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Coronation street epitomises strong northern women

This week has felt rather different from most others. For the first time, Joan Beaufort has begun to feel less like a distant historical figure and more like someone whose life I am genuinely beginning to understand.

I have spent much of the week working on the opening sections of my Joan Beaufort biography, particularly the introduction and Chapter One. There is something slightly daunting about beginning a first history book after years of writing talks, blog posts and academic work. A book feels more permanent somehow. It demands not only research, but structure, confidence and patience. Some days I have felt immersed in fourteenth-century England; on others I have stared at the screen wondering whether any of it truly works at all.

Alongside the writing itself, I have also been exploring publishing options. I have had encouraging communication with a publisher, which has given me some hope that Joan’s story might finally find the wider audience she deserves. At the same time, I have also been researching alternative publishers and considering what route might best suit a serious but accessible work of medieval history. The publishing world can feel almost as complex and political as the late medieval court itself.

Much of the week has also been spent searching archives, chasing references and trying to untangle long-repeated assumptions from actual evidence. That process, although often frustrating, is also one of the things I enjoy most. There is a strange excitement in finding a small overlooked detail buried in a patent roll, ecclesiastical register or nineteenth-century antiquarian text. Slowly, a clearer picture begins to emerge.

What has surprised me most, however, is how much I have begun to like Joan Beaufort herself.

History has often treated Joan as an appendage to others — daughter of Katherine Swynford, wife of Ralph Neville, mother of Cecily Neville. Yet the more I read, the more I sense a woman of intelligence, resilience and political awareness moving quietly through an unstable world. She survived scandal by birth, dynastic insecurity, political upheaval and the constant demands placed upon aristocratic women, eventually becoming matriarch of one of the most powerful family networks in England.

Perhaps it is not entirely surprising that I feel drawn toward writing about strong northern women.

Long before Joan Beaufort entered my life, my MA dissertation explored another formidable northern female world: the women of the UK soap opera Coronation Street. Although separated by six centuries, there is something oddly familiar in the emotional strength, endurance, wit and survival strategies of women navigating difficult environments. Medieval noblewomen and Weatherfield matriarchs may appear very different on the surface, but both inhabit worlds shaped by family loyalties, reputation, power and resilience.

One of the pleasures of historical writing is discovering those unexpected human connections across time.

At the start of this project Joan Beaufort felt important. Now she is also beginning to feel real.

 May 10th marks the anniversary of the death of Katherine Swynford in 1403. She died in Lincoln, probably at the so-called Priory within the Cathedral Close, and may well have been in declining health for some time before her death. Over six centuries later, her presence still lingers quietly across the city she came to call home.

Katherine remains one of the most recognisable women of fourteenth-century England. To many, she is remembered primarily through the lens of romance: the long relationship with John of Gaunt, the eventual marriage, and the extraordinary rise of their Beaufort children. It is certainly a remarkable story, but I have increasingly come to feel that reducing Katherine to a romantic heroine alone does her a considerable injustice.

What fascinates me most is not simply the love story, but the woman herself. Katherine survived at the heart of one of the most dangerous royal courts in medieval Europe. She endured public criticism, political upheaval, widowhood, exile from court life, and the uncertainties of dynastic politics, yet emerged with influence, dignity, and lasting significance. In many ways she represents something more complex and more interesting: an intelligent, resilient, and independent medieval woman navigating a world largely controlled by men.

Lincoln forms an important part of that story. Here she spent some of the final years of her life. Here she died. Here she was buried in Lincoln Cathedral beside her daughter Joan Beaufort, Countess of Westmorland. Even now, standing near their tombs in the Cathedral, there is a powerful sense that these are not simply distant historical figures but women whose lives shaped the course of English history.

Increasingly, my own research has begun to turn towards Joan Beaufort. Overshadowed at times by both her parents and her descendants, Joan was nevertheless one of the great matriarchs of fifteenth-century England. Through her children and grandchildren, her influence stretched deep into the Wars of the Roses and ultimately towards the Tudor dynasty itself. Yet Joan also had her own story of power, family, grief, survival, and political importance.

As I begin my journey into historical non-fiction writing, it is Joan who is increasingly drawing me in. There is something compelling about attempting to recover the lives of medieval women not simply as supporting figures in the stories of powerful men, but as individuals who shaped events in their own right.

Perhaps that, ultimately, is what continues to draw me back to Katherine Swynford and her family. Their story is not simply one of romance or scandal, but of legacy, resilience, motherhood, ambition, survival, and memory. And in Lincoln, their story still feels very much alive.

The last couple of weeks have been spent debating whether I could actually write a book about Joan Beaufort. Given my lifetime of imposter syndrome I can think of many reasons why I shouldn’t. However at my stage of life there is a strong argument there is nothing to loose and I might actually enjoy it.

So I have accumulated a pile of biographies, a jumble of documents from the National Archives and a whole host of other potentially useful records.

It is clear at this stage that planning is going to be the most important part of the whole project.

It’s tempting to rush into writing, but with Joan that simply isn’t going to work. She isn’t a figure with a ready-made narrative. More often, she appears briefly—through family connections, landholdings, or the actions of others—before disappearing again. So the first  has to be to take a step back andthink carefully about how her story can be told.

At the moment, my focus is on shaping the approach rather than drafting chapters. Do I follow a

straightforward chronological structure, or build the book around themes—power, land, family,

widowhood? Joan sits at the centre of all of these, but rarely in a way that is obvious at first glance.

A lot of this stage is about mapping: identifying where she appears in the records, and just as

importantly, where she doesn’t. That means working through sources and resisting the temptation to write yet, but to understand the landscape I’m dealing with.Place is also feeding into the planning. 

Locations such as Raby Castle and Lincoln Cathedral are helping me think about structure. These aren’t just settings—they may well become anchors for different parts of the book.

I’m also very aware of what I don’t want to do. Joan is too often reduced to a supporting

role—daughter of Katherine Swynford, or matriarch of a family caught up in the Wars of the Roses. I need to find a way to keep her at the centre, even when the story of those around her take centre stage.

So for now, this is slow, deliberate work. No dramatic breakthroughs, just building a framework that feels honest to the evidence. If I get this stage right, the writing should follow

 

Painting of Joan

Painting of Ralph first Earl of Westmorland

Raby

Visiting Raby Castle as part of my ongoing research for a forthcoming talk on Joan Beaufort.

What a place. Peaceful, beautiful and steeped in history — yet once home to one of the most influential women of the fifteenth century.

Raby is forever linked with Joan’s marriage to Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmorland. Together they had fourteen children, and through them Joan became ancestress to an extraordinary cast of later history. Their daughter Eleanor Neville was mother of Henry Percy, Hotspur. Cecily Neville became mother of Edward IV and Richard III. Another grandson was Richard Neville, remembered as the Kingmaker.

Yet Joan’s life was no fairytale. Her first marriage to Robert Ferrers brought two daughters before early widowhood. Her second marriage brought status and power, but also years of bitter inheritance dispute with her Neville stepchildren.

After Ralph’s death, Joan appears to have turned increasingly to religion and later took a vow of chastity — perhaps understandable after a lifetime of childbearing, politics and family conflict.

It strikes me that Joan’s story is so often told through others: in books about Katherine Swynford as daughter, or Cecily Neville as mother. Yet Joan herself deserves centre stage. I am increasingly tempted to try to tell her story myself.

For now, Raby was a reminder that Joan Beaufort was never merely adjacent to history. She helped shape it.

Millennium window Harby

Harby Church today

Victorian representation

Looking towards the supposed site of Harby Manor

In November of that year, Eleanor was travelling with Edward I. By the 13th, her health was clearly failing, and the court left Clipstone heading towards Lincoln, perhaps intending to visit the shrine of Hugh of Lincoln to pray for her recovery. The journey, however, was cut short. On 20 November, Eleanor was brought to Harby, to the manor house of Richard de Weston—a reminder that this was not a grand royal residence, but a local house drawn suddenly into royal history. Suffering from what contemporaries described as a “slow fever,” she declined steadily over the following days.

Her final hours were carefully attended. Present at her deathbed were the local priest, William de Kelm, and the Bishop of Lincoln, Oliver Sutton. On the evening of 28 November 1290, Eleanor died. The setting could hardly have been more modest, yet the consequences of that moment would extend across the whole of England.

The response was immediate and practical. Eleanor’s body was taken to St Catherine’s Priory in Lincoln, where it was eviscerated and embalmed. Her viscera were buried in Lincoln Cathedral, while her body and heart began the long journey south. On the morning of 4 December, the funeral cortège set out on the first stage of a journey of some 172 miles to Westminster Abbey. Travelling in the short daylight hours of December, it moved along medieval roads, stopping at twelve places that would later be marked by the Eleanor Crosses. These monuments have come to dominate the narrative, fixing Eleanor’s memory across the landscape, but Harby was the point from which that process began.

Edward did not forget the place of her death. At Harby he founded a chantry chapel so that prayers would be said for Eleanor’s soul in perpetuity. Consecrated in 1294 and served by its first incumbent, Roger de Newton, the chantry was supported by an endowment that included the manor of Navenby. Unlike the great crosses, which proclaimed royal grief in public, the chantry represented something quieter and more enduring: a daily act of remembrance rooted in place. It is here that Edward’s words—“I loved her dearly during her lifetime … I shall not cease to love her now that she is dead”—feel most appropriate.

The medieval church associated with these events has not survived intact. Rebuilt over centuries and ultimately replaced in 1877, the present building stands on the same site, carrying forward layers of memory rather than preserving a single moment in time. Within it, one of the most striking commemorations of Eleanor is the stained glass window installed in 2008.

Designed and made by Lincoln Cathedral glazier Stephen Lewis, the window commemorates Eleanor’s death at Harby and, more broadly, celebrates two thousand years of Christianity. Eleanor stands at its centre, framed by her heraldry—the arms of León and Castile, England, and Ponthieu. Around her, twelve crosses flow across the design, symbolising the original Eleanor Crosses and echoing the stages of her funeral journey.

At the heart of the window, a roundel places the cross itself as the central symbol of Christianity, accompanied by a carnation and narcissus—emblems of enduring love and resurrection. It is a composition that brings together dynastic identity, personal loss, and theological meaning within a single visual narrative.

The use of stained glass is particularly apt. As the light changes, so too does the image: colours deepen, soften, and shift, and the sequence of crosses seems almost to move. In this way, Eleanor’s final journey is not simply depicted but quietly re-enacted, carried again in light across the interior of the church.

Other traces of Eleanor remain: a statue set into the tower, heraldry that anchors her identity, and smaller details that connect past and present. Yet even here, memory is not entirely secure. A brass plate by the altar rail records her death as 27 November 1290, a small but telling error that reminds us how easily history can shift in the act of commemoration.

Standing in the churchyard today, looking out across the fields, there is little to suggest that this was once the setting for a royal death. There is no sense of spectacle, no grand architectural statement—only the quiet continuity of a village landscape. And yet from this place, Eleanor’s memory travelled the length of England: fixed in stone, carried in ritual, and sustained here, most quietly of all, in prayer, glass, and light.

 

Harby is not simply where Eleanor died. It is where her memory began.

 

It has been on my mind for months to find a walk that explores the Kettlethorpe estate as it might have been in the time of Katherine and Hugh. Not just to walk it, but to try—properly—to find Katherine within her own landscape here in Lincolnshire. With the help of a leaflet available in Kettlethorpe Church, I have finally managed to piece together a short 4.5-mile route that does exactly that.

In glorious sunshine this afternoon, with my wife Rosemary and Henry—our cockapoo, on his lead throughout—we set out from the door of Kettlethorpe Church to test it.

The route takes you first to Fenton, then on to Laughterton, before an out-and-back stretch down to the River Trent via Marsh Lane. On the surface, it is a straightforward rural walk. But look more closely and it maps almost perfectly onto what was once the core of a medieval estate of around 3,000 acres, centred on Kettlethorpe and worked through settlements like Fenton and Laughterton.

Fenton feels exactly what it would have been: working land. Productive, organised, and essential to the estate. Laughterton is different. Its long, linear form still hints at planning—at structure imposed rather than grown. You begin to see that this is not random countryside, but something shaped, managed, and understood.

And then, if you slow down and actually look, the land starts to give itself away.

In places the pasture rises and falls in long, gentle waves—ridge and furrow. Medieval ploughing, still there under your feet. These are the strips worked by tenants of the estate, turned over season after season, year after year, building up those ridges almost imperceptibly. It is one of those moments where the past stops being abstract. You are not imagining it—you are standing in it.

We stopped in Laughterton to read the memorial to the two RAF crashes in 1944. A Stirling lost on a training flight. A Lancaster returning from operations. It is a quiet, understated memorial, but it shifts something. The same fields, six centuries later, carrying very different lives and very different losses. It doesn’t feel like an addition to the story—it feels like part of the same place continuing.

From there, Marsh Lane takes you down towards the Trent. The name alone tells you what you need to know. This is marshland—low, wet, and always slightly uncertain. In Katherine’s time, before any modern drainage, this would have been ground that demanded attention. Sometimes valuable, sometimes problematic, always needing to be managed. The estate didn’t just sit on the land—it had to work with it.

And then the Trent itself. Wide, slow, and deceptively calm. A boundary, a resource, and at times no doubt a problem. Standing there, it is easier to understand the scale of what Katherine held here—not just status, but responsibility. Land, water, people, obligation.

This walk doesn’t give you spectacle. It gives you something better.

It gives you a landscape that still makes sense.

And for me, that is where Katherine is easiest to find—not in the grandeur of Lincoln Cathedral, but here, in the fields around Kettlethorpe, where her life was actually lived.

 On Saturday 14 March I had the pleasure of attending a talk by historian Alison Weir on Katherine Swynford in the beautiful setting of the Chapter House at Lincoln Cathedral.

It was a glorious spring day in Lincoln and the Chapter House looked particularly magnificent. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, casting vivid colours across the stone walls and floor. Anyone familiar with the space will know how dramatically it can change with the weather; on a grey day it can feel rather cold and cavernous, but in bright sunshine it becomes a wonderfully atmospheric place in which to listen to history being brought to life.

Alison spoke for around fifty minutes about the life of Katherine Swynford. Her talk was eloquent, engaging and inspirational, and it was clear that the audience was captivated by the story she told. The structure of the talk followed the central arguments of her biography of Katherine, but what made it particularly effective was the way she interspersed the narrative with quotations from Chaucer and other contemporary chroniclers. These voices from the medieval world helped place Katherine firmly within the cultural and political context of the fourteenth century.

One aspect of the talk that particularly struck me was Alison’s effort to “rehabilitate” the reputation of John of Gaunt. In popular history Gaunt is often portrayed in a rather negative light, yet Alison emphasised his achievements and his steadfast loyalty to the English crown. It was a thoughtful and balanced perspective, and one that I suspect deserves more attention. It also reminded me that this is something I should address more fully in my own talks about Katherine.

The event itself was clearly a success. The Chapter House was well filled, the audience attentive, and there was a real sense of enthusiasm for Katherine’s story. It is encouraging to see such interest in a figure who for so long has been somewhat overlooked outside specialist circles. Perhaps it also signals that Lincoln Cathedral is continuing its journey in recognising the significance of Duchess Katherine within the history of Lincoln.

Finally, I must thank Alison Weir for such a wonderful talk. She came across as both charming and generous with her time, remaining afterwards to speak with members of the audience, sign books and pose for photographs. I was delighted to have my own copy of her biography signed, which will serve as a pleasant reminder of an enjoyable and memorable afternoon.

 

I was recently given a copy of Cry God for Harry, the 1971 novel by Martha Rofheart. Unsurprisingly, given its title, it centres on Henry V of England.

The early chapters are narrated by a young Hal, long before he becomes king. What I had not expected, and what genuinely delighted me, was the appearance of Katherine Swynford as “Kat”, Hal’s step-grandmother.

She is warm, capable and beautiful. Entirely unthreatening. Loved by Hal and respected by his formidable father, Henry IV.

In short, she is sympathetic, human and entirely engaging.

Reading this portrayal prompted a simple question. Where else does Katherine Swynford walk quietly through fiction, sometimes almost unnoticed?

A Note on Historical Liberties

Before I am accused of romantic indulgence, a small corrective is necessary.

Cry God for Harry is highly readable, but it is not always historically precise.

In the novel, John of Gaunt dies at Monmouth. In reality he died at Leicester Castle in 1399. Monmouth is associated with Henry’s birth, not Gaunt’s death, making this a curious relocation.

More puzzling still is the suggestion that Katherine enters a convent after Gaunt’s death. There is no historical evidence for this. After 1399 she lived quietly, managing her estates, including Kettlethorpe, until her death in 1403. The convent episode feels narratively convenient but historically unfounded.

The book also refers to the Black Prince as “king”. He never reigned, having predeceased his father, Edward III.

None of these issues render the novel unreadable. Far from it. The book remains vivid and engaging, and its portrayal of “Kat” is genuinely touching. It simply reminds us that historical fiction, particularly that written in the 1970s, often favoured atmosphere over archival precision.

In that sense the novel is very much a product of its time, and that too has its own fascination.

The Obvious Katherine

Any exploration of Katherine in fiction must begin with the novel that defined her for generations of readers: Katherine by Anya Seton. Few works of historical fiction have shaped popular understanding of a medieval figure so profoundly.

More recently, Anne O’Brien has placed Katherine firmly at centre stage in The Scandalous Duchess, portraying her as a politically aware and determined woman navigating the complex world of the Lancastrian court.

Katherine also appears in O’Brien’s The King’s Sister and in her novel about Alice Perrers, The King’s Concubine, where she forms part of the wider domestic and political landscape surrounding John of Gaunt.

Elizabeth Chadwick is also preparing a novel centred on Katherine, which promises to place her once again within the broader political realities of the Plantagenet world.

Not every fictional portrayal convinces. Carol Sargent’s Katherine and the self-published The Mistress, the Matriarch and the Virgin Queen are earnest attempts, but Katherine is not an easy woman to capture. She requires subtlety, intelligence and a certain steel beneath the surface.

Katherine at the Edges of the Story

What has begun to interest me most are the novels where Katherine appears not as the central figure but as part of the background fabric of the period.

In My Lord John by Georgette Heyer she appears within the orbit of John of Gaunt’s household. She is not the focus of the narrative, but her presence is unmistakable.

In Emma Campion’s The King’s Mistress, a novel centred on Alice Perrers, Katherine appears as part of Gaunt’s domestic world. Again she is not the protagonist, but she is clearly there.

Bruce Holsinger’s A Burnable Book, a darker political thriller set in the 1380s, places Katherine within the tense atmosphere of Richard II’s court. Here she is less romantic heroine and more a figure within the machinery of power.

Even in the medieval mystery world of The Bishop’s Tale by Margaret Frazer she appears indirectly through the Chaucer and Beaufort family connections.

And then there is Katherine’s House by Sarah Hogg, which I very much enjoyed. In this novel Katherine becomes part of the memory of place itself, with Kettlethorpe emerging almost as a character in its own right.

A Persistent Presence

What becomes clear when looking across these works is that Katherine Swynford is remarkably difficult to avoid.

She may not always be the protagonist, but she remains central to the historical landscape of the late fourteenth century.

Any story involving John of Gaunt inevitably encounters her. Any exploration of the Beaufort line must acknowledge her. Even narratives centred on Henry IV are shaped by the altered domestic and dynastic context she helped create.

Sometimes she occupies only a page or a passing reference. Yet even then she changes the context of the story around her.

That may explain why she continues to surface in fiction in so many different ways. Not always as heroine, but as a necessary presence within the narrative structure of the period.

An Open Investigation

Which brings me to a confession.

This list is almost certainly incomplete.

There must be novels sitting on forgotten shelves, long out of print, perhaps even in translation, where Katherine appears quietly as a supporting figure. She may be called Kat, the Duchess of Lancaster, Philippa Chaucer’s sister, or simply the mother of the Beauforts.

If you have encountered her in an unexpected place in fiction, I would be very interested to hear about it.

Consider this an open investigation.

The heritage detective in me strongly suspects that Katherine Swynford is hiding in far more novels than we might imagine.

I 

How Lincoln cathedral choir to promote Katherine Swynford tours

Looking at the information apropos the 2026  Lincoln Cathedral Katherine Swynford tours I was struck by the descriptions of Katherine used.

“Sorceress.”

“She-devil and enchantress.”

“Unspeakable concubine.”

“An adulterer and pursuer of luxury.”

These phrases are not inventions. Hostile commentary directed at Katherine appears in late fourteenth-century political discourse, particularly during the period surrounding the Good Parliament of 1376 and subsequent anti-Lancastrian agitation (Goodman, 1992; Saul, 1997).

But quotation is not interpretation.When such language is foregrounded without contextual framing, it risks reproducing factional rhetoric rather 

John of Gaunt was the wealthiest and most powerful magnate in England for much of Richard II’s reign. Criticism of Gaunt frequently surfaced in parliamentary complaint and popular unrest (Goodman, 1992; Saul, 1997). Women associated with political power in the later Middle Ages were often attacked through moralised and gendered language — accusations of sorcery, sexual manipulation, or corrupting influence were common tropes (Barron, 1984; Walker, 1990).

The language used about Katherine reflects this political climate. It tells us more about factional hostility and anxieties surrounding Gaunt’s influence than about Katherine’s documented conduct.

To present such rhetoric without explanation risks perpetuating precisely the narrative constructed by her opponents.

More Than a Mistress

Katherine married John of Gaunt at Lincoln in January 1396. The marriage was public and canonically valid (Goodman, 1992). Following their union, she became Duchess of Lancaster — the highest-ranking noblewoman in England outside the royal family.

Her four Beaufort children, born before the marriage, were legitimated by papal bull (1396) and confirmed by royal letters patent (1397) (Given-Wilson and Curteis, 1984). Through the Beaufort line, she stands in the ancestry of the Tudor dynasty and, by extension, the present monarch These are not marginal details.

Rehabilitation and Respectability

By the end of her life, Katherine was not a political scandal but a recognised duchess and widow of Gaunt. She was buried with dignity in Lincoln Cathedral in 1403, and her daughter Joan Beaufort was later interred nearby (Goodman, 1992).Her chantry foundation and burial location signal status, not disgrace. If fourteenth-century England could accommodate her rehabilitation, modern heritage interpretation can surely manage nuance.

The Responsibility of Heritage

It is I personally believe important that any use of this type of language is balanced by recognising Katherine Swynford was:

• Duchess of Lancaster
• A substantial landholder
• Political consort to the realm’s most powerful magnate
• Matriarch of the Beaufort line
• Ancestress of later ruling dynasties

Reducing her primarily to the language of scandal risks replicating medieval propaganda rather than illuminating it.

History deserves proportion, and so does Katherine.

References

Barron, C.M. (1984) ‘The Good Parliament and the Peasants’ Revolt’, in Hilton, R. and Aston, T.H. (eds.) The English Rising of 1381. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Given-Wilson, C. and Curteis, A. (1984) The Royal Bastards of Medieval England. London: Routledge.

Goodman, A. (1992) John of Gaunt: The Exercise of Princely Power in Fourteenth-Century Europe. London: Longman.

Saul, N. (1997) Richard II. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Walker, S. (1990) ‘Political Saints? Women and Power in Late Medieval England’, History Today, 40(6), pp. 14–20.

 The dates for these fascinating tours have been announced.

I can highly recommend them and the opportunity to visit one of Katherine’s homes is an incredible privilege.

They do sell out very quickly so time is of the essence for anyone interested 

https://lincolncathedral.com/events/katherine-swynford-tour/