speak to nobles, how to behave) - Receive education (reading, writing, maybe Latin if the household has a chaplain)
You sleep in the hall with other pages and servants. You eat whatever’s left after the nobles are done. You work from dawn until you collapse.
But you’re learning. You’re watching the knights. You’re soaking up everything about what it means to be a warrior and a nobleman.
Age 14-21: Squire
You’ve proven yourself. You’re promoted to squire—personal servant to a knight.
Now your jobs get serious: - Care for your knight’s armor, weapons, and horses - Accompany your knight everywhere (including into battle) - Train intensively with weapons (sword, lance, mace, dagger) - Learn to fight on horseback in full armor - Practice for tournaments - Begin to understand strategy and command - Serve as your knight’s right hand
This is when you might see combat. Squires weren’t just servants—they fought alongside their knights in battle. They protected their knight’s flank. They brought fresh horses when needed. They dragged their knight to safety if he was wounded.
Squires died in battle. Regularly.
But if you survived, if you proved your courage and skill, you’d be knighted—usually around age 21.
Age 21+: Knight
You’ve made it. You’re dubbed a knight in a ceremony that mixes religious ritual with military celebration.
You have your sword, your armor, your warhorse. You’re a warrior, a nobleman, part of the military elite.
But here’s the problem: you probably don’t have any land.
The Bachelor Knight Problem
And this is where everything I’ve been building toward comes into focus.
Being a knight was expensive. A warhorse cost as much as a small manor. Armor was ruinously expensive. You needed weapons, servants, a squire of your own.
But unless you were the eldest son who inherited your father’s lands, you had nothing.
Second sons? Third sons? Bastard sons? You got a knighthood and a blessing and that was it.
No land = No income = No marriage
Medieval marriage wasn’t about love. It was about property and alliances. When a woman married, her dowry (land, money, goods) came under her husband’s control. Her family wasn’t going to give their daughter to a landless knight with no prospects.
So what happened to all these trained warriors with no land and no way to marry?
They became bachelor knights—landless men who lived in great lords’ households, serving in exchange for food, lodging, and hopefully a chance at advancement.
Think about what this meant:
You’re 25 years old. You’ve trained since you were seven. You’re a skilled warrior. You’re a nobleman by birth.
And you live in your lord’s hall, sleeping in a communal room, eating at his table, dependent on his generosity for everything. You can’t marry. You can’t establish your own household. You can’t have children (well, not legitimate ones).
You’re stuck.
The only ways out were:
1. Military Success Distinguish yourself in battle and your lord might grant you land or recommend you to the king for a reward.
2. Tournament Winnings Win enough tournaments and you could earn money, horses, armor, and reputation. William Marshal funded his early career through tournament winnings.
3. Marry an Heiress If a wealthy widow or an heiress without brothers needed a husband, a landless knight might get lucky. But this was rare and competitive.
4. Royal Service Get noticed by the king and you might be granted land, a position, or a profitable marriage.
5. Take Holy Orders Join the Knights Templar or Hospitaller and you’d have a purpose, resources, and brotherhood—though you’d also take vows of poverty and celibacy.
But for most bachelor knights? They stayed bachelor knights until they died.
The Men Who Couldn’t Marry
This is where my novels come in.
When I write about Ranulf, Guyon, Gilbret, and the squires who populate my Brides of Northumbria and King’s Barons series, I’m writing about men caught in this system.
Ranulf in Born in Deception is a traitor’s son — held held as hostage. He was trained as a knight, but couldn’t inherit. He served the Empress Matilda loyally, survived being used as a hostage, and fought in the civil war. But without land, without legitimacy, he couldn’t marry. When King Henry II finally grants him land as a reward for loyal service, it comes with an arranged marriage to Isabeau—a marriage neither of them wanted.
Guyon in Drawn to the Beast is a younger son. His older brother inherited the family estates. Guyon became a knight, served in tournaments and battles, and lived in various lords’ households as a bachelor knight. He believed his nocturnal epilepsy made him unmarriageable anyway—who would want a husband who screamed and convulsed in his sleep?
Gilbret in Tempted by Beauty is an illegitimate. He serves Ranulf faithfully, but he has no prospects for land or marriage until circumstances create an opportunity.
These aren’t fictional problems I invented to create romantic tension. This was the reality for thousands of medieval knights.
They were trained warriors. Skilled, brave, educated, noble-born.
And they had nothing.
The Emotional Cost
Here’s what haunts me about the fostering system and the bachelor knight problem: the loneliness.
Imagine being sent away from your family at seven. You learn not to be too attached because attachment is weakness. You harden yourself. You focus on survival, on training, on proving your worth.
You become a knight—the pinnacle of medieval masculinity, the warrior elite.
And then you spend decades living in another man’s household, dependent on his favor, unable to establish your own family or legacy.
You watch the lord’s son inherit. You watch other men’s children grow up. You serve, you fight, you bleed, and you own nothing.
Some men thrived in this system. William Marshal eventually married an heiress and became one of the richest men in England. But for every William Marshal, there were hundreds of bachelor knights who died landless and childless.
The system that created the greatest knights of the medieval world also created profound isolation and unfulfilled longing.
And that’s what I write about.
Why This Matters for My Books
The King’s Barons series is built on this historical reality.
The squires you met in the Brides of Northumbria trilogy—Gefroi, Olivier, Warrin, and others—are now men. They’re trained knights. They’re loyal, skilled, brave.
And they have nothing.
No land. No marriage prospects. No way forward except through service and hope.
The series follows them as they navigate this impossible situation. How do landless knights create futures for themselves? How do they find love when they can’t offer security? What happens when the political landscape shifts and creates new opportunities—or new dangers?
These aren’t just romance plots. They’re historical realities I’m exploring through fiction.
Because here’s the truth: the fostering system and the bachelor knight problem weren’t just medieval oddities. They shaped masculinity, loyalty, violence, and relationships for centuries.
Every man in my novels carries the weight of this system. They were shaped by it, scarred by it, and trying to survive within it.
And when they finally get a chance at land, at marriage, at a future—they’ll fight for it with everything they have.
Because they know how rare that chance is.
They know what it’s like to be disposable.
Next Month
In next month’s “From History to You,” I’ll be diving into something that shaped these bachelor knights even more profoundly: the psychological cost of medieval warfare.
What we now call PTSD was absolutely present in medieval knights—and there’s a 14th-century combat manual that describes it in chilling detail.
We’ll explore what happened to men who survived battles, who watched their friends die, who were trained to use violence for “just causes”—and what happened when those causes proved unjust.
Until then, happy reading!
Cate 💕
Historical Note: William Marshal’s story as a hostage is documented in L’Histoire de Guillaume le Maréchal, a 13th-century biography. The incident with King Stephen and the trebuchet threat is a famous example of medieval attitudes toward children and political hostages. The fostering system was standard practice among the medieval nobility throughout Europe, though practices varied by region and period. The progression from page to squire to knight typically followed the age ranges described, though individual circumstances varied. The challenges faced by landless knights—particularly younger sons and bastards—are well-documented in medieval records, chronicles, and legal documents.