From History to You …
SPOILER WARNING: This post discusses major plot elements from Tempted by Beauty. If you haven’t read the book yet and want to discover Beatrice’s secret along with Gilbret, you might want to save this post for after you finish reading!
When Marriage Became Sin: The Tragedy of Repudiated Women in Medieval England
When I was researching Tempted by Beauty, I stumbled upon one of the most heartbreaking injustices in medieval marriage law: what happened to women and children when powerful men decided to “unmake” their marriages.
My heroine, Beatrice, is a repudiated woman—divorced by her husband while he still lived. In one stroke of a bishop’s pen, she went from being a nobleman’s wife to a “fornicator,” and her son Edward went from being a legitimate heir to a bastard. The church law was clear: she could never remarry, never reclaim her honor, never restore her son’s birthright.
But I didn’t make this up. This actually happened to real women throughout the Middle Ages. And one case in particular broke my heart and inspired Beatrice’s story.
The Real Story: Isabel le Despenser and the Earl Who Wanted an Upgrade
Richard FitzAlan was the son and heir to Edmund FitzAlan, 9th Earl of Arundel. He married Isabel le Despenser, and together they had a son: Edmund FitzAlan, who would inherit the Arundel Earldom and all its wealth and power.
For twenty years, they were married. Twenty years of Isabel being the Countess, of Edmund growing up as the legitimate heir, of a family that—by all appearances—was established and secure.
And then Richard fell in love with someone else.
Her name was Eleanor of Lancaster, and she had something Isabel didn’t: even better political connections and more advantageous family ties. Richard wanted to marry Eleanor. There was just one problem: he was already married to Isabel.
So Richard did what powerful medieval men did when inconvenient wives stood in the way of their ambitions: he petitioned the Pope for an annulment.
“I Was Coerced” (Twenty Years Ago)
Richard’s claim was that he had been coerced into marrying Isabel. Never mind that this alleged coercion had happened two decades earlier. Never mind that he’d lived with her as his wife for twenty years, fathered a son with her, and apparently had no problem with the marriage until a better option came along.
Richard had one thing going for him: he’d loaned the Pope an enormous amount of money.
The Pope granted the annulment.
What Happened to Isabel
In one legal stroke, Isabel went from being the Countess of Arundel to being… nothing. Worse than nothing.
The annulment declared that her marriage had never been valid. Which meant that for twenty years, she’d been living in sin with a man who wasn’t actually her husband. Which meant she was an adulteress. A fornicator. A woman who had borne a child out of wedlock.
The shame was crushing and permanent.
Isabel le Despenser never remarried. The church considered her tainted—a woman who had produced a child outside of marriage. What nobleman would risk his soul and his reputation to marry such a woman?
She died alone, her honor destroyed, her life’s work erased by a man who simply wanted someone new.
What Happened to Edmund
Edmund FitzAlan had been the heir to one of England’s most powerful earldoms. He’d grown up knowing he would inherit vast estates, political power, and a seat among the highest nobility.
The annulment made him illegitimate. A bastard. No longer the heir to anything.
His father—consumed with guilt or perhaps just practical concern—helped Edmund marry “well enough.” But Edmund never reclaimed his birthright. He never became the Earl of Arundel. He never got back what should have been his by birth.
One piece of paper, signed by a corrupt Pope who’d been bribed with Richard’s money, destroyed Edmund’s entire future.
The Church Law Behind the Cruelty
You might be wondering: how was this legal? How could the church allow this?
The answer lies in medieval marriage law, which was complex, contradictory, and frequently weaponized by powerful men against their wives.
Grounds for annulment included: - Consanguinity (being too closely related—this was the most common excuse) - Coercion (being forced into the marriage against your will) - Pre-contract (a prior betrothal to someone else) - Impotence (inability to consummate the marriage) - Non-consummation (the marriage was never physically completed)
Notice what’s not on that list: “I don’t love her anymore” or “I found someone richer.”
But here’s the thing: these grounds were flexible enough that a wealthy, well-connected man could almost always find a bishop or pope willing to discover a “defect” in his marriage. Especially if money changed hands.
The consequences were gender-specific and devastating:
For the husband: He was free to remarry immediately, his honor intact, his political prospects enhanced.
For the wife: She was branded a fornicator if she’d had children. She could not remarry (or faced enormous social stigma if she tried). Her dowry might be forfeit. Her reputation was destroyed.
For the children: They became illegitimate bastards overnight, losing all rights to inheritance and title.
The Technicality That Could Save You
There was one loophole, and it’s the one that saves my heroine Beatrice in Tempted by Beauty.
If the husband died before remarrying, the annulment became legally murky.
Father Ascelin, the educated priest in my novel, explains it to Beatrice: “Well, that is true when the spouse still lives, but as your husband is dead, strictly speaking, you are free to marry.”
This wasn’t just a fictional convenience I invented—it was real medieval law. If the man who’d repudiated you died, you could argue that you were technically a widow, not a divorcée. Different church authorities interpreted this differently, but it created enough legal ambiguity that a woman might be able to remarry.
It’s a slim hope, but it’s the hope that allows Beatrice to marry Gilbret and escape her father’s control.
The Power Behind the Annulments
In Tempted by Beauty, the villain behind Beatrice’s annulment is Bishop Robert de Chesney, who has “huge political and ecclesiastical sway both here in England, but more importantly in Rome.”
This is historically accurate. Powerful bishops could grant annulments on their own authority, especially if they had political or financial motivations. In Beatrice’s case, Bishop de Chesney is Walter’s maternal uncle, and he grants the annulment so that Walter’s brother Everlyn can inherit the estates—and presumably reward the bishop with a generous “donation.”
The real Richard FitzAlan went straight to the Pope because he wanted absolute certainty. But many annulments happened at the local diocesan level, granted by bishops who had their own agendas.
Father Ascelin describes it perfectly in the novel: “Powerful men have done much worse for half of Walter’s estates.”
Why This Story Matters
Isabel le Despenser’s story happened in the 14th century (sometime between 1326-1346). My novel is set in the 12th century, during King Henry II’s reign. But the church laws governing marriage and annulment were essentially the same across these centuries.
What changed was political circumstances, specific personalities, and the particular excuses men used to rid themselves of unwanted wives. But the fundamental injustice remained constant: powerful men could unmake their marriages and destroy their wives and children with relative impunity.
I chose to set Beatrice’s story in the 12th century because: 1. It fits with my Brides of Northumbria series timeline 2. King Henry II’s reign saw massive upheaval in land ownership (the return of Adulterine castles to their original owners), which gave men additional motivation to ditch wives whose dowries had become worthless 3. The earlier medieval period had slightly more flexibility in how different bishops interpreted church law, making Beatrice’s eventual freedom more plausible
But Isabel’s story—documented, real, heartbreaking—shows that this wasn’t just a 12th-century problem. This was how medieval marriage worked for centuries.
Beatrice’s Fight
When readers meet Beatrice in Tempted by Beauty, she’s hiding at Beauforde Castle, pretending to be a servant. She’s been told by Father de Wolde that she can never remarry, that she’s condemned as a “fornicator,” and that her son Edward is illegitimate.
She believes her life is over. She believes the shame will follow her forever.
And then Gilbret proposes marriage.
Her first response is refusal—she can’t marry him, it’s against church law, she won’t risk his soul. But Father Ascelin, who’s studied the actual canon law (not just the propaganda), finds the loophole: her husband is dead, so she’s technically free.
The fight to overturn the annulment and restore Edward’s legitimacy is a different battle—one that requires finding a sympathetic bishop willing to challenge Robert de Chesney’s authority, and a great deal of money.
But the immediate crisis—Beatrice’s inability to remarry—is solved by that one crucial fact: Walter is dead.
Isabel le Despenser never had that option. Richard lived on, married Eleanor of Lancaster, and presumably lived happily ever after with his new, better-connected wife.
The Historical Research Behind the Romance
Writing historical romance means walking a fine line between historical accuracy and the emotional satisfaction readers (and I!) want from a love story.
Isabel’s story is a tragedy. There’s no happy ending for her or for Edmund.
But Beatrice’s story—set in a slightly earlier century, with a husband who conveniently dies before he can remarry, and with allies like Father Ascelin who know the actual law—can have the happy ending that Isabel deserved but never got.
I didn’t change the history. The church laws I describe are accurate. The bishop’s corruption is historically plausible (even conservative). The consequences for repudiated women and their children are precisely what happened to real women throughout the Middle Ages.
What I changed was the outcome. I gave Beatrice the loophole that saves her. I gave her Gilbret, who sees her as a woman worth fighting for rather than a wife to be discarded. I gave her allies who help her fight back instead of abandoning her to her fate.
And I gave her son Edward the protection and legitimacy that Edmund FitzAlan never reclaimed.
Why I Write These Stories
Every time I dive into medieval history for my novels, I’m struck by how desperately unjust the system was—especially for women. The church, which claimed to protect the vulnerable and uphold morality, was often complicit in the worst abuses.
But I also find the resisters: priests like Father Ascelin who actually studied the law and found the loopholes. Women like Beatrice who refused to accept their disgrace quietly. Men like Gilbret who were willing to risk everything to protect the people they loved.
Those resisters are the heart of my stories.
Isabel le Despenser didn’t get her happy ending. But in my novel, Beatrice does. And every time a reader finishes Tempted by Beauty and feels that satisfaction of justice finally being served, I think of Isabel and all the other repudiated women who deserved so much better.
This one’s for them.
Tempted by Beauty is available now on Amazon and through Draft2Digital (Apple Books, Kobo, Barnes & Noble). If you’re interested in medieval romance that grapples with real historical injustices—and gives women the happy endings they deserved—I hope you’ll give it a try.
Next month in “From History to You,” I’ll be diving into trial by combat: how it actually worked, who could demand one, and how Gilbret uses it to challenge the lies told about Beatrice.
Until then, happy reading!
Cate ❣
Historical Note: Richard FitzAlan’s annulment of his marriage to Isabel le Despenser is documented in historical records from the 14th century (1326-1346). While I’ve set my novel in the 12th century, the church laws governing annulment remained essentially consistent across medieval centuries. The specific details about Richard’s petition to the Pope, his claim of coercion after twenty years of marriage, and the devastating consequences for Isabel and their son Edmund are all historically accurate. Historians are uncertain about some dates, including Richard’s exact birth year, but the core facts of this case—and its injustice—are well-documented.