Hello my friend,
Welcome to humorously dull history for sleep.
My name is Stephen Dalton and it is my hope that that as I tell you lots of different facts about particular periods in history tonight,
You find me so incredibly boring that you fall asleep very quickly,
And maybe even with a smile upon your face.
It is humorous history after all.
Tonight I'll tell you.
The humorously dull history of medieval sleep.
Yes,
Medieval sleep.
First practiced around the year 500,
Though experts agree people had been going to bed for some time before that.
It took place in the dark.
Lying down.
A method so successful,
It has never required an update.
So,
Just before we get started.
.
.
Allow yourself to settle into this moment.
Leave the day that was behind.
Feel the support.
Of whatever you lie upon.
If your eyes aren't closed yet.
Allow them to close.
Whatever has been.
Has been.
It's history now.
Whatever will be.
Will be.
All you have is this moment.
And my voice.
So allow your curiosity to be a part of this pleasant experience as I tell you the humorously dull history of medieval sleep routines.
Part one.
In which the sun goes down.
And everyone becomes less ambitious.
The History of Medieval Sleep begins.
As many practical histories do.
With the sun.
Going down.
This happened every evening.
With a reliability that people found both useful and slightly inconvenient.
In the Middle Ages.
Darkness was not an aesthetic choice.
Or the mood.
It was simply what occurred when the large bright thing in the sky it finished being available.
Once it disappeared.
Most people became suddenly less capable.
Of doing anything that required accuracy.
Confidence.
Or both.
A man who could set your roof in daylight.
Mice after sunset.
Struggled to find his own spoon.
A woman.
Who had spent all day baking.
Mending.
Brewing.
And managing a household.
Might find that the simplest task such as locating a clean cloth.
Had become a small expedition.
Into shadow.
This was not considered dramatic.
It was just evening.
The medieval day did not end with anyone checking a clock.
Because.
.
.
Clark.
Where they existed at all.
Were not yet the bossy little household tyrants they would later become.
Time was measured by light.
Bells.
Hunger.
Weather.
And the opinions of animals.
Dawn meant getting up.
Unless one was ill.
Or unusually persuasive.
Sunset meant slowing down.
Unless one was a monk.
A baker.
A God.
A servant in a large household.
Or someone who had forgotten to bring in the goats.
For most people,
Night was not an invitation to leisure.
It was a great dark lid,
Placed gently over the world.
Suggesting that perhaps everyone had done enough.
And so.
.
.
As the evening settled over towns,
Villages,
Abyss.
Farms.
Cases.
And lonely inns beside roads that had seen better maintenance.
Medieval people.
Began the long and careful business.
Of preparing for bed.
Now this is business.
Could be simple.
Or elaborate,
Depending on wealth,
Season,
Rank,
And whether the roof was behaving.
A peasant household might have very little to do.
Except bank the fire.
Put away the tools.
Close the door.
Say a prayer.
And arrange themselves beneath whatever covering.
Seemed most.
Promising.
A noble household by contrast.
Could turn going to bed.
Into a small administrative event.
Involving servants?
Class dismissed.
Kandos.
Warmed linen.
Prayers.
And a bed so large it looked as though it had political responsibilities.
But everyone.
Rich or poor.
But to negotiate with the same.
Basic Facts.
Darkness had arrived.
The real.
Was cooling.
The fire needed attention.
The body after a day of work,
Travel,
Talk.
Prayer.
Or pretending to listen to someone important.
That started sending its familiar message.
Enough.
It had carried wood.
Stirred Putt.
Walked fields.
Copied letters.
Lifted barrows.
Bowed at the correct moment.
Endured sermons.
And stood in draughts.
Now it wished to be horizontal.
In this sense.
Medieval sleep was not so different from sleep today.
The furniture was worse.
The lighting was worse.
The mattresses were more likely to contain straw.
But the general idea was the same.
People.
Became tired.
And Zen.
After a period of unnecessary adjustment.
They.
May.
Part two.
In which kandos behave.
According to income.
Before anyone could go to bed.
There was the matter of Now,
Light in the Middle Ages was not something one wasted.
It was not thrown about rooms.
In great careless floods as it is now.
Simply because someone has pressed a switch.
Was no proper appreciation for the miracle.
Light had to be made.
It had to be bought or shaped.
Or carried.
Were guarded from wind.
It had to be coaxed from flame and fed by wax,
Fat,
Rush,
Oil.
Or whatever else could be made to burn without causing an immediate argument.
For ordinary households,
The common forms of light were rush lights.
Small lumps.
And talocandors.
A rush light was made by taking the pith of a rush,
Dipping it in melted fat.
And then burning it slowly.
It was not glamorous.
It did not make a room glow with luxury.
It provided just enough light for a person to see.
That the room was still there.
Hello Gandus.
Made from animal fur.
Were also useful.
Though not always pleasant.
They could smoke.
Lean.
And smell.
In a way that discouraged romantic thinking.
They were,
However,
Cheaper than beeswax candles.
And cheapness has always been one of the great engines of human acceptance.
These workscandles belonged to churches.
Monasteries.
Wealthy households.
And people who liked their darkness softened.
Without being insulted by the smell.
They burn.
Cleaner.
And steady.
And they carried a faint sweetness that made them seem almost too refined.
For a world otherwise full of mud.
World.
Onions.
And men named Osbert.
To own many beeswax candles was not simply to own life.
It was to announce,
In a quiet yellow flame,
That one had resources.
In a great hall.
A cluster of wax candles.
Could make a noble family appear blessed.
Staple.
Much better washed than most of the county.
This was useful for visitors.
But even for the rich.
Lighting was limited.
The castle did not become bright in the modern sense.
It became.
Blessed are.
In selected locations.
There might be a candle in a wall recess.
A lump near a table.
Another near a bed.
And a few in the chapel.
The rest of the building.
Remained very much itself.
A stone arrangement of corners.
Waiting to be misjudged.
A person walking from one chamber to another.
Might carry a small flame.
And proceed at a speed best described as historically cautious.
Moving quickly through a medieval building at night was not bravery,
It was poor planning.
Answer.
Before bed.
One of the last tasks of the evening.
Was deciding which lights would be kept.
And which would be put out?
A candle left burning too long,
Was wasteful.
A candle put out too soon.
Created in convenience.
Servants in wealthy houses.
Learned the careful art.
Of leaving just enough light to suggest comfort.
Without implying that the family was made of money.
Even when it often was.
In humbler homes.
The matter was simple.
The flame was used until it was no longer worth using.
Then darkness.
Resumed its previous position.
As the main feature of the room.
Part three,
In which a mattress is introduced to straw and calls itself furniture.
Now we must turn with the necessary historical seriousness to the medieval bed.
Was one of the most important objects in the household.
Partly because everyone needed one.
And partly because most of them were trying very hard to be beds under difficult circumstances.
A modern mattress is expected to support the spine.
Regulate temperature.
Reduce pressure.
And possibly arrive in a box with a smiling man in a polo shirt explaining foam technology.
A medieval mattress had a simpler aim.
It tried to be less hard than the floor.
For many people this meant a sigh.
Filled with straw.
Hey.
Dried leaves.
Wool.
Or anything else that seemed willing to be slept upon.
Straw was popular because it grew in fields.
And did not require a committee.
It could be gathered,
Dried,
Stuffed into a cover.
And declared suitable with a confidence that modern people might find alarming.
The first night on fresh straw could feel quite pleasant.
There was a springiness to it.
A clean,
Rural smell.
And the faint feeling that the household had entered a new era of comfort.
By the fourth night.
The straw had begun organizing itself into lumps.
Riches.
Hollows,
And one sharp little section near the left hip that appeared to have a personal grievance.
People accepted this.
They had no choice.
If a medieval sleeper turned over.
And found that the mattress had rearranged itself.
Into a small,
Agricultural argument.
They simply turned again.
Side.
Or kicked at it.
Or decided that the problem was spiritual.
And said a prayer.
Straw bedding needed regular attention.
It had to be shaken,
Turned,
Aired,
Replaced,
Or fluffed into temporary obedience.
This was one of those household tasks.
That sounds simple.
Until you imagine someone in a cold room.
Trying to persuade a sack of dry plant matter to become evenly distributed.
Better-off households had more options.
They might own feather beds.
Wool mattresses.
Linen sheets.
Bolsters.
Pillows.
Blankets.
And covers with enough weight.
To hold a small argument in place.
A feather bed was a luxury.
Though it still required maintenance.
Feathers left themselves.
Have never shown any particular talent for discipline.
They drift,
Clump,
Flatten,
And collect in corners.
Giving the sleeper the strange impression.
At the bed.
Is slowly trying to become a bird again.
Compared with a straw mattress on a plank.
A feather bed was magnificent.
People valued them enough.
To list them in wills and inventories.
Which tells us quite a lot.
A person might forget to mention a cousin.
Yet carefully record one good feather bed,
Two bolsters,
And a coverlet of red wool.
The frame of the bed mattered too.
Some slept on simple wooden platforms.
Others slept on ropes stretched across a frame,
Tightened when they sagged,
Which is where the phrase sleep tight is sometimes said to come from.
Though history enjoys ruining tidy explanations.
So we should not lean too heavily on it.
Rope beds could sag in the middle.
Producing the sensation of being.
Slowly gathered into a domestic valley.
A sleeper might begin the night alone,
On the left side,
And wake at dawn,
Gently pressed toward the centre by the laws of physics.
This may have encouraged humility.
The wealthy,
Beds could become grand wooden structures with carved posts.
Curtains.
Fine covers.
And an air of having more legal rights than some villagers.
These beds stood proudly in chambers,
Large enough to make visitors understand.
That the owner was important.
Well supplied.
And possibly difficult to move in an emergency.
The bed was furniture.
Status symbol.
Storage unit.
Family gathering point.
Sick bed.
Birthbed.
Deathbed.
And occasionally just to bed.
Though by then it must have been exhausted from its other duties.
Bed curtains were especially useful.
They helped keep warmth in.
Blocked drafts and created a smaller sleeping space.
Inside a larger room.
A curtained bed was,
In effect,
A little cloth house for a tired person.
The sleeper could draw the curtains.
And enjoy a private pocket of slightly warmer air.
Assuming no servant.
Child.
Spouse.
Or urgent household matter required access.
For rich people.
The bed became a small room.
Inside the room.
Which was exactly the sort of unnecessary improvement.
Rich people have always enjoyed.
Yet beneath all the differences between straw and feathers,
Plank and carved frame,
Cottage and manor-house,
The act itself remained wonderfully ordinary.
A person became tired.
A place was prepared.
The bird accepted them with varying levels of enthusiasm.
They lay down.
Adjust it.
Shift it.
Complained inwardly.
Pulled the covering higher.
And hoped the next few hours would pass without interruption from weather.
Bells.
Duties.
Or someone else's elbow.
The medieval bed may not have been advanced.
But it had won.
Great strengths.
It was there.
And in the history of sleep.
Being there has always been half the work.
Part four.
In which several people share a room.
And pretend this is a system.
Privacy in the Middle Ages was available in roughly the same way.
As imported spices.
Fine glass.
And flattering portraits.
A few people had it.
Most people.
Knew of it.
Everyone else got on with sleeping near relatives.
For many households.
Sleep happened in shared spaces.
A room might contain parents,
Children,
Servants,
Apprentices,
Visitors.
And one elderly relative who insisted he did not snore,
Despite evidence gathered nightly by the entire household.
This arrangement was normal.
A medieval room was expected to work hard.
In the daytime it might serve as kitchen.
Workshop.
Sitting room.
Storage area.
Dining space.
And general location for people standing around with bowls.
At night.
The same room became a sleeping chamber.
Through the simple technique of lying down in it.
Bedding was pulled out.
Benches were repurposed.
Cloaks became.
My blankets.
A child was placed somewhere warm.
A servant.
Found a corner.
Someone.
Move to stool.
Someone else stepped on the stool in the dark and blamed the stool.
As people have done since the beginning.
Stools.
The modern bedroom likes to believe it has a single identity.
Medieval rooms were less dramatic about themselves A table could hold supper at dusk,
And folded clothing an hour later.
A chest could store linen.
Valuables.
Salted items.
And occasionally someone's hopes for a better room.
A bench did not mind being slept on.
Although the person sleeping on it may have held a different view.
Space was used according to need.
If a room could hold six people.
It held six people.
If seven arrived?
It became a room for seven.
By means of sighing.
Shifting.
And one person making a brave statement.
About being perfectly comfortable near the door.
In poorer homes.
Warmth often mattered more than personal space.
Sleeping close together.
Helped preserve heat.
Especially in winter.
When the room had the emotional range of a dump cellar.
A family under shared coverings.
May have found the arrangement crowded.
But warmth.
As a persuasive way of ending debate.
A child pressed against a parent.
Siblings arranged like dropped firewood.
An old woman nears a horse.
Someone's foot.
Where no foot had any moral right to be.
It was practical.
Practicality was the medieval answer.
To almost every domestic question.
Including several questions.
Nobody had asked.
In wealthier homes,
There were more rooms.
Yet,
Privacy still remained complicated.
Servants slept nearby in case they were needed.
Attendance might rest in or near a lady's chamber.
Male servants slept in halls.
Side rooms.
Passages.
And spaces assigned by a rank.
And the availability of floor.
A lord might have a private chamber,
Although private often meant available to fewer people.
Most of whom are still standing beside the bed.
The modern idea of shutting a bedroom door and being unreachable would have seemed suspiciously selfish.
Also impractical.
Since someone might need to bring a candle.
Remove a basin.
Deliver a message.
Or announce that a horse had done something expensive.
Inns added another level of sleeping cooperation.
A traveller arriving after dark could not stroll up to a polished desk and request a quiet room with a pleasant outlook.
He met an innkeeper.
Who assessed his clothing.
Purse.
Horse.
Accent.
Urgency.
And general likelihood of causing trouble.
If space was available.
He was given some.
The word some is doing heroic work here.
It might mean a bed.
It might mean half a bed.
It might mean a pallet near someone who had been eating onions with conviction.
It might mean a bench that had once been level.
Sharing a bed with a stranger.
Sounds startling to us.
But it could be ordinary when travelling.
Beds.
Were valuable.
Space was limited.
Roads were long.
People.
We're tired.
The social contract was simple.
To your side.
Steal anything.
Do not begin a theological dispute.
After lights out.
Do not behave as though fresh linen is a birthright.
The innkeeper had larger problems.
Such as ale.
Horses.
Account.
Two words.
And a man in the corner insisting he had once met a bishop.
The strange thing is.
.
.
That people the body.
When tired enough.
Can accept an impressive range.
Of arrangements.
It can sleep.
Mirror Horse.
And straw.
Beside his sibling.
Above a staple.
Under a cloak.
In a hole.
In an inn or beside someone named Godfrey.
Who takes up more room than his social rank justifies.
A room full of medieval sleepers must have produced a whole geography of human sound.
Breathing,
Turning,
Muttering,
The creak of wood.
The small cough of someone half awake.
The rustle of bedding Then quiet again.
And so.
The Medieval Household.
Together.
Near together.
Or close enough to know exactly who had turned over too dramatically.
It was communal.
Inconvenient.
Warm.
And ordinary.
Nobody called it a lifestyle.
Nobody wrote a thoughtful booklet on shared sleeping arrangements.
They simply used the room they had.
Put people where people would fit.
And a loud night.
To finish the seating plan.
5.
In which the fire is asked politely,
Not to ruin anything.
The hearth was the center of the medieval home.
The warm point around which food,
Work,
Conversation,
Drying,
Mending.
And mild complaint all gathered.
By Bedtime.
The fire had already done a full day's service.
It had cooked potage.
Warmed hands,
Dried shoes.
Smoked the rafters.
And made the room feel less like a stone apology.
As the night came on.
It needed managing with care.
Fire was useful.
Fire was also.
One of history's least reliable employees.
The evening fire could not simply be abandoned.
A lively flame at bedtime.
Was wasteful at best.
And alarming at worse.
A dead fire in the morning meant crouching over cold ashes.
Muttering at reluctant sparks.
And beginning the day with betrayal.
The ideal.
Was a fire persuaded.
Into a low.
Steady condition.
Medieval people did this by banking the embers,
Covering them with ash,
So that heat remained through the night.
It was a practical skill.
Quiet and uncelebrated.
Like knowing which bucket leaks least.
Done well.
Banking the fire gave the household A head start at dawn.
Under the ash.
A red life remains.
A little kindling.
Some breaths.
A careful hand.
And the fire could be woken again.
Done badly?
The morning began with smoke.
Cold.
And everyone silently identifying the person responsible.
There are many grand events in history.
But the real lighting.
Of a badly banked fire.
On a freezing morning.
May have produced more genuine human feelings.
Than several royal marriages.
In simple homes.
The hearth also helped decide where people slept.
The warmest place was desired by Well,
Everyone.
Including those with no official claim to it.
A child might drift closer.
An older person might be placed near it.
A tired worker might stretch out at an angle calculated to absorb heat while avoiding sparks.
The fire without moving.
Shaped the room's hierarchy.
It favoured the cold,
The young,
The All.
And the person who got there first and pretended it had been an accident.
And wealthier houses.
Fires belonged to a larger domestic system.
Servants laid fires.
Carried fuel.
Cleaned ash.
Watched sparks?
And prepared chambers.
A lord might enjoy the benefit of a warmed room.
Without personally entering the long history of wood storage.
A lady might retire to a chamber.
Where the hearth had already been coaxed into usefulness.
By someone whose own bed was much less impressive.
This is one of the clearest signs of rank.
Warmth arrives.
Before you do.
The fire also gave the evening its shade.
Around it.
The last work of the day slowed.
A pot was moved aside.
A tool was placed near the door.
A garment was mended by low light.
Someone told a story.
Forgot part of it.
And insisted the forgotten part was not essential.
A child asked a question too late in the evening.
And received an answer.
Designed mainly to end the conversation.
Outside,
The dark had taken the yard,
The lane,
The field.
And the trees.
Inside.
The fire kept a small human circle intact.
Which was generous of it.
Considering how often people poked it with sticks.
Then came the final adjustments.
Ash over embers.
Placed ready for mourning.
Glance upward.
To see whether smoke was moving properly.
A look at the door.
A hand near the bedding.
And the fire lowered into its red quiet state.
Like an old worker.
Finally allowed to sit down.
For medieval people.
Sleep often began beside flame.
The fire marked the border.
On one side were tasks,
Talk,
Heat.
Food.
And the long effort of staying alive in a practical sentry.
On the other side lay darkness.
Rest.
Dreams.
And the possibility of being woken too early.
Because a church bell had developed an opinion.
The fire did what it could.
The rest.
Was up to wool.
Part 6 in which night-clothes make a brave but limited contribution.
Medieval night clothing was sensible.
Plane.
And far less specialised than anything sold today in a shop with soft lighting.
Most people did not possess a separate wardrobe for sleeping.
Lounging.
Breakfast.
Gentle reflection.
Cold mornings.
Warm evenings.
And looking relaxed near a window.
Clothes were expensive.
Class took work.
Wool had to be shorn,
Cleaned,
Spun,
Dyed,
Cut,
Sewn,
Repaired,
And eventually looked at with the tired expression of someone wondering whether it could survive one more winter.
A garment might spend the day in a field,
An alehouse,
A kitchen,
A chapel,
And a cart,
Then be asked to retire quietly to a peg and think about what it had done.
The basic sleeping garment for many people was a linen shirt.
Or shift.
Linen sat between the person and the heavier wool clothing of the day,
Doing the noble work of absorbing all the evidence.
Wool was warm,
Useful and durable.
But it had limits.
A wool tunic could endure rain.
Smoke.
Elbows.
And years of bad decisions.
Yet even wool eventually needed protection from the person wearing it.
Linen took the blame.
This made Linen one of the true quiet workers of medieval life.
Along with buckets,
Hinges,
And women named Agnes.
At bedtime.
Outer clothes came off in stages.
Belts were loosened.
Shoes were removed and placed nearby.
Ideally where they could be found before dawn.
And not in the mysterious dark zone beneath the bench.
Cups were taken off.
Or replaced with other cups.
Since medieval people had a healthy respect for the head becoming cold.
Gowns were folded with care.
Or with the kind of care available to someone.
Whose hands had been working since sunrise.
Might be set aside by day,
And promoted to blanket by night.
Medieval objects often had several jobs.
A cloak was clothing,
Bedding,
Rain defence.
Privacy Screen.
Travel bag.
And occasionally.
A thing to dramatically pull around oneself.
When making a point near a door.
The nightcap deserves its own small.
And possibly undeserved moment in history.
It is now difficult to see a nightcap.
Without imagining someone holding a candle.
And looking surprised that a ghost has entered the wrong room.
Yet the nightcap was sensible.
Rooms were cold.
Heads became cold.
That was the full argument.
And frankly.
It was a strong one.
Many inventions have had more complicated explanations.
And achieved far less.
Wealthy people,
As always.
Found a way to complicate.
Even this.
A rich household might have fine linen.
Soft sleeping garments.
Decorated cups.
Warmed robe.
And slippers that had no serious work to do.
Beyond touching expensive floors.
There were garments for retiring.
Garments for rising.
Garments for being seen before breakfast.
And probably garments for being seen by someone.
Who had no proper reason to be there before breakfast.
There it is.
Have always enjoyed placing extra fabric between themselves and reality.
For ordinary people.
Bedtime Clothing had fewer opinions.
It aimed to keep the sleeper warm,
Decent.
And alive until morning.
In winter,
Extra layers stay done.
Stockings might remain in place.
A cap might be tied firmly.
A cloak could be pulled over the body with the quiet determination of someone who had no interest in becoming colder.
For the sake of elegance.
Nobody in a small cottage was saying.
I worry this sleeping outfit lacks charm.
They were saying.
Move over.
You have the warm side.
There is something human in the small act of setting aside the day's clothing.
The shoes that crust fields.
The belt that held tools.
The patched sleeve,
The cap that endured weather.
That it carried the person through one more ordinary day.
At night.
These things rested too.
Or at least stopped being dragged into tasks.
A carter.
A lawn-dress,
A monk,
A merchant,
A child.
Allured.
And a woman who had spent the afternoon trying to find the good spoon.
It all came down eventually.
To the same.
Basic condition.
Tired.
R.
I.
P.
And hoping the covering stayed put.
Medieval night-clothes did not promise transformation.
They did not claim to improve sleep by 40%.
They did not arrive wrapped in paper.
With a handwritten note from a lifestyle company.
They simply cover it.
The sleeper.
On a cold night.
In a room where the fire was losing interest.
That was enough.
To make them historically important.
Part seven.
In which prayers are said.
And everyone tries to sound awake.
Bedtime prayer was a regular part of medieval life.
Religion shaped the hours.
The seasons.
The food.
The festivals.
The fears.
And the explanation for almost anything that happened unexpectedly.
A storm.
A fever.
A good harvest.
A lust too.
A strange dream.
A cow with a difficult expression.
All of it could be fitted somewhere into the large religious understanding of the world.
Being dark.
Long.
And suspiciously quiet.
Naturally received prayer.
Before sleep.
People might cross themselves.
Recite familiar words.
Ask for protection.
Remember the dead.
Were placed the night into God's hands.
With the same practical seriousness.
Used for closing a gate.
Some prayers came from books,
Most came from memory.
A child learned them by repetition.
Got a few words wrong.
Repeated those wrong words for the next sixty years,
And accidentally founded a family tradition.
Medieval theology was often carried forward.
By tired people doing their best.
In wealthier households.
Devotion or books could be involved.
Books of hours offered prayers for different parts of the day and year.
And many were beautifully made.
This gave rich people the chance to be devout.
And visibly well-funded at the same time.
A noblewoman might read by candle before bed,
Turning painted pages slowly.
While a servant nearby.
Tried not to look as though her feet hurt.
The book helped guide prayer.
It also sat on a table looking expensive.
Which was another kind of household service.
In poorer homes.
Bedtime prayer was simpler.
A family might gather near the fire.
Or kneel beside bedding.
Someone began.
Others followed.
The child asked whether angels needed blankets.
Another child.
Asked if the prayer had to be said every night.
Someone older answered yes.
With the weary firmness of a person.
Who had already explained Turnip.
Weather.
And death that we The prayer continued.
Someone forgot a line.
Someone coughed.
Someone's knee found a hard bit of floor and briefly discovered a new branch of suffering.
Kneeling deserves more attention in the history of bedtime.
It sounds holy when described from a distance.
Up close.
After a day of fieldwork.
Lifting.
Sweeping.
Gary.
Story.
Bending.
Just generally being medieval.
Kneeling could become a negotiation between the soul and the joints.
A person might begin a prayer full of devotion.
And finish it.
Mainly hoping to stand up without making the sound of a door hinge.
Many religious experiences have likely been shaped by knees.
Though monks rarely illuminated manuscripts about it.
Prayer also created order at the edge of sleep.
The day had been full of tasks,
Bread had been cut,
Fires had been fed.
The tools had been put away.
Children had been instructed.
Redirect.
Corrected.
And finally stacked somewhere warm.
The prayer placed a final border around the day.
That's it.
Enough work.
Enough talk.
Enough thinking about whether the roof beam is leaning.
The night may now begin.
Of course,
Not everyone was equally alert.
Some people said the words with full attention.
Others followed along in the careful tone of people who had already started drifting.
A tired child might move their mouth a few moments behind everyone else.
A father might say one section too quickly.
Grandmother might correct him.
A servant in a corner might know the prayer better than everyone in the room,
And wisely say nothing.
Bedtime prayer was Sacred,
Yes?
But also domestic.
It had to survive water requests,
Cold feet.
Late yawns.
And someone remembering that the door had not been properly latched.
And after the prayer came the difficult business of standing back up.
The soul had been cared for.
The knees had made their complaint.
The condo was lower.
The fire was quieter.
The bed.
Where there is straw.
Feather.
Or some combination of apology and hope.
Waited nearby.
Could proceed.
With God's help.
And possibly a better cushion tomorrow.
Part Eight in which monks refuse to sleep like sensible people.
If ordinary medieval people sleep.
As the reward for being tired.
Monks treated it as a useful thing that should be interrupted before anyone became too fond of it.
In a monastery.
The night belonged to bells.
Psalms.
Readings.
And the Divine Office.
That the body might have wished to remain in bed.
The rule.
At other plans.
Medieval monastic life was full of beautiful devotion,
Deep learning.
Disciplined work.
And an impressive lack of sympathy for warm blankets.
The trouble began with bells.
The bell in a monastery did not ask.
It did not suggest.
It did not ring with the gentle tone of a friend saying,
Rise whenever you feel ready.
It rang with the authority of bronze.
And centuries of obedience.
The bell announced that prayer was happening now.
And the monk's personal opinion about the matter.
Had not been requested.
If the monk had just become comfortable.
That was unfortunate.
Comfort had missed its appointment.
Matins could take place in the deep night or very early morning.
Depending on the season.
The Monastery.
And the local talent for making sleep complicated.
A monk might lie down after evening prayer,
Drift into rest.
Settle into a position that had taken several attempts to achieve,
And then hear the bell.
The whole dormitory stirred.
Men sat up under wool.
Rubbed their eyes.
Adjusted their habits.
And prepared to walk into the cold with the quiet resignation of people who had chosen this life.
We're now being reminded of the contract.
They moved through dark passages by small lights.
Stone floors weighted beneath their feet.
With unnecessary firmness.
The chapel or church stood ready.
Cold and serious.
As though it had been awake all night,
Judging them.
The monks took their places.
Psalms began.
Voices rose together.
Some strong.
Some tired.
Some belonging to men who were present in body.
While their minds remained under a blanket.
A reader read from a text.
Others listened.
Or appeared to.
At three in the morning,
Appearing to listen is sometimes the best a civilization can offer.
It is easy to imagine monks as perfectly devout at all hours.
This is.
.
.
Kind.
And likely nonsense.
Monks were human beings.
Some were holy.
Somewhere clever.
Some were dull.
Some had sore backs.
Some probably resented Brother Aldrich.
For chanting as though God were farther away than usual.
A monastery could contain prayer,
Discipline,
Learning,
Gardening,
Copying,
Cooking,
Mild rivalry,
And at least one man who always seemed too awake.
After the night office.
The monks might return to bed for another stretch of sleep.
They might continue with prayer,
Reading,
Were the early tasks of the day.
Their sleep was broken by design.
Chopped neatly into pieces.
And placed between duties like bread beside pottage.
The monk did not decide whether the night had gone well.
The bell decided that the night had gone sufficiently.
There was a strange mercy in the structure though.
The monk did not need to wonder what to do at three in the morning.
The monastery had already answered.
Listen.
Return.
Repeat until sainthood or exhaustion.
Modern life torments people with choice.
Monastic life removed many choices.
And replaced them with Latin.
So while farmers slept beside hearths.
Nobles slept behind curtains.
Travelers slept in inns.
And children slept.
Wherever gravity accepted them.
Monks rose in the dark and prayed.
They stood on cold stone.
Said ancient words.
And offered the night back to God.
Then,
When permitted,
They returned to bed and tried to recover the portion of sleep Heaven had borrowed.
Without asking.
It was not an easy routine.
It was,
However.
Very organized.
Which is often what happens when tired men are placed under the supervision of bells.
Part nine.
In which first sleep and second sleep make the night unnecessarily organized.
There is a curious idea in the history of sleep.
That before modernizing.
Many people slept in two main stretches.
First sleep came after nightfall,
Then came a waking period in the middle of the night.
After that came second sleep,
Carrying the person toward morning.
Historians have found old references to these terms.
And the idea has become popular.
Because it suggests that waking at three in the morning may not mean your life is collapsing.
It may mean you are enjoying a historically approved inconvenience.
As always.
History refuses to behave neatly.
Medieval Europe was not one enormous bedroom.
Where everyone followed the same routine.
A monk,
Farmer,
Queen,
Mother,
Guard,
Baker,
Pilgrim,
And shepherd.
We all had different nights.
Seasons mattered.
Mattered.
Class muttered.
Weather mattered.
Babies mattered a great deal.
And rarely showed interest in historical sleep patterns.
First and second sleep should be treated as a useful idea.
Found in some evidence.
Rather than a rule carried across Europe by a man with a clipboard.
Still,
It gives us a wonderful picture of the old knight.
Imagine a winter household.
Darkness has arrived early.
As winter darkness enjoys doing.
Condors cost money.
The fire has been settled.
The day's work has ended.
Or at least been abandoned to to-morrow.
People lie down.
First sleep comes quickly.
Because everyone is tired.
And nobody has invented endless little growing rectangles full of arguments.
After a few hours,
Someone wakes.
Then perhaps another.
This is not necessarily alarming.
The night is large.
There is plenty of it left.
A person might tend the embers.
Drink water.
Say a prayer.
Adjust bedding.
Or lie still and think about whether the roof sounded different earlier.
Medieval people spent a lot of time near timber and weather,
So roof thoughts were probably common.
This waking period could become a small household interval.
A husband and wife might speak softly about a field,
A debt,
A child.
A neighbour.
A tool.
A cow.
Or whether the miller had become too pleased with himself.
These are the natural subjects of deep meditation.
Ordinary problems wearing more serious clothing.
A concern that seems manageable at noon.
And become a legal matter in the mind at two in the morning.
Some people used the interval for prayer.
Others for small tasks.
A garment might need mending.
A child might need settling.
A person awake in the middle of the night could accidentally become useful.
Which is one of the dangers of waking up in a household with work still in it.
Rest.
In the Middle Ages.
Defended itself badly.
Buckets,
Embers,
Thread,
And children.
We're always waiting nearby.
Of course,
The middle of the night could also be peaceful.
The house was quieter than at any other time.
The fire was low.
The world outside had stopped asking for things.
The Renault car.
Markets.
No bells yet.
No one standing in a doorway saying,
While you're there.
The mind could wander through memory,
Worry,
Prayer.
Longing.
And strange ideas.
A medieval person could lie awake,
Remembering something foolish said at a feast seven years earlier.
And feel the same old human stab of shame.
Progress is done very little against that particular enemy.
Then came second sleep.
The body.
Having held its small meeting with the night,
Returned to rest.
People settled under covers again.
The fire held its red center.
Someone turned toward warmth.
A child breathed slowly.
Outside.
Fields and lanes remained dark.
The bell had not yet begun its public campaign against comfort.
There was still time.
The appeal of first and second sleep.
Is that it makes the medieval night feel wide.
Our modern night often feels like a narrow gap between responsibilities The Medieval Night.
Especially in winter.
Could feel like a whole country.
You entered it early.
Crust,
Part of it.
Somewhere in the middle.
Considered your soul.
Your turnips.
And the neighbour's boundary head.
Then continued.
It was not efficient.
It was sleep.
With an interval.
Like a play.
Except everyone was lying down.
And nobody had paid.
Part 11.
In which castles are less cosy.
Than the brochure suggests.
A castle from a distance looks.
Magnificent.
It rises on a hill.
Above a river.
Or at the end of a road.
Its towers,
Walls battlements.
And a general lair of having survived several generations of poorly organized enemies.
It looks romantic from outside.
Especially at sunset.
From inside.
At bedtime in February.
It was mostly stone with opinions.
Stone is excellent for defense.
It is less.
Gifted at warmth.
Thick walls,
Narrow windows,
Long passages,
High ceilings,
And floors that seemed personally committed to cold.
Made castle life more difficult than later paintings suggest.
A person could own half the county.
And still wake at night feeling that the building was empty.
Slowly removing heat through the soles of the feet.
This was one of feudalism's small print clauses.
The castle chambers varied widely.
Somewhere grand.
Furnished.
And fairly comfortable.
Others were dark,
Draughty,
And supplied with a bench that made ambition seem foolish.
The best rooms at hearth.
Hangings.
Screens.
Heavy furniture.
And beds prepared by servants who had spent the day preventing the nobility.
From meeting the full force of indoor weather.
Yet the castle itself always waited behind these comforts.
Quietly saying,
I was built for arrows.
Do not expect softness from me.
Moving through a castle at night.
Required light.
Confidence.
And a willingness to trust stairs designed by men with different ankles.
Corridors narrowed.
Steps curve.
Door is opened into darker spaces.
A person carrying a candle.
Proceeded with careful dignity.
Which is the expression people use when they are trying not to fall down in front of a page.
Wall lamps and condors made little pools of visibility.
Beyond them lay the standard medieval condition.
Probably there,
But hard to confirm guards had the worst arrangement.
While nobles went behind bed-curtains and servants found corners Guards stayed awake in cold places.
Listening for trouble.
Voices.
And the sound of their own regret.
A night guard had to remain alert while absolutely nothing happened for hours.
This is a hard profession.
If something happened.
It was dangerous.
If nothing happened.
It was boring.
A good night was one in which the guard had nothing to report.
Which still required staying awake.
In order to report the nothing.
The great bed in a castle chamber.
Worked as a defense against the room itself.
Curtains trapped warmth,
Thick covers held heat,
Rugs and wool hangings softened the hard mood of stone.
Once inside the curtained bed.
The sleeper could pretend the larger building was less cold than it was.
This was one of the great domestic strategies of the Middle Ages.
When stone becomes unreasonable.
Surround yourself with fabric and act wealthy.
The sounds of the castle at night were their own company.
A log shifted in a hearth.
A door closed somewhere below.
Footsteps cross the passage.
A horse moved in the stable.
A servant spoke quietly.
The wind pressed at narrow openings.
Checking whether the household had become overconfident.
In a tower room.
A person might wake and listen.
Trying to decide whether a sound mattered.
Most sounds did not.
Medieval buildings made noises.
For the same reason old men cleared their throats.
To remind everyone they are still present.
Morning game in layers.
Fires were rebuilt.
Door is open.
Servants crossed courtyards.
Kitchens begun early.
Since great houses became hungry.
Before great people admitted they were awake.
Bakers,
Cooks,
Grooms,
Servants,
Guards,
Clerks,
Chaplains,
And pages.
Returned to usefulness.
While the Lord's chamber was allowed to delay reality.
At its simplest.
Means other people meet the cold first.
So.
.
.
Castles were grand,
Important.
Defensible.
And often beautiful.
And the severe style of buildings designed around arrows.
They were all so cool.
Dim.
Busy.
And full of people trying to sleep with enough dignity to appear noble in the morning.
A castle was a fine place to sleep if you had curtains.
Servants fuel.
And a forgiving attitude towards stone.
Everyone else.
Simply developed character.
Usually against their will.
Part 12 in which ordinary people are tired.
For thoroughly convincing reasons.
For most medieval people.
Sleep was less a routine than a collapse carried out with tradition.
The day had been long.
The body had been used.
Fields,
Animals,
Ovens,
Carts,
Looms.
Tools.
Barrows.
Children.
Doors.
And weather.
At all made requests.
By evening.
The average person did not need a theory of rest.
Their shoulders had already submitted the argument in full.
Ordinary work was physical,
In a way modern people sometimes forget.
Until they carry one heavy bag of compost.
And start.
Reassessing their entire personality.
Medieval villagers carried water.
They've chopped wood.
They repaired fences.
They walked behind flowers.
Tended animals.
Cold basket.
Baked bread.
Brood ale.
Spun thread.
Mended clothes.
Gathered kindling.
Lifted.
Stirred swept.
And performed a hundred other tasks that left no written record,
Because everyone was too busy being alive.
History remembers battles.
It rarely remembers the woman who carried three buckets and still had to find the smaller bucket.
Season shaped everything.
Winter made basic tasks slower and meaner.
Spring brought sowing and repair.
Summer produced long days and endless growth.
Which sounds lovely until you remember that growth mainly means work standing up.
Autumn meant harvest,
Storage.
And the anxious mathematics of whether there would be enough.
The year turn.
And people turned with it.
Usually while holding something awkward.
By Bedtime.
A peasant household had already earned sleep.
Several times over.
The fire was banked.
Food was covered.
Tools were set aside.
Children were gathered from the corners where children tend to gather.
As if corners grow them.
Bedding was a rain.
The doors were shut.
The room.
Which had spent the day serving as kitchen,
Workshop,
Storage space,
Dining area.
Complaint chamber.
Became a bedroom by general agreement.
The bed might be straw.
Covering might be wool,
The pillow,
If present,
Might be simple enough to make a modern neck specialist go pale.
Comfort existed,
Though rarely in excess.
A dry place.
Some warmth.
And the chance to lie down.
Could feel like wealth after a day outdoors.
People who worked hard did not require perfect bedding.
They required the day to to stop making demands.
There was likely conversation before sleep.
Small conversation.
The price of grain.
The neighbour's fence.
The condition of a tool.
A child's cough.
A cow's mood.
Tomorrow's weather.
Who had borrowed the good knife.
Whether the priest's sermon had been longer than necessary.
Which across many centuries it probably had.
These were the matters that filled life.
The kings were distant.
The bishops were distant.
The tax collector,
Sadly.
At a talent for becoming local.
The roof,
The field,
The bread,
The fire.
And the family were close.
Then the room quieted.
People settled under coverings.
With the practical closeness of those preserving heat.
Did someone turn?
Someone complained about being kicked.
Someone denied kicking anyone.
Despite the foot still being in evidence.
A child asked a final question.
And received an answer that may or may not have addressed it.
A tired adult made a sound meaning enough now.
At last,
Sleep entered.
Probably stepping over several things on the way.
The History of Medieval Sleep belongs mostly to these unnamed people.
Records remember nobles.
Monks,
Kings,
Queens.
Abbots,
Merchants,
Landowners,
And men who caused legal problems.
Ordinary sleepers appear in glimpses.
Wills,
Accounts.
Laws.
Church records,
Court cases.
And the occasional complaint.
Yet they made up most medieval knights.
They slept in cottages.
Love.
Pause.
Shits rooms behind shops.
And wherever the household could make space.
They slept early when light failed.
They rose when work required it.
They woke cold.
Rested,
Unrested.
Worry.
Grateful.
Annoyed?
Or ready enough.
Their sleep was plain.
Necessary.
And earn.
Which is more than can be said for many royal naps.
PART THIRTEEN In Which Medieval People Finally Go To Bed and history.
As the decency.
To stop talking.
After all the straw mattresses,
Bed curtains,
Rush lights,
Monks.
Ends.
Servants.
Prayers.
Winter coverings.
Shared rooms and bells.
The history of medieval sleep routines returns to something very plain.
People became tired and they went to bed.
They did it in different rooms.
Under different roofs.
With different coverings.
At different levels of comfort.
And with wildly different chances of being woken by a bell.
A child.
A servant.
Prayer offers.
A cold foot,
Or a man named Hugh arriving late at an inn with news nobody needed until morning.
The day ended.
The light veil.
The fire was lowered.
The door was shut.
Clothing was loosened.
Shoes came off.
Prayers were said.
Bedding was arranged.
Someone remembered one last task.
And he's who did it.
Nor decided the morning could suffer.
Akando Shorten.
A rush light.
Gave it.
Small amount of help.
Shadows filled the corners.
The room stopped being a place of work.
And became a place where bodies could stop negotiating with gravity.
Medieval sleep was shaped by the world before electricity.
Darkness muttered.
Fuel mattered.
Seasons mattered.
Fabric matted.
Class mattered.
The rich softened the night with servants.
Wax candors.
Curtains,
Linen.
And beds large enough to need their own introduction.
The poor met it with straw,
Wool.
Shared warmth.
Careful fires.
Practical endurance.
Monks divided it with prayer.
Travellers' Trusted Inns.
The guards resisted it.
Baker's rose before it had properly finished.
Children surrendered.
Wherever they had been placed.
The routines were often simple.
Though never entirely easy.
A woman in a cottage pulled a covering over a child.
A servant.
Lowered a candle in a manor chamber.
Lay down.
Knowing the bell would return too soon.
A merchant in an inn,
Turned carefully in a shared bed,
And hoped not to offend a stranger's needs.
Allured,
Settled behind curtains in a chamber prepared by tired hands.
A baker slept briefly before the ovens claimed him.
A queen closed her eyes beneath fine cloth.
And became for a few hours.
Only a sleeping person.
That is the comforting dullness at the heart of it.
History can dress people in wool.
Place them under feudal duties.
Surround them with candles.
And them prayer books.
Put them in castles,
Cottages abbeys or inns.
And still the body eventually makes the same request.
Enough now.
Lie down.
And they did.
They lay on straw.
Feather.
World.
Boards.
Benches.
And beds large enough to have their own reputation.
They dreamed dreams they believed.
Fear.
Dismissed.
Were blamed on supper.
They woke in the night and listened to embers.
They spoke softly.
Pray.
Soul.
Worry.
Turned and returned to sleep.
They rose with bells.
Daylight.
Animals.
Duty.
Or someone else moving about too loudly.
The medieval night was dark in a way we can hardly imagine now.
No glowing clocks.
No little screen offering bad news or weather.
Or arguments.
And shoes for sale at midnight.
No bedside lamp.
Waiting obediently for his son.
Just flame.
Moon.
Stars.
And the great ordinary dark.
That arrive.
Whether anyone was ready or not.
People lived closer to that darkness.
They worked around it.
Feared it sometimes.
Used it.
Respected it.
And slept inside it as best they could.
The details belong to another world.
Straw sacks.
Talo Kandos.
Bed curtains.
Church bells.
Wool cups.
Rush lights.
Abbey offices.
Shared Chambers and fires banked under ash.
Yet the ending is familiar.
A tired person turns away from the day.
A hand pulls the cover higher.
The mind releases its last few thoughts.
The room settles.
The candle burns low.
The fire keeps its small,
Red promise.
The bell waits in the tower.
Already preparing to be unreasonable.
And somewhere.
And the Middle Ages.
In a room no longer standing.
Someone finally finds the comfortable position.
They had been searching for.
All night.
Then morning comes and ruins it.
