Whatever the sins of the men of the thirteenth century, they are not
late risers. The lamps and candles are so poor that only rarely, when
there is a great festival or imperative work to be performed, do
persons remain about many hours after sunset. In winter the castle
folks possibly spend nearly half of their entire time in bed; in
summer, thanks to the long evenings, they would hardly get sufficient
sleep save for a noon siesta.
Some seigneurs will actually rise considerably before sunup, hear mass,
mount their high turret, survey the landscape, then descend to order
the washing horn to be blown. We hear, too, of ladies who rise at dusk,
have chaplains chant matins while they are throwing on some clothes,
then go to the regular chapel mass, next complete their toilet and
take a walk in their garden, all before breakfast. There are, indeed,
stories of noble folk sleeping even in summer right up to 6 A.M., but
these backslidings follow only a deplorable carouse. Conon and Adela
are neither indefatigable risers, nor among the slothful. They are
seldom found in bed at cock-crow, and the baron is already warning his
young sons that "he who sleeps too long in the morning becomes thin and
lazy." So at gray dawn William, Conon's first body squire, has yawned
on his pallet by the chamber door, tugged on his own clothes, then
hastened to the great bed to assist his master to dress. This is one
of a good squire's prime duties, but he need not divest his lord of any
nightgown. Nightdresses are no more used in the thirteenth century than
are table forks. Conon has been sleeping between the sheets, with only
the clothing of a newborn babe, although, curiously enough, he wraps
around his head a kind of napkin, precursor of the later nightcap.
When the baron has donned a part of his clothes Gervais, the second
squire, brings in a metal basin of water and a white towel. The age
is one of great contradictions in matters of cleanliness. Baron Conon
washes his face and hands carefully and frequently. He also takes
complete baths pretty often, using large wooden tubs filled with hot
perfumed water. Personally he seems an extraordinarily neat man, and
so are all the higher-rank people. But the age has never heard of
polluted wells and other breeding spots for malignant fevers. Flies
are harmless annoyances. Numerous evil smells can hardly be prevented,
any more than cold weather--the saints give us grace to bear them! In
short, cleanliness stops with care of the person. Preventive sanitation
is as unknown as are the lands which may lie across the storm-tossed
Atlantic--"the Sea of Darkness."
There is an old rhyme which is supposed to give the right times for the
routine of the day:
"Rise at five, dine at nine,
Sup at five, to bed at nine,
Is the way to live to be ninety and nine."
Sometimes dinner came later than nine, but never, if possible, much
after ten. People have sometimes become distressed because the meal had
to be postponed until noon. This was natural, for everybody is stirring
at daybreak and for breakfast probably has had only a few morsels of
bread washed down with thin wine--a poor substitute even for the
coffee and rolls of the later continental breakfast.
[Sidenote: A Baron's Routine Business and Diversions]
Having dressed and washed, the baron goes down to mass at the chapel.
Attending daily mass is a duty for every really pious seigneur. One
of Garnier's infamies had been his gross irregularity in this matter.
If there had been no chapel in the bailey, the service could have
been held in a vestibule to the hall of the _palais_. After mass
is over, Conon is ready for business or pleasures. It is a time of
peace; and, truth to tell, the baron would really be not a little
glad of the excitement, bustle, and strenuous preparation which come
with the outbreak of war. The list of things he can do to divert
himself in times of public quiet seems limited: He can hunt, fish,
fence, joust, play chess, eat and drink, listen to the songs of the
jongleurs, hold his court, walk in the meadows, talk with the ladies,
warm himself, have himself cupped and bled, and watch the snow fall.
This last amusement is hardly practicable in June. Being bled is not
commonly reckoned a regular sport in other ages! Neither can he hold
court--receive his vassals and dispense justice--save at intervals.
The jongleurs ordinarily reserve themselves for the evenings. Conon's
secret hankering for a war is, therefore, somewhat explicable.
If this is a fortunate day, however, the horn on the turret will blow,
and then the gong at the bailey gate will reverberate. A visitor of
noble rank has arrived. Nothing can ordinarily be more welcome in
castle communities. Little isolated fractions of humanity as they are,
with the remainder of the world seemingly at an extreme distance, the
coming of a stranger means a chance to hear news of the king's court,
of the doings of the Emperor Frederick II, of the chances of another
crusade, of the latest fashions in armor, of the newest methods of
training hawks, nay, possibly of rumors of another brave war like
that which culminated in the glorious battle of Bouvines. Unknightly,
indeed, is the seigneur who does not offer profuse hospitality to a
noble visitor; and any priest, monk, or law-abiding merchant will be
given a decent, though less ceremonious, welcome. No wonder the inns
everywhere are so bad, when the lords of so many castles grow actually
angry if a traveler will not tarry perhaps for days.
[Sidenote: Hospitality to Guests]
There are stories of knights who have deliberately caused the roads to
be diverted to compel travelers to come close to their castles, where
they can be politely waylaid and compelled to linger. Conon is not so
absurd, but if to-day a guest of noble rank approaches the castle, all
the ordinary routine ceases. At the outer gate the strangers are met by
William, the first squire. If he reports that their chief is a baron,
the visitors have the gates unbarred before them; they ride straight
over both drawbridges to the inner court. Conon himself leads in the
horse of his chief guest, and when the visiting nobleman dismounts he
usually kisses him upon mouth and chin, although, if the strange knight
is an elderly man, or of very exalted rank, he shows his respect by
kissing only his shoulders. Adela and her maidens at once conduct the
visitors to a chamber, where the best feather beds are piled high in
their honor, and next skillfully take off their armor, bathe their
feet,[7] and even assist them to don loose clean clothes--a kind of
wrapper very pleasant for indoor wear. Meantime their horses are
being stabled and given every attention. Only after the visitors are
dressed, refreshed, bathed, and perhaps fed, will Conon courteously
inquire for how long he is to enjoy their company and whether they
are making St. Aliquis merely a stopping point or have come to him on
business.
Non-noble guests do not receive such ceremony, unless they are high
churchmen--bishops, abbots, and their direct subordinates--but even a
poor villein, if he appears on a fit errand, is welcome to a solid meal
and a bed on the rushes in one of the halls.[8] A jongleur is always
received heartily and entertained with the best; the payment will be
in songs and tricks after supper. On most feast days, furthermore,
the gates of St. Aliquis will open wide. Conon's servitors will say
to everyone, "If you are hungry, eat what you please!" There will be
simply enormous gorging and guzzling at the baron's expense.
Yet if there are no outside guests the baron is far from being an idle
man. Since he has been stirring at 4 A.M. he is able to accomplish
a great deal during the morning. All the stables must be inspected;
directions are given about a brood mare; the noisy falcon house is
surveyed; various stewards, bailiffs, and provosts come in with reports
about the peasants, the baron's farms, and especially the contention
with a neighboring seigneur's woodcutters about the right to take
timber in a disputed forest land--a case calling for major diplomacy
to avoid a brisk private war. Then, too, although this is not a court
day, the baron as the dispenser of justice has to order two brawling
peasants to be clapped in the stocks until sundown, and to direct that
an ill-favored lad who had been caught in an honest villein's corn bin
shall have his ears cropped off.
The castle is, in fact, an economic unit all by itself. If the baron is
idle or preoccupied he leaves its management to deputies; but a good
seigneur knows about everything. The estate has its own corn lands and
pasture, its stacks of hay, its granaries and storehouses, its mills,
cattle byres, slaughter houses, and salting sheds. Practically every
scrap of food actually needed in the castle is grown locally. The
innumerable women and varlets wear coarse woolen cloth made from wool
raised, sheared, carded, spun and woven on the seigneury. The ordinary
weapons and tools required in war are made at the smithy in the bailey.
The result is that the castle people do very little buying and selling.
Conon has a certain income in silver deniers, but, except for the
important sums he is laying by for a tournament, his sister's marriage,
perhaps a private war, and other like occasions, he spends it almost
entirely on the finer articles of clothing, for superior weapons, for
cookery spices, and for a few such luxuries as foreign wines. These can
be bought from visiting packmen or by a visit to Pontdebois during the
fair seasons.[9] St. Aliquis therefore presents what is to us a curious
spectacle--a sizable community wherein many of its members seldom
handle that thing called "money" from one month to another.[10]
[Sidenote: Comradery and Organization of Castle Folk]
Conon, on many mornings, is thus kept busy adjusting petty matters
concerning the estate. The seigneur is the center, the disposing
power for the whole seigneury, but he is not the despot. The castle
is one huge family, and shares its joys and troubles together. The
upper servitors hold their position by a kind of hereditary right.
Guilbert, who presides over the smithy, is son of the smith before
him. In similar case are the chief cook, the master huntsman, and many
others. Even the dubious post of baronial executioner is transmitted
by a kind of hereditary prerogative. For Conon to dismiss any of these
subordinates save for very obvious reasons would be resented by all
their fellows and produce a passive rebellion unwelcome to the most
arbitrary seigneur. Even tyrannous Baron Garnier had to wait a suitable
opportunity ere changing an unwelcome servitor. Every person has his
own little sphere of influence and privilege. The successful baron
respects all these "rights" and handles each inferior tactfully. The
result is that there is a great deal of comradery and plain speaking.
The baron and baroness must listen to flat contradictions every day.
"You are absolutely wrong, Messire," says Herbert, the cowherd, to-day,
when Conon directs him to wean certain calves. "I shall execute no
such order." And the baron (who would have fought a mortal duel with
a fellow noble ere accepting such language) wisely acquiesces, with a
laugh. Herbert is "his man" and as such has his own sphere of action,
and, besides, Herbert and all his fellows will fight for their seigneur
to the last drop of their blood, and obey all strictly military orders
with touching fidelity.
Indeed, the St. Aliquis people are somewhat like grown-up children.
They are often angry, turbulent, obstinate, contentious, even
exchanging cuffs and blows. The women are almost as passionate as
the men. But tempers cool with equal rapidity. Two varlets who
almost drew knives this morning will be communing like twin brothers
this afternoon. Furthermore, despite much apparent friction, the
three-hundred-odd people who sleep behind the walls of St. Aliquis are
fairly well organized. First of all the baron has his three squires,
youths of friendly baronial families who are being "nourished" by
Conon preparatory to knighthood and whose education will be described
later.[11] They are, of course, "noble," and are looking forward to
ruling their own castles. Noble, too, is Sire Eustace, the seneschal,
the baron's old companion in arms, who carries the great gonfalon of
St. Aliquis into battle, and who, in peace times, is chief factotum
and superintendent of almost everything about the fief. The marshal
who has charge of the stables is also "the son of a good house," and
the chamberlain, who has oversight over all that interior economy
which does not pertain to food, drink, and mealtimes, is an elderly,
childless knight who became lamed in the service of the baron's father,
and who really holds an honorable sinecure. There are, besides these,
four other petty nobles, whose estates are so small that they find it
pleasantest to live at St. Aliquis, ride in the baron's hunts, and
command his men at arms.
The remainder of the castle servants are indeed non-noble; but there
is nothing dishonorable in personal service, provided you serve a lord
higher than yourself. Conon would feel complimented if, on a visit
to Paris, he were asked to carry a great pasty and set it before the
queen. The importance of a baron is somewhat gauged by the number of
his squires and noble servitors. Many a poor sire has to put up with
only one squire, and perhaps a seneschal. As for Conon and Adela,
they have a cherished ambition that in their sons' day, at least, the
St. Aliquis butler, cellarer, dispenser, and even the master falconer
should be of gentle blood also; but that would be putting their
household practically on an equality with the duke's.
[Sidenote: Dinner, Supper and Nightfall]
When dinnertime comes there will be a great rush for the hall, but
the ceremonies of the table will be told later.[12] Of course, on
common days one will not expect a banquet--only one or two plates of
meat, some fish, a few vegetables, bread, and common wine, but all in
abundance. Hunger seldom troubles St. Aliquis. If the weather is fine,
very likely dinner and supper will be served in the garden, outside
the barbican, under pleasant shade trees, close to the purling Rapide.
There will be long tables covered with linen dyed with Montpellier
scarlet. The honored guests will have cushioned benches; the remainder
will sit on almost anything.[13] Supper may be either in the hall or
in the garden, according to circumstances. It is a long time between
dinner and supper, and appetites are again keen. After supper, if by
the presence of jongleurs there are excuses for torches and music, the
castle folk join in diversions or even in dancing, until a large silver
cup is solemnly handed to the baron. He drinks deeply. All his guests
are similarly served. Then he rises and the company goes to bed. If
there are honored visitors, Conon will escort them to their chambers
himself, and take another sup of wine with them ere parting for the
night.
The seneschal meantime makes a careful round of the walls, to satisfy
himself that the outer drawbridge is raised, the sentries posted, and
that everything is safe. Then he will transmit the ponderous keys to be
taken to the baron's room till dawn. The seigneur is undressed by his
squires and reposes under an avalanche of feather beds thick enough to
provide a vapor bath. Soon all the lights are extinguished throughout
the whole black mass of the castle, save only the tall taper in the
master's apartment. So the castle sleeps through the darkness, unbroken
save for the occasional "All is well!" from the yawning sentry on the
turret, until the thrushes and blackbirds begin their noise in the
garden and in the trees by the rivers. Then again St. Aliquis resumes
its daytime business.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Hospitality sometimes went to such a point that we are told the
ladies of the castle assisted a visiting knight to take a complete
bath--a service quite innocently rendered and accepted. Similar
customs, of course, obtained among the Greeks of the _Iliad_ and
_Odyssey_.
[8] See ch. xvii.
[9] See ch. xxii.
[10] Even when sums of money are mentioned in connection with peasants'
dues, etc., one may guess that often payments in kind are really in
question.
[11] See ch. xi.
[12] See ch. vii.
[13] Mediæval men did not use the floor to the extent of the Chinese
and Japanese, but they were certainly often willing to dispense with
seats even indoors, and to sit on their haunches upon the pavement or
rushes, "Turk fashion."