Life In The Middle Ages

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• 29 Aug, 2026 How Do We Know What Medieval Life Really Looked Like?

  What do a medical handbook, two prayer books and a book of Church law have in common?

  Surprisingly, they are some of the greatest windows into everyday life in the Middle Ages.

  When people imagine medieval manuscripts, they often picture pages filled with Latin writing, saints and gold leaf. While those things certainly exist, many manuscripts contain something far more unexpected: ordinary people going about their daily lives.

  Farmers harvesting crops. Shepherds tending sheep. Women spinning wool. Bakers making bread. Kings fighting battles. These scenes were never intended to be historical records, yet today they provide some of the richest visual evidence we have for understanding life in medieval Europe.

  Four remarkable manuscripts in particular have become invaluable to historians. Although each was created for a different purpose, together they preserve an extraordinary glimpse into the lives of ordinary medieval people.

  Tacuinum Sanitatis

  The Tacuinum Sanitatis began life as a medical handbook written in eleventh-century Baghdad by the physician Ibn Butlan. It explained how food, exercise, sleep and the changing seasons affected health. During the late fourteenth century, wealthy patrons in northern Italy commissioned lavishly illustrated copies, transforming a practical guide into one of the finest visual records of medieval daily life.

  Its pages show gardeners, farmers, cooks, merchants and labourers alongside the fruits, vegetables and animals that shaped medieval diets.

  

  Luttrell Psalter

  Created in England between about 1325 and 1340 for Sir Geoffrey Luttrell, the Luttrell Psalter is a beautifully illuminated book of Psalms. While intended for private devotion, its illustrations provide an extraordinary glimpse into medieval English rural life.

  Ploughmen work the fields, shepherds tend their flocks, labourers harvest crops and villagers go about their daily lives. Few surviving manuscripts capture the rhythms of medieval England with such warmth and detail.

  

  Queen Mary Psalter

  Produced in England around 1310–1320, the Queen Mary Psalter is one of the greatest illuminated manuscripts of the Middle Ages. Alongside biblical stories are hundreds of illustrations depicting hunting, animals, historical events and scenes from everyday life.

  One striking image shows King Oswald of Northumbria fighting King Penda of Mercia at the Battle of Maserfield in AD 642, demonstrating how medieval artists also recorded important moments from England's past.

  

  Smithfield Decretals

  The Smithfield Decretals are perhaps the most unexpected of all. Although the text itself is a collection of medieval Church law, the margins are filled with lively and often humorous illustrations that reveal the personalities and everyday experiences of medieval people.

  Among its many delightful scenes is an affectionate encounter between a man and a woman at her spinning wheel, reminding us that medieval manuscripts could capture moments of humour, affection and ordinary human life alongside their more serious purpose.

  

  Why These Manuscripts Matter

  None of these manuscripts were created to document everyday life. Yet together they preserve an extraordinary record of farming, food, clothing, work, relationships and even historical events. They allow us to glimpse the lives of people whose stories are rarely recorded in written documents.

  For historians, these manuscripts are far more than beautiful works of art. They are windows into a world that disappeared centuries ago, helping us understand not only medieval kings and nobles, but also the farmers, shepherds, craftsmen, women and families who shaped life in the Middle Ages.

  Image Credits

  • Tacuinum Sanitatis. Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Cod. Vind. Ser. n. 2644. Public domain.
  • Luttrell Psalter. British Library, Add MS 42130, f. 163v. Public domain.
  • Queen Mary Psalter. British Library, Royal MS 2 B VII. Public domain.
  • Smithfield Decretals. British Library, Royal MS 10 E IV, f. 139. CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.

  Sources & Further Reading

  • British Library Digital Collections.
  • Österreichische Nationalbibliothek Digital Collections.
  • Wikimedia Commons (image access and licensing).
• 29 Aug, 2026 The Sanctuary Knocker — Or, How To Make A Church Everyone's Problem For Forty Days

  Imagine you've just committed a crime in medieval England.

  The sheriff is behind you. Half the village is shouting. Someone has probably brought a stick.

  Your best chance isn't to run faster.

  It's to reach the nearest church door and claim sanctuary.

  For centuries, English churches offered legal sanctuary to fugitives. Once you had claimed it, the authorities could not simply drag you away by force.

  The Church's protection carried enormous weight, and violating sanctuary could bring serious consequences from Church authorities.

  One of the best-known examples occurred in 1232, when Hubert de Burgh, former Chief Justiciar of England, fled to Merton Priory and claimed sanctuary after falling from royal favour.

  

  The Forty Days

  Once inside, you had forty days to decide what happened next. Your options were simple, though neither was particularly appealing.

  • Surrender and stand trial — hand yourself over to the authorities and take your chances.
  • Abjure the realm — confess your crime before the coroner, surrender your possessions, and leave England forever, walking to a designated port wearing a white robe and carrying a wooden cross.

  Sanctuary was never intended to be a permanent escape. If you refused to choose either course, you could simply be left there until hunger made the decision for you.

  Leaving sanctuary before your forty days had expired was equally dangerous. Once you abandoned the Church's protection, the law could catch up with you immediately.

  Who Could Claim Sanctuary?

  Almost anyone. Peasants, serfs, women, merchants, knights and nobles could all seek sanctuary. It was one of the few areas of medieval law where, at least in theory, a common villager and a lord possessed exactly the same right.

  Women claimed sanctuary just as legitimately as men, though in practice a frightened woman arriving at the parish church with children, neighbours and indignant relatives in tow could quickly transform a legal process into the biggest spectacle the village had seen all month.

  Powerful men used it too. Noblemen occasionally sheltered in churches or monasteries during political disputes, although this usually involved less dramatic last-minute escapes and more tense negotiations with impatient royal officials waiting outside.

  Members of the clergy occupied a different legal world altogether. Accused churchmen were often tried before ecclesiastical courts rather than secular ones — a distinction that frequently frustrated royal officials and contributed to the general medieval impression that the law was less a tidy system than a collection of overlapping rules, ancient privileges and determined arguments held together with parchment and stubbornness.

  When the Law Met Real Life

  This is where real life got in the way of the law.

  For an ordinary village, a fugitive claiming sanctuary was an enormous inconvenience.

  Someone hiding in the church for weeks meant awkward questions about food, responsibility and whose problem the whole affair actually was. The forty days stretched on while life continued much as normal — which, in medieval England, already involved mud, livestock, boundary disputes and almost certainly at least one goose causing trouble somewhere.

  A small parish church was never designed to accommodate a frightened fugitive for over a month. The village priest could suddenly find himself attempting to mediate between armed officials, anxious villagers and royal messengers while also preparing Sunday Mass.

  It was hardly a peaceful existence.

  Durham's Curious Exception

  Not every church followed precisely the same custom.

  Durham Cathedral observed a sanctuary period of thirty-seven days rather than forty, reflecting its own long-established traditions connected with Saint Cuthbert. According to medieval tradition, the saint himself established the privilege.

  Medieval bureaucracy — even the supernatural kind — was remarkably particular.

  Did It Always Work?

  Not always.

  Sanctuary offered time, not forgiveness. Many fugitives eventually surrendered for trial, confessed and accepted exile, or negotiated their return to secular justice. It delayed the law; it did not erase it.

  For several centuries, though, a church door could mean the difference between immediate capture and another chance at life.

  And if you were being chased through a medieval village, there were very few places you'd rather be heading.

  Sources

  • Primary Source: Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, British Library, Royal MS 14 C VII, f. 119.
  • Image: Wikimedia Commons (British Library).
• 29 Aug, 2026 The Medieval Pinfold

  I walk the same route through my village most days.

  Recently, I noticed a small fenced stone enclosure beside the village pub that I'd somehow never paid much attention to before.

  A nearby sign explained what it was.

  A medieval pinfold.

  Until that moment, I'd never really thought about where medieval villagers put stray animals.

  It turns out they had a solution.

  Enclosures like this were known as pinfolds (or village pounds) — small walled pens where wandering livestock were kept until their owners came to collect them.

  If your sheep, cow, pig or even your goose decided to explore someone else's field, graze on the lord's crops, or simply disappear down the lane, the animal could be rounded up and placed in the pinfold.

  Getting it back usually involved paying a small fee to the person responsible for looking after the enclosure.

  More Than Somewhere to Keep Sheep

  This wasn't simply a convenient place to park wandering livestock.

  The medieval village depended upon animals, and stray animals could cause real damage. A loose pig rooting through crops or a neighbour's cow grazing in the wrong meadow could quickly become an expensive problem.

  The pinfold provided a practical solution while also encouraging owners to keep a closer eye on their livestock.

  

  Village Drama Included

  As you might imagine, it wasn't always straightforward.

  There were arguments over ownership. Disputes about whether an animal had really been trespassing. Complaints about the fees charged to recover it. And, in some places, penalties for breaking into the pinfold or releasing animals without permission.

  Medieval law had a remarkable ability to turn even an escaped goose into official business.

  Many Still Survive

  Although livestock no longer wander through most English villages quite as freely, many old pinfolds still survive. Some have become gardens, some are protected historic features, and others — like the one I stumbled across on my daily walk — sit quietly beside village streets, their original purpose almost forgotten.

  It's easy to walk past them without a second glance.

  But seven hundred years ago, that little stone enclosure might have contained half the village's current argument.

  The next time you pass an old pinfold, imagine it full of disgruntled geese, indignant pigs and one extremely apologetic villager trying to explain that his cow had absolutely no intention of eating the lord's cabbages.

  Sources

  • Bodleian Library, MS Douce 195. Sheep in a woven hurdle pen, France, c. 1400. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
  • Medieval village pinfolds (also known as village pounds) are discussed in manorial court records and local customs across medieval England.
• 29 Aug, 2026 When Insects Were Taken to Court

  In medieval Europe, swarms of insects were sometimes put on trial for destroying crops.

  Beetles, weevils, caterpillars and even rats could find themselves summoned before a court and ordered to leave the fields they were devastating.

  It sounds ridiculous.

  It also really happened.

  

  Putting Insects on Trial

  From the thirteenth century onwards, communities in parts of France, Switzerland and northern Italy occasionally turned to the law when insects threatened their harvests.

  This was not a criminal trial in the modern sense. Instead, church courts sometimes treated destructive swarms as a matter affecting both the community and the natural order established by God.

  The insects were summoned collectively rather than individually. No one attempted to identify which particular beetle or caterpillar was responsible. The problem was simply that the pests were destroying the crops.

  A Lawyer for the Beetles

  Some cases became surprisingly elaborate.

  Records survive of advocates being appointed to argue on behalf of the insects, claiming that they too were part of God's creation and therefore entitled to live and feed.

  The judges, meanwhile, represented the interests of the farming community whose livelihood was under threat.

  If no agreement could be reached, the insects might be ordered to leave the affected land within a specified period. If they ignored the judgement, they could even be formally excommunicated.

  They rarely complied.

  Why Do It At All?

  The purpose was never really to convince beetles to obey a court order.

  For medieval people, law, religion and the natural world were closely connected. A public legal process acknowledged that a disaster had occurred, demonstrated that every proper step had been taken, and placed the outcome in God's hands.

  The paperwork was completed.

  The prayers were said.

  Order, at least in a legal and spiritual sense, had been restored.

  Sources

  • Jacob van Maerlant, Der naturen bloeme (KB KA 16), fol. 131v, "Cinifes", c. 1340–1350. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.
• 29 Aug, 2026 What Happened When You Broke the Rules in a Medieval Village?

  Medieval villages are often imagined as places where everyone obeyed the church, the lord, and the rules without question.

  Reality?

  People were human. Humans bend rules. Humans break rules.

  Medieval England had plenty of ways of dealing with that.

  Some punishments were practical.
  Some were embarrassing.
  Some were expensive.
  And some were unmistakably medieval.

  Let's wander into the village and see what could happen.

  Whose Rules Were You Breaking?

  Life in a medieval village wasn't governed by one neat system. It was a web of overlapping authority:

  • The Church
  • The lord's manor court
  • Royal law (for more serious offences)
  • Local custom, which often mattered as much as written law

  Everyone knew the expectations, even if they couldn't read them. Rules were spoken, remembered, repeated, enforced by neighbours... and often discussed at great length.

  

  The Manor Court: Where Everyday Trouble Went

  Most village rule-breaking never reached a royal court.

  Instead, it was dealt with in the manor court (often called the hallmote).

  This wasn't a grand courtroom filled with lawyers.

  It was usually held in a manor hall, barn or open meeting place, with:

  • villagers attending as jurors or witnesses
  • local officials presenting complaints
  • the lord's steward presiding over proceedings

  Imagine something between a parish meeting, a neighbourhood dispute, and an extremely nosy village gathering... with fines at the end.

  People appeared before the court for things like:

  • failing to maintain hedges or boundaries
  • allowing animals to stray into neighbours' crops
  • neglecting their feudal obligations
  • selling ale that broke the Assize of Ale
  • taking timber or firewood without permission
  • assaults, quarrels or creating a nuisance
  • failing to attend court when summoned

  Punishment?

  Most often... a fine.

  Usually small, but enough to hurt if money was already tight.

  One thing quickly becomes obvious when you read surviving manor court rolls:

  People broke the rules again anyway.

  Because sometimes they had little choice.

  Shame Was a Powerful Punishment

  Money wasn't the only way medieval communities enforced good behaviour.

  Public embarrassment could be just as effective.

  The aim wasn't always to cause pain.

  It was to make sure everyone knew what had happened.

  The Stocks

  The stocks restrained a person's feet—or sometimes hands—in a public place where everyone could see them.

  Neighbours might laugh.

  Children might stare.

  Some people probably offered less-than-kind opinions.

  It wasn't simply about punishment.

  It was about reputation.

  The Pillory

  The pillory worked on a similar principle but was usually reserved for more serious offences, particularly dishonest trading, cheating customers or market offences.

  It sent a clear message:

  This person has broken the community's trust.

  That said, not every offender ended up in the stocks or pillory. For most everyday disputes, paying a fine was far more common.

  When the Church Became Involved

  Not every offence belonged in the manor court.

  Church courts dealt with religious and moral matters.

  Depending on the offence, punishments could include:

  • public penance
  • fines
  • acts of repentance
  • and, in more serious cases, excommunication

  For medieval people, these penalties carried real weight.

  Faith shaped everyday life, and concern for the soul was just as real as concern for the harvest.

  Many "Crimes" Were Really About Survival

  A surprising number of medieval offences weren't driven by greed.

  They were driven by necessity.

  Why might someone...

  • take wood from the lord's woodland?
  • graze animals where they shouldn't?
  • sell ale without following local regulations?
  • poach a rabbit?

  Often because winter was cold.

  Food was scarce.

  Or money had simply run out.

  Behind many offences lay the reality of surviving another season.

  Medieval justice could be harsh.

  But it existed in a world where resources were limited and every hedge, field and woodland boundary mattered.

  Sometimes People Simply... Got Away With It

  Villages were close-knit communities.

  Everyone knew everyone else.

  That meant:

  • neighbours sometimes turned a blind eye
  • disputes were settled quietly
  • complaints often appeared only after tempers finally snapped

  People lived alongside one another for decades.

  You couldn't simply remove someone from the community.

  You still had to see them at church, at market and during harvest.

  Medieval villages constantly balanced order with practicality.

  Rules mattered.

  So did relationships.

  Medieval people argued.

  They bent the rules.

  They annoyed their neighbours.

  And, seven hundred years later, the surviving court rolls still preserve the wonderfully ordinary record of everyday village life.

  So, What Happened If You Broke the Rules?

  Usually...

  • Someone noticed.
  • You might be presented before the manor court.
  • You were probably fined.
  • In some cases, you might face public humiliation.
  • Then life carried on.

  Medieval England wasn't lawless.

  But neither was it a place where every mistake ended in brutal punishment.

  Like any community, it relied on a mixture of rules, reputation, common sense and compromise.

  People argued.

  People bent the rules.

  People annoyed their neighbours.

  And, seven hundred years later, the surviving court rolls still preserve the wonderfully ordinary record of everyday village life.

  Sources

  • Peniarth MS 28, fol. 4r, mid-13th century. National Library of Wales. CC0, via Wikimedia Commons.
• 29 Aug, 2026 Toothache In The Middle Ages

  Because medieval people had toothache too

  They had teeth that hurt, teeth that broke, teeth that became infected and teeth that eventually had to come out.

  They also had some rather interesting ideas about why teeth hurt.

  The tooth worm

  One long-standing explanation for toothache was the tooth worm — a tiny creature believed to burrow into the tooth and cause pain.

  And if you believed a worm was causing your toothache, you needed a way to get rid of it.

  Some remedies involved herbs, oils, poultices, prayers and charms. One particularly memorable treatment involved burning henbane seeds beneath the patient's mouth. The smoke produced tiny worm-shaped strands of ash, which could be interpreted as the worms leaving the tooth.

  Whether that actually removed anything is another matter.

  But the idea makes a little more sense when you remember that medieval medicine was working with a very different understanding of how the body worked.

  And when the tooth wouldn't stop hurting?

  Sometimes the answer was simply:

  Take it out.

  

  The image above gives us a glimpse of that process.

  There was no modern dental surgery. There was no anaesthetic as we know it today. The tools and techniques were very different.

  And yet the basic problem is instantly recognisable.

  That tooth hurts. Get the bloody thing out.

  ---

  So the next time your dentist asks if you've been flossing, spare a thought for whoever was sitting in that medieval chair.

  Because it could be worse.

  They could be reaching for the forceps.

  Source

  British Library, Royal MS 6 E VI, f. 503v, Omne Bonum, James le Palmer, c. 1360–1375. Image via Wikimedia Commons. Public domain.

• 29 Aug, 2026 Meet The Medieval Citole

  What on earth is that angel playing?

  It looks a bit like a tiny medieval guitar.

  It isn't.

  It's a citole — a medieval stringed instrument that appears in manuscripts from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.

  And once you know what you're looking at, you start seeing them everywhere.

  

  This one appears in the De Lisle Psalter, made in England in the early fourteenth century. The angel is playing it with a plectrum, so this isn't simply some strange medieval artist's invention. The instrument was real.

  We don't have a medieval recording, unfortunately. So we can't press play and hear what this particular angel sounded like.

  But we do know that the citole was a musical instrument used in medieval Europe. It had strings, a wooden body and a shape that looks surprisingly familiar until you actually stop and look at it.

  

  By the later fourteenth century, the citole had become much less common, and its distinctive form gradually disappeared from medieval musical life.

  Which is why most of us have never heard of one.

  So there you have it: a 700-year-old musical instrument, hiding in plain sight in a medieval manuscript.

  Sources & Image

  Images:

  • Angel playing a citole, De Lisle Psalter, England, c. 1310. British Library, Arundel MS 83, f. 134v. Public domain.
  • Musician playing a citole, Queen Mary Psalter, England, c. 1310–1320. British Library, Royal MS 2 B VII. Public domain.

  Further Reading:

  • British Library, Arundel MS 83.
  • Wikimedia Commons (image access and licensing).
• 29 Aug, 2026 Examining The Wine

  Wait... is that how you bought wine in the Middle Ages?

  There are no bottles on a shelf. No labels. No handy little price tags.

  Instead, a customer is standing at a medieval wine stall, holding up a glass of red wine while the seller stands behind the counter.

  He's looking at it.

  Actually examining the wine before he buys it.

  And suddenly something that feels very modern — choosing what you're going to drink — looks completely different.

  

  We can't know from the image whether he was actually tasting the wine, or simply looking at it.

  But we can see the interaction: wine being served, a customer examining it, and the everyday business of buying and selling taking place.

  Sometimes one little picture is enough to give us a glimpse of medieval life.

  Source

  Tacuinum Sanitatis, Casanatense MS 4182, 14th century. Biblioteca Casanatense, Rome. Public domain.

• 29 Aug, 2026 A 13th Century Law Gave Us the Baker's Dozen

  A Baker Is Being Dragged Through the Street. There's a Loaf Tied Round His Neck.

  He's not carrying it.

  It's tied there. On purpose. For everyone to see.

  

  This is a baker, on a hurdle, being dragged through the streets — with the loaf that got him in trouble hanging round his neck the whole way.

  That loaf was underweight.

  And in medieval England, that was a serious problem.

  Bread wasn't just food. It was the food. So there were laws — the Assize of Bread and Ale — fixing exactly how much a loaf should weigh and what it should cost. Bakers who cheated on the weight risked fines.

  Or the pillory.

  Or, evidently, this. Dragged through town on a hurdle, defective loaf on display, so every single person he'd ever sold bread to knew exactly what he'd done.

  It wasn't subtle. It wasn't meant to be.

  So where did the baker's dozen come from?

  There was a practical problem with selling bread by weight.

  If a baker was required to supply a particular weight of bread, being even slightly under could mean trouble.

  So an extra loaf could provide a margin against coming up short.

  That thirteenth loaf became known as the vantage loaf.

  And that's the story behind the baker's dozen.

  Thirteen, not twelve.

  Not because anyone was feeling generous.

  Because being a little short on the scales could have consequences.

  And nobody wanted to end up like the man in this picture.

  Sources

  • Smithfield Decretals, Royal MS 10 E IV, fol. 94, c. 1340. British Library.
  • Assize of Bread and Ale, 1266.
• 08 Aug, 2026 Were medieval women always waiting in towers to be rescued?

  Were medieval women always waiting in towers to be rescued?

  Not quite.
  Sometimes they're the ones defending the castle.

  Look closely at this medieval manuscript image.

  A man is climbing a ladder towards a castle wall.

  And waiting for him at the top is a woman.

  With a sword.

  

  This is from the Smithfield Decretals, a fourteenth-century English manuscript, made around 1340.

  We don't know who she is.

  We don't know if the artist had a real woman in mind, or a story, or just liked the idea of it.

  But it wasn't as far-fetched as it sounds.

  When a husband was away, imprisoned, or dead, responsibility for a castle could fall to his wife — including its defence.

  Nicola de la Haye, for example, played a major role in the defence of Lincoln Castle during the First Barons' War.

  So maybe this is her.

  Maybe it's no one in particular.

  Either way, somewhere around 1340, someone decided a woman with a sword on a castle wall was a perfectly reasonable thing to draw.

  And I rather like that.

  Source

  British Library, Smithfield Decretals, Royal MS 10 E IV, England (London?), c.1340.