Category Archives: Fourteenth Century

Anatomy of a Castle – The Chapel

During my travels earlier in the year, I saw various kinds of chapels in different parts of castles. I knew that many castles had churches in the bailey and that space inside the castle buildings was at a premium, so I hadn’t really thought that there were many chapels in castles. I was wrong.

I saw three different types of chapel. The first type was the private chapel, usually just off the living quarters of the man who held the castle. The second was a more public chapel for the use of soldiers and members of the household. The third was a huge space, due to the castle concerned having previously been a bishop’s palace. I wasn’t sure whether I should include that one, but I have, as you’ll see below.

The original chapel, from which all others took their name, was the one in which the kings of France kept the cloak (chapele) of St Martin of Tours. St Martin was a bishop in the fourth century. His legend says that he cut his cloak in half to share it with a ragged beggar who later turned out to be Christ. The shrine which held the cloak was a place of private worship for the kings.

Having a private chapel in a castle, however small, seems to me to be a huge luxury.  It’s difficult to imagine the lord, his wife and their immediate family and closest members of their household cramming into a tiny space for mass, though. Unless they were built for royalty, they do tend to be very small.

There is a private chapel at Conisbrough Castle, built into one of the buttresses of the Great Tower. It was built at the end of the twelfth century and shows the great wealth of the man who had it built. It’s off the lord’s solar, so you had to have access to that space in order to enter the chapel.

Chapel, the keep, Conisbrough Castle

Chapel, the Great Tower, Conisbrough Castle

Even while the lord was away, the chapel priest at Consibrough Castle prayed for his soul daily, as well as those of his wife, their fathers and Henry II, who was the king at the time.

The chapel tapers to a point, but isn’t very wide anywhere. It must have been crowded if anyone joined the lord and his wife for mass.

This is the vault of the chapel, which I share simply because the stonework here is rather impressive.

Vault of chapel, the keep, Conisbrough Castle

The vault of the chapel in the Great Tower, Conisbrough Castle

This is the lower chapel at Old Sarum. It was dedicated to St. Margaret and was probably used by the soldiers and servants of the castle. Above it was a chapel dedicated to St Nicholas. It was in the upper chapel that the royal family heard mass when they were in residence.

Lower chapel, courtyard house, Old Sarum

Lower Chapel, Old Sarum

The chapel for the soldiers at Richmond Castle was a lot less spacious. Also dedicated to St Nicholas, it was built in the eleventh century into the wall surrounding the bailey. It’s tiny, not much more than 6 feet wide. You can just see the niche to the left of the main window which is thought to have held candles. There’s a similar one on the other side. There are benches around three of the walls and the arches that you can see above the bench were supported by painted pillars. It’s worth bearing in mind that this chapel, like the others pictured here, would have been decorated with brightly coloured paintings on the walls and the ceilings.

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The Chapel, Richmond Castle

At Prudhoe Castle a space in the gatehouse was converted into a chapel in the thirteenth century. Given its size and functional brickwork, my guess would be that it was for the soldiers and not the nobility.

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The Chapel, Prudhoe Castle

The building below is presumed to be the chapel at Sherborne Old Castle. The upper space was the bishop’s chapel and the lower space that of the lowlier members of the household. Sherborne Old Castle was built by Roger, Bishop of Sarum, who was chancellor to Henry I.  You’ll recognise that the arrangement is the same as that at Old Sarum, where Bishop Roger also had a hand. Although it was fortified, Sherborne Old Castle was more a palace for the bishop than a castle. When it was first built, it was full of clerics and their servants, and might have been run on monastic lines. I’m not sure how much use such a huge chapel would have seen once the castle took on a more secular role.

Chapel, Sherborne Old Castle

The Chapel, Sherborne Old Castle

A lasting feature of medieval chapels and churches is the piscina.

Piscina, chapel in keep, Conisbrough Castle

Piscina, Chapel, Conisbrough Castle

As you can see, a piscina is a stone basin in which the chalice and paten were washed after mass. It was the priest who washed them, because his fingers had been in contact with the host and the wine, which were believed to have become the body and blood of Christ. His fingers and the vessels had to be cleaned and the water in the piscina drained away to the consecrated ground outside. In a church or an abbey this would be all the surrounding ground, but I’m not sure how this was managed in a castle.

In my novels the castles usually have churches in the bailey, but I’m beginning to see the dramatic possibilities of a private chapel.

Sources:

Conisbrough Castle by Steven Brindle and Agnieszka Sadraei

Sherborne Old Castle by Peter White

Old Sarum by John McNeill

Richmond Castle by John Goodall

Prudhoe Castle by Susie West

A Dictionary of Medieval Terms and Phrases by Christopher Corédon and Ann Williams

The Companion to Cathedrals and Abbeys by Stephen Friar

April Munday is the author of the Soldiers of Fortune and Regency Spies series of novels, as well as standalone novels set in the fourteenth century.

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May Pottage

May Pottage

This post completes the year of pottage. I had planned to stop here anyway, but I can’t get dried peas in the supermarket any longer and, having discovered that I’m allergic to raw peas (probably), I don’t want to grow my own. Most of the fun in growing peas is opening a pod in the garden and eating the contents still warm from the sun.  It’s not worth a swollen face, though. Without dried peas to add flavour during the winter months, pottage would be very bland.

We’re very much in the thin time of the year in May. There’s nothing in my garden to be eaten except herbs. I have lots of blood sorrel, parsley, chives and sage. They’re all very tasty, but I wouldn’t want to have to live on them. There are also dandelion leaves, if you let them grow, which I don’t.

So, what did my fourteenth-century housewife cook in May? Towards the end of the month, peas might be available. Lettuce is coming up. Spinach is another possibility, although mine is only a couple of inches tall. In some parts of the country you might be able to pick beetroot by now, but mine has only just germinated. If I grew them, radishes would be worth eating, but I wouldn’t want to make a pottage with them.

In the end I decided to use spring greens, as I did last month. Someone pointed out recently that I haven’t used mushrooms in a pottage, so I put some in this one. They wouldn’t be at their best at this time of year in the fourteenth century, but they would have been available. I have managed to grow a few mushrooms, but I suspect the medieval housewife would have gathered them from the wild. I bought mine from the supermarket.

I cut up the spring greens and put them in a large pot with a bit of water. Then I added parsley and chives from the garden to give it a bit more taste. Once the spring greens had wilted, I added the quartered mushrooms. It probably would have been better if I’d sliced them.

I have to confess that this pottage was not a great success. The mushrooms were fine, but the spring greens were very chewy. It was edible, but it would not have provided much nourishment.

It’s been an interesting experiment over the last twelve months. Although a lot of what I ate was tasty, I think it would be very monotonous for a modern person not used to being restricted to what was available at a particular time of the year. My fourteenth-century housewife would not have dreamt that food could be available out of season, but might still have felt that she couldn’t face another cabbage by this time of the year.

 

April Munday is the author of the Soldiers of Fortune and Regency Spies series of novels, as well as standalone novels set in the fourteenth century.

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April Pottage

April Pottage

April is a bit of a sparse month with regard to vegetables. There’s nothing in my garden that would form the centrepiece of a pottage, so I bought a head of spring greens from the greengrocer. As the names suggests, they’re in season and the cabbage that a medieval housewife would have had available at this time of year was more open than the tight heads that we have now, so they resembled spring greens.

What my garden does have, as you can see from the photograph below, is a few herbs.  From left to right there are chives, parsley, savory, blood sorrel and lemon balm. Thanks to my single parsley plant going mad producing seeds after last year’s hot summer, there’s a lot of parsley, so I picked some of that as well as some chives to take the place of onions as flavouring.

Herbs (2)

I thought the medieval housewife might have run out of barley by now, so I just used the leaves I had. As usual, there’s no pepper or salt and no stock. The leaves were wilted in the pot, as I didn’t want the pottage to have any liquid.

I did eat some bread with it to give it a bit of body, but the pottage itself was very tasty. I can’t say that it was particularly filling. Lent’s over, though, and the medieval family is able to eat eggs, cheese and meat, if they can get any.

 

April Munday is the author of the Soldiers of Fortune and Regency Spies series of novels, as well as standalone novels set in the fourteenth century.

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Medieval Hospitals

God's House Tower

God’s House Tower, Southampton

Hospitals might not be something that you associate with the fourteenth century, but most towns had one, if not two. Many were founded in the twelfth century and were the result of both the First Crusade and what might be considered a spiritual revival at that time.

Hospitals were religious institutions. Monasteries and convents had always had infirmaries where sick and elderly members of the community were cared for. From the twelfth century that care was extended formally to the community beyond the walls of the abbeys. Hospitals were usually staffed by monks and nuns, but sometimes a physician was employed as well.

Medieval hospitals took many forms. They could be hostels for pilgrims, hospices for the dying, almshouses for the aged poor, or a hospital for the sick poor. They were founded as acts of charity.

The hospital set up in  Jerusalem after the First Crusade in 1113 was a model for later hospitals. It had room for 1,000 to 2,000 beds with 150 staff. It cared mostly for poor people who were sick and for wounded Crusaders. It provided the ideal of what a hospital should be for many centuries. In the hospital the poor, the wounded and the sick were considered lords and those who looked after them their servants.

Hospitals were mainly for providing hospitality, which is where the name comes from. They were often called a Maison Dieu or Domus Dei. In English they were called God’s House. The hospital was a house because it was always part of a religious community, a household with God at the head. There are the remains of one near where I live dating back to the twelfth century. A God’s House was essentially a large hall where people could lie along the walls in beds. It had a chapel for prayers and mass.

In a hospital there would probably be a fire. Patients might have to share a bed, so the chances were good that you would catch something worse than the reason you were there in the first place. On the plus side, the floor and the sheets would be washed often, and mutton was prescribed, regardless of the illness. The inmates would probably be bathed as well as having their hair washed and their beards trimmed regularly.

There was another kind of hospital in medieval towns, but here the patients were not expected to survive their sickness. Until the arrival of the Black Death halfway through the fourteenth century, leprosy was probably the worst disease you could get. It wasn’t just the disease we know by that name today, but any disfiguring skin disease including eczema, psoriasis and lupus was considered to be leprosy.

Lepers were excluded from society, as it was considered to be extremely contagious.  Hospitals to house lepers were set up not within towns, but on roads into them. Leprosy was also considered to be incurable, so lepers weren’t expected to leave once they’d arrived. Ian Mortimer’s book, The Time Traveller’s Guide to Medieval England, has a very disturbing and distressing description of leprosy in the fourteenth century. Suffice it to say that it wasn’t uncommon for the fingers, toes and noses of sufferers to fall off.

There was a leper hospital a mile and a half away from where I’m writing this. Like God’s House, it was established in the twelfth century and was called the Hospital of St Mary Magdalene. In 1347 it received a grant of land from Edward III. It was supported by revenues from land that had been given to it on its foundation and by legacies. It also benefited from a tax of one penny on each tun of wine imported into the town, a not inconsiderable sum, given that Southampton was one of the main ports through which wine arrived from Bordeaux in the fourteenth century. Despite that, I doubt it was a pleasant place to inhabit.

Sources:

Medieval and Early Renaissance Medicine by Nancy G. Siraisi

The Time Traveller’s Guide to Medieval England by Ian Mortimer

Medieval Southampton by Colin Platt

Medieval Medicine: A Reader ed. Faith Wallis

April Munday is the author of the Soldiers of Fortune and Regency Spies series of novels, as well as standalone novels set in the fourteenth century.

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Medieval Phlebotomy

A_chart_showing_the_parts_of_the_body_to_be_bled_for_different_diseases

For some reason I had assumed that bloodletting wasn’t very common in the Middle Ages, but my current reading about medieval medicine has set me right. Even in the early Middle Ages it was far from unusual.

Bloodletting is a logical consequence of accepting that illness is caused by an imbalance of the humours. As medical texts from the Greek and Arabic-speaking worlds were translated into Latin from the twelfth century onwards, it became even more important as one of the physician’s many skills. Bloodletting was carried out by both surgeons and physicians, even though it was technically a surgical procedure.

One of the purposes of bloodletting was to allow the physician to make a diagnosis. An instruction book, probably written by Maurus of Salerno in the twelfth century, told the physician what to look for in the blood he collected from his patient. The physician was to examine it before, during and after coagulation. He was to look for viscosity, hotness or coldness, greasiness, taste, foaminess and speed of coagulation. You’ll note that this required him to do a bit more than just look at the blood.

The main purpose of bloodletting was to treat diseases by restoring balance between the humours.  All the four humours were present in blood, so an excess of one of them could be removed by drawing off some blood.

The most common place for bloodletting was the arm, in which there were three major veins: the cephalic, the median and the basilic. If the diagnosis was that the patient was melancholic, however, a vein in the forehead was more likely to be cut. The veins in the thumb were associated with pains in the head and the vein between the ankle and the foot was linked to diseases of the genitals.

There were detailed instruction books available to physicians telling them how to tie the arm to prepare the vein and how to make the cut. There were also instructions about how to avoid nerves and arteries near the site of the incision. The manuals also told them how to limit the bleeding when they were finished.

The patient’s diet before and after the bloodletting was important, as were the seasons of the year, the phases of the moon and the time of day when the procedure was carried out. Charts like the one above, which showed where on the body cuts should be made for bloodletting, often included diagrams of astrological influences on the patient. Each sign of the zodiac had power over a specific part of the body and the diseases that affected it. In the fourteenth century, physicians would consult an astrological table to find out when there was a favourable alignment in the heavens for the exact procedure they were proposing. Knowing where the moon was in relation to the signs of the zodiac meant that the physician knew where to cut, since the moon and the other planets drew the humours to different parts of the body. The physician had to examine astrological tables and calendars to hand before he could decide what to do.

There were other things to think about as well. Was it better to remove a lot of blood in one go or to make a number of incisions over a period of time? Should the blood be taken from the afflicted area or from the opposite side of the body to encourage the blood to move away from the site of the disease?

Most medieval practitioners were aware of the risks associated with bloodletting. They were advised that blood should not be taken from small children, pregnant women, the old or the weak. Although they didn’t know what caused it or what it really was, they also knew about the risk of infection. They didn’t know how to prevent it, though, and there was little they could do once a cut became infected.

Despite this, some people had regular bloodlettings. In the late twelfth century,  Peter the Venerable, Abbot of Cluny, wrote a letter to a medical expert asking for help with an illness of long-standing and mentioned that he had put off his bi-monthly bloodletting. He was obviously someone who believed in the preventative efficacy of bloodletting, which was a common practice for those wealthy enough to be able to look after their health. Blood was a warm and wet humour, and bloodletting could make the patient cooler and drier, ready to face a hot summer.

Leeches were also used for bloodletting, but very rarely. I couldn’t even find them listed in the indices of the reference books I used.

Sadly, despite its popularity, bloodletting achieved nothing other than, in some cases, weakening the patient. It was many centuries, however, before the practice was challenged.

Sources:

Medieval Bodies by Jack Hartnell

Medieval and Early Renaissance Medicine by Nancy G. Siraisi

 

April Munday is the author of the Soldiers of Fortune and Regency Spies series of novels, as well as standalone novels set in the fourteenth century.

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March Pottage

pease pottage

I’ve come up in the world a bit for my Lenten pottage. It’s got sugar, salt and oil in it. That’s because I’m following a recipe. I did baulk, though, at the saffron for which it also calls. Even today it’s too expensive for anything other than a special occasion.

The recipe comes from The Medieval Cookbook and is a very basic pea pottage. It’s March, so my medieval housewife is using things from her stores. Since it’s also Lent and no meat is allowed, the meal is completely vegetarian.

The two main ingredients are dried peas and onions. I soaked the peas overnight and boiled them in fresh water for half an hour before I added the onions.  They boiled together for an hour, then I removed them from the heat and mashed them. They could also be sieved. I added small amounts of oil, sugar and salt, then simmered for another ten minutes. In the Middle Ages, the thicker a pottage was the better it was considered to be, and none of my pottages so far have been very thick. This one was.

When I poured it into the bowl it looked like mushy peas, which is basically what it was, except for the onion. I doubt many people realise they’re getting a medieval dish when they have mushy peas with their fish and chips.

Not only was it very tasty, but it was also very filling. It’s not the most attractive pottage I’ve made, but it’s one I’d make again.

 

April Munday is the author of the Soldiers of Fortune and Regency Spies series of novels, as well as standalone novels set in the fourteenth century.

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Soap in the Fourteenth Century

B for Bath

There are a few things that were made during the fourteenth century that make me wonder why people thought that adding two (or more) specific things together would make something that they could use. For example, medieval ink was made from water, ground oak apples, gum and a rusty nail. I can understand why they thought the first three ingredients might work, but the addition of the rusty nail baffles me. Did someone drop it into the mix by accident or did he add it with some understanding of what might happen?

It’s the same thing with soap. Why would anyone think that adding lye to olive oil, or tallow (rendered animal fat) if you were making it in England, would make something you could wash with? 

It makes sense that people thought of lye (in this instance produced from potash) as a cleaning material. I mentioned last week that lye was used to bleach linen. It’s a caustic solution, though, and not the first thing that would come to mind when you’re thinking about cleaning your skin.

I should add that there are different types of lye, dependent on the type of plant involved. Lye was produced by mixing water with the ash of plants (usually wood, but other plants were also used), allowing it to stand for a while and then pouring off the water. The water was evaporated to concentrate the liquid and then added to the oil/fat.

Soap was used for washing clothes and, to a lesser extent, bodies.  Castile soap was the best quality soap available. As its name indicates, it came from Spain. It was made with olive oil and local potash. It came in hard cakes and was less caustic than soaps made in countries further north. It cost about 4d a cake, about two-thirds of a day’s wages for a skilled labourer in England. The white version was for cleaning the skin and the black version was for cleaning cloth. Similar types of soap were eventually made in Italy and Provence when they began importing soda ash from Egypt and Syria.

In England softer, more liquid soaps were made using tallow. They were white, grey and black and were used for cleaning cloth. They were fairly caustic, leaving washerwomen with blistered hands and legs.

Not surprisingly, for most people washing their skin meant using nothing more than water.

Sources:

The Time Traveller’s Guide to the Fourteenth Century by Ian Mortimer

Power and Profit: The Medieval Merchant in Europe by Peter Spufford

 

April Munday is the author of the Soldiers of Fortune and Regency Spies series of novels, as well as standalone novels set in the fourteenth century.

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Medieval linen

Battage_à_Fléau

Over the past month we’ve been looking at the manufacture of fabric for outer clothes in the Middle Ages: wool and silk. Now we’re taking a look at the fabric used for undergarments. These were not undergarments as we would think of them, but simple chemises or shirts, whose purpose was to keep the outer garments away from the skin. They kept the body’s oils and sweat from the expensive (and almost impossible to wash) wools and silks. It was the undergarments that would be washed, not the outer ones.

As you can see in the picture above, men also wore linen braies, which resemble what we would consider to be underwear today. The braies were usually covered by hose and tunics.

Linen is made from flax stems. It was harvested before the seeds ripened and soaked in water, often rivers, to rot the core. This polluted rivers and smelled dreadful. It’s another reminder of why so little water was fit to drink in the fourteenth century. Once the core had rotted away, the stems were dried, then beaten with wooden mallets to break them. Then they were scutched, which meant striking them with a wooden knife against a vertical wooden board. This released the fibres. The next stage was combing or heckling. This is a far more violent version of the combing undergone by wool. Everything to do with linen processing seems violent when compared to what happened to wool.

Here’s a lovely video about a more recent, but still traditional, process of growing, harvesting and preparing flax for spinning in Ireland.

Once it had been combed, the flax was ready for spinning. Here’s Josefin Waltin preparing her distaff for spinning flax. If ever you need something to calm you down and breathe more slowly, take a look at one of Josefin’s videos. There’s nothing hurried or urgent about them.

Most linen weaving took place in the countryside, where the flax was grown. It was a profitable business for those who could grow flax, and those who grew it usually spun and wove it. In addition to the thread, there was also oil to be harvested from the seeds, making it a very useful crop.

As you can see, flax is brown. It was usually bleached white before or after weaving. This took months. The bleach was made with lye produced from wood ashes. Sometimes lime was added as well. This soaking was the quick part of the process. Afterwards the lye was washed out and the linen cloth was stretched out in the fields to dry. This took anywhere between eight and sixteen weeks. It was all very seasonal, since the cloths could only really dry during the summer.

Like wool, the finished cloth was glazed with a heated glass ball. The same process was also carried out when the linen was washed, as it must have been fairly frequently.

Since it was easy to wash, linen was made into bed linen, tablecloths, napkins, towels, head coverings and aprons. Scraps were used as sanitary towels and toilet paper. Bits of moss and wool were also used for the latter purpose.

Linen from Champagne was generally regarded as the best in Europe. It was certainly the most expensive. The majority of the high-quality linen imported into England during the fourteenth century, however, came from Westphalia and Flanders. The best quality linen could be almost transparent and was used for veils in the fifteenth century.

In the later fourteenth century cotton was woven with linen to produce fustian. This fabric had the durability of linen and the fineness of cotton.

Sources:

Textiles and Clothing 1150 – 1450 by Elisabeth Crowfoot, Frances Pritchard, Kay Staniland

Power and Profit: The Merchant in Medieval Europe by Peter Spufford

 

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Medieval Silk

Meister_nach_Chang_Hsüan_001

Some years ago I read a novel set in the fourteenth century in which the heroine wears silk and satin gowns. I scoffed and read on. In my defence, the book was full of historical inaccuracies, and I thought this was just one more. I was convinced that silk didn’t arrive in Europe until much later. I have since learned that the author was correct and it was my own knowledge that was sadly lacking.

Silk came from the Far East. It was prized for its natural sheen and it even gave its name to the route by which it travelled west – the Silk Road. The method of making silk thread was a closely guarded secret in ancient China, but silk cloth arrived in Europe about 3,000 years ago. The secret of making silk and the means of making it didn’t come until the middle of the sixth century, when a servant of the Byzantine emperor smuggled silkworm eggs into Constantinople.

Silk thread comes from the cocoon of the larvae of the mulberry silkworm. In order for the silk thread to be extracted in one long piece, the larva couldn’t be allowed to mature, because it would eat its way out of the cocoon, breaking the thread into short pieces. It was killed by being dropped into boiling water or having a pin stuck in it.

Silk processing in Turkey

Silk thread being pulled in modern Turkey using traditional methods. Glossy silk thread on the wall. Photograph copyright C.J. Hyslop used with permission.

Italy was the main European centre of silk production in the fourteenth century, although Spain also made good quality silk.  Like every other medieval fabric, it took a lot of labour to make it.

The cocoon was first soaked in water in order to dissolve the substance that held it together. Eventually the ends of the threads would float to the surface and someone unravelled the cocoon. A single thread couldn’t be used on its own, so a number of threads were twisted together as they were wound into a skein. Water power was often used in this part of the process to reduce the labour required from hundreds of men to four.

Sometimes the thread would be washed again, but that didn’t always happen.  It was these threads that were sold for the manufacture of fabric. The skeins would be dyed before they were woven into fabric.

England had no silk looms in the fourteenth century. Any cloth that was used was imported, mostly from Moorish Spain, but also from Italy.

Silk was tremendously expensive and was only worn by the very wealthy. In her book, Fashion in the Middle Ages, Margaret Scott compares buying silk with buying a hand-built sports car. By weight, silk was more expensive than any other commodity, save pearls and precious stones. Yes, it was worth more than gold. It could be made even more expensive yet by being embroidered. This made it unimaginably costly, putting it out of the reach of even the very rich. Only royalty and a few nobles could afford it.

Satin was made from silk and it arrived in England in the late thirteenth century. By the end of the fourteenth century it was used for doublets, tunics, cushions, bed hangings, girdles and garters. It originated in the town of Quanzhou, which was corrupted in medieval Arabic to Zaitun.

Satin damask was also available in England towards the fourteenth century, when it was worn by Richard II and others at court. It had a shiny pattern set against a dull background. As its name indicates, it came originally from Damascus.

You can see pictures of fragments of fourteenth-century silks and damasks on my Pinterest board here.

The photograph of silk production in Turkey is courtesy of C.J. Hislop. You can find her photography blog here.

 

Sources:

Textiles and Clothing 1150 – 1450 by Elisabeth Crowfoot, Frances Pritchard, Kay Staniland

Fashion in the Middle Ages by Margaret Scott

Power and Profit: The Merchant in Medieval Europe by Peter Spufford

 

April Munday is the author of the Soldiers of Fortune and Regency Spies series of novels, as well as standalone novels set in the fourteenth century.

Available now:

TheHeirsTale-WEB

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amazon

 

 

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January Pottage

20190125_125358

The ingredients for this month’s pottage were easy enough to choose. The only vegetables growing in my garden at the moment are leeks. They’re not very big, which I think is due to the very hot summer we had. In my cupboard I had some barley and there’s some sage and bewildered parsley in the garden. The early part of winter was so mild that the parsley thought it was spring and has been growing everywhere. The sorrel has also been fooled into producing leaves early. These things aren’t usually available in January, but I thought a fourteenth-century housewife wouldn’t waste them, so they went into the pot.

When I went to the cupboard the evening before I was going to make the pottage I realised that I didn’t have much barley. Fortunately I still had some marrowfat peas. I soaked the peas overnight and boiled them for three quarters of an hour before I added the barley and the garlic. The peas gave it a bit more taste. About twenty minutes after the barley I added the leeks and the leaves. They boiled together for about fifteen minutes.

It was tasty and satisfying meal. I made the pottage fairly thick, as the liquid can often be disappointing.

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