The lord of a border castle wakes at dawn, and begins his day with prayer. Kneeling before a simple crucifix, he recites the Lord’s Prayer in Latin, then reads from a psalter. By the time he rises, the household is stirring.
The heart of the castle is its great hall. Soon after dawn, servants begin sweeping the rushes. Trestle tables are set up by the kitchen team and benches dragged into place, all ready for the first meal of the day. The cook is already in the kitchen and the fire has been lit by one of the maids. In the hall, a dog noses underneath the trestle tables.
The lord breaks his fast with a simple meal of bread and ale. If there is cold meat left over from last night’s supper, he may eat a slice of that. His household joins him if they wish to eat in the hall, but this is not the main meal of the day, and people can enter and leave at will. At the high table on the raised dais, the lord meets his squires and knights, his chaplain and his steward The day is set up by these trusted people. Then the work can begin.
A medieval lord is not merely a landowner; he is administrator, judge, military captain, landlord, diplomat – and beholden to the monarch. In the case of my fictional Lord of Hambrig, who is tenant-in-chief to the monarch, this last responsibility supersedes all the others. However, the lord’s post as tenant-in-chief does not impinge often on his day-to-day duties.
The 13th century is not a static world. It is restless – legally, politically and economically – moving forward as times change, although sometimes reluctantly. Written records are becoming increasingly important, so charters must be sealed, fines must be noted down, and boundaries described in clauses which run for lines and lines of crabbed script, and must leave no room for misinterpretion or dispute.
Therefore, the steward must present figures: rents collected, arrears outstanding, grain tallies from the demesne fields. These are the fields which the lord actually owns, and which provide food for his family and household.
The steward will also inform the lord of anything requiring action or judgement. Perhaps a millstone needs repair, or a tenant has died without a known heir. The lord must decide who inherits. He must organise (and pay for) the repairs. These things are not trivial; the lord knows that grain not milled in August will mean hunger in the winter.
Later in the morning, there will be a manorial court. The lord will sit in judgement, hearing disputes between tenants, allegations of theft, arguments over land rights and so on. He sits in a chair on the raised dais, oaths are sworn and witnesses speak. Authority must be seen and heard; punishments must be just and proportionate; victims must be compensated.
The main meal is dinner, eaten roughly at 1 o’clock, perhaps pottage with meat, barley and herbs. Fish will be served on fast days. People talk, and the lord listens. Information is survival – in a frontier shire especially.
After dinner, the lord may ride out to inspect boundary markers and perhaps visit the mill. He may go to the river crossing which brings income in the form of tolls, but which must be defended and guarded at all times. Sometimes he will train with his garrison – shield work, archery practice, or mounted manoeuvres. It is important to be prepared. To be ready.
By late afternoon, the administrative work returns, with letter writing (or dictation to a scribe) and the wrapping up of any outstanding matters. Letters are sealed by pressing embossed metal into warm wax. Identity in this age is both visual and hereditary.
As evening approaches, the hall is readied for supper, a lighter meal than dinner. The fire is lit and there may be music by the hearth, or a bard to tell stories. Often, supper is left-overs from dinner, with added bread and perhaps a lentil stew. Bowls and platters of food are arranged on trestle tables positioned end-to-end down the centre of the great hall, and – as with breakfast – people can enter and leave at will. Some choose to take their food back to their barns or workshops.
In his chamber that evening, lit by candlelight or rushlight, the lord may read for an hour or so. His reading matter will depend on his mood and his upbringing. Perhaps something classical, or it might be the Psalms. Even a romance – yes, these were very popular!
Eventually, the lord puts away his books, extinguishes his candles and lies down to sleep. But perhaps, first, he thinks. After all, the castle never sleeps. A lantern glows in the gatehouse, and a watchman patrols high up on the wall-walk. The lord is powerful within his estate, yet constrained by forces above and beyond him. He has power over his tenants, but he must bow to the king. He can strengthen the defence of his walls, but he cannot control the weather which ruins his crops.
This is the important thing to remember: the 13th century lord is not a figure of perpetual action. He is a man of sustained responsibility. His life is a constant round of decisions. Day after day of balancing justice with mercy; caution with courage; thrift with generosity. The responsibility weighs heavily.
Behind the stone walls and the heraldic shields stands, not merely a warrior, but a man who must hold together land, household and reputation with imperfect information and finite strength.
At dawn tomorrow, he will wake again before the hall stirs.
And he will begin it all over again.
I write historical fiction set within a carefully researched medieval framework, and I am open about where history ends and invention begins. Each volume in Tales of Castle Rory concludes with an Author’s Note, explaining which elements are historically attested, which are fictional extensions of the record, and which move deliberately into fantasy. The stories are rooted in real medieval experience – with the workings left visible. The practices described above are drawn from surviving legal and household records. Where Tales of Castle Rory departs from this evidence, particularly in its use of prophecy and symbolic objects, those choices are explained in the Author’s Notes at the end of each volume.
