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Medieval millers have a bad name. I’m quite sure, knowing as I do, blessed readers, the bent of your minds, that you’ve come across Robin, the drunken, wrestling-loving miller of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (pictured above). I have to say that I only know about this miller's outrageous contribution to the pilgrims’ tales because my alter ego, Dr Monk, told me about it. He lectured on Chaucer at the University of Manchester, you see. But the less we say about hot pokers and arses the better!
My own mind is even more troubled, dare I admit, by a real life scandal involving medieval millers and monks. Though the details of the scandal are tantalising sparse, I think you should nevertheless know what waywardness took place in the monastery of Rochester at the beginning of the twelfth-century... just in case it may help you in your journey through life. The Medieval Monk takes a look at a 13th-century medical recipe for painful and slow urination and decides to give it a miss. Blessed readers, I know that you're all abundantly aware of my God-given gift of time-travelling, but I must mention my transhistoricalness once more. This is because I have a friend and spiritual brother who has a recurring health problem for which he cannot find a cure, here in the eleventh century. So when this last week my brother in Christ complained to me of his somatic tribulations, the obvious thing was for me to call upon the twenty-first-century experience of the other monk of this website, Dr Christopher Monk. And so I made polite enquiry of him to ascertain if there was anything in his world that might just do the trick. Well, beloved, I'm not sure I should have bothered! The rascal came up with the thirteenth-century treatment you see below, an item he unexpectedly came across whilst researching, on behalf of Rochester Cathedral, a manuscript about, of all things, monastic revenues. You will soon gather the delicate nature of my brother's condition once you read the recipe. And you will soon comprehend, my blessed readers, that I had no intention whatsoever of carrying out this particular treatment for my ailing brother. I do have my limits! The Recipe Dr Monk wishes to thank Dario Bullitta, Judy Shoaf and Erin Connelly for helping to identify marsh mallow in the recipe. Translation is Dr Monk's. Contra stranguriam et dysuriam ... or how to tackle slow and painful urination: Well, I'm quite sure, blessed ones, that you can guess my response to Dr Monk's suggested treatment, though I'm not sure I should repeat the exact words of disapprobation I uttered in his direction. What I do wish to say, however, is that Dr Monk's conscience was pricked and he was moved to explain to me that the sap of one of the ingredients in the medical recipe, namely the root of marsh mallow, was used in nineteenth-century France to make the delicacy known as marshmallow. And then with great swiftness of hand, he produced a bag of the aforementioned confection and handed it to me with the announcement, "He'll probably like those more." My brother's pain is much the same, I have to report, but he simply loved the gooey mallows and, needless to say, my own sensibilities and reputation are intact. The Anglo-Saxon Monk looks to the law of Ethelbert for some Easter reflection... and comes up with mutilation, adultery and hair-cutting. Blessed readers,
The most important Christian festival approaches: a time for reflection and, for all Anglo-Saxon folk, a time for confession. Now I'm loath to acknowledge it, but my sources tell me that Easter in the twenty-first century is less about the Resurrection of our Lord and more about eating rabbits made of a confection that I only know about because I'm a time traveller. Shame on you! Though I wouldn't mind trying one of those Cadbury's Creme Eggs I've heard about – once my fasting is over, of course. Well now, to the point at hand. I won't say that Bertie's law code contains anything directly related to Easter but there are a number of rulings in there – pretty much all of them in fact – that were you to contravene you would most certainly be obliged to seek out your confessor before Easter Sunday. So in the spirit of Christian love and, frankly, with a dispiriting awareness of your moral frailty, here are my top three crimes for Easter confession. Well, being as I'm advocating honest confession, I should admit that they're actually just the first three random laws that caught my eye. Well, I can't spend all day ruminating over your eternal salvation. I have things to do! |
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