A Merchant’s House Winter in the 15th Century

A Merchant’s House Winter in the 15th Century

By Angela Dunsby

As the January day draws to a close, the shutters of the shop have been raised and the once busy streets have become empty as the cutting wind which has been gathering pace throughout the day, has chased everyone behind closed doors to seek refuge from its wintry blast. Dust dances in little circles as the gale rushes up the street and branches ripped from trees scrape at doors and shutters like an evil spirit scratching to gain entry.

The shadow of the abbey stretches upon the frozen ground, the herbs of the garden, now lying dormant; slowly start to disappear as the darkness creeps along the ground and envelopes the walls of the houses like a sinister veil. The door is shut tightly against the winter night, yet bitter fingers of frozen air still somehow claw their way inside to trace icy tips along the back of our necks and seek out any exposed flesh. The shutters fight to hold back the chill but even the tightly drawn oilskins cannot defeat the wisps of frosty air drifting in through tiny cracks and gaps.

As we tightly huddle around the fire, the need for warmth draws us dangerously close to the low-lying flames. Smoke wraps itself around our heads like a choking fog and slowly rises to the void above us, swirling around threateningly. The smells of pottage and ale have been obliterated by the foul atmosphere, as we pass the freezing evening with glum thoughts.

Soon enough the curfew falls, we climb the oak staircase in the very dim light cast by our tallow candles, the smell of burning fat adding to the misery of the January night. As we search for comfort beneath stiff bedclothes, the cramped bedroom holds little consolation as tendrils of spiky air sneak between the jetty boards and bite exposed flesh with icy teeth.

The silence is broken by the scream of a fox seeking a companion upon the fields, where bloodstains remain from recent battles. The lonely creatures’ wails sound hauntingly like the cries of heavily armoured men, cut down fighting for loyalty to a chosen rose. Sleep will not come while these ghostly images fill my chilled brain.

Acrid smells escape the smoke void and seep into the room bringing no warmth, only a cloying atmosphere which will further deny us repose. Our only solace being that no miasma will penetrate this hazy curtain to bring forth its diseases of death.

The night will pass slowly as our shivering bodies crave much needed heat but are left wanting.

We are not a poor family, the wares of our small shop, prepared in the workshop, provide food and necessities others do not have and I know that we are blessed. Yet as I hide in this eternal darkness and consider those less fortunate than us, I know that soon my bare skin will glow with the vicious sting of the piss pots chilled rim.

Cold is the night, but the dawn is in sight.