Fall Asleep to the ENTIRE Story of Medieval Fashion’s Forgotten Glamour
Hey guys tonight we slip into something not quite comfortable you’re standing barefoot on cold stone in the dim orange glow of a flickering tallow candle wind hisses through a cracked wooden shutter and your breath fogs in front of you welcome to the late 1300s where a wardrobe is a status symbol a survival tool and sometimes a personal oven you wrap a rough woolen cloak tighter around your shoulders it’s scratchy damp and smells faintly of sheep underneath you’re wearing layers linen undergarments a kirtle maybe even an outer tunic depending on your station no matter who you are fashion starts with function you’re not just trying to look decent you’re trying not to die of cold so before you get comfortable take a moment to like the video and subscribe but only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here and hey drop your location and the local time in the comments I love seeing where and when you’re listening from now dim the lights maybe turn on a fan for that soft background hum and let’s ease into tonight’s journey together you’re in a rural village near Rouen France the year 1387 your shoes pointy stiff leather things are crusted with MUD the streets are more dung than dirt so let’s just say fashion rarely makes it home clean the manner you serve in isn’t glamorous either it’s smoky hearth belches more soot than warmth and the rushes on the floor haven’t been changed since well sometime before the last harvest still your lord expects a presentable servant so you shiver into your best garments linen shirt slightly yellowed woolen shows tied awkwardly at the waist and a faded hood with rabbit fur trim that used to impress people last year clothing in this world isn’t disposable it’s stitched patched handed down and altered endlessly you can’t just toss a tunic when it rips you re sew the seams maybe add a lining from old curtains in noble houses garments are often unstitched and remade every few years one gown could have three lifetimes and five owners you scratch your wrist that’s not just dry skin it’s the lovely lace trimmed bite of body lice everyone has them your linen underclothes are supposed to be the clean layer absorbing sweat and filth so the wool stays wearable but surprise they’re rarely washed either soap exists but it’s pricey and harsh most people wash clothes in streams or tubs with ash and lie which means they’re stiff smelly and maybe just a touch caustic but oh when you do get something clean that’s cause for Celebration you might even scent it with lavender thyme or crushed bay leaves tucked into your sleeves the truly fancy dab a bit of civet or musk if they can stomach the scent of animal glands simmered in alcohol fashion in this age is layered and local England favors dark wool’s while Italy’s already flirting with silks France bold colors if you can afford the dyes deep blues and scarlets mean wealth pale yellows let’s just say they’re more available historians still argue whether most peasants had more than one full outfit some say yes a working set and a Sunday best others suggest one main set of garments patched and layered creatively throughout the seasons regardless you’ve never shopped a day in your life garments are made by hand by your mother your wife a local seamstress or perhaps by your own calloused fingers buttons are rare zippers please you use lacing toggles and if you’re feeling spicy a metal clasp carved with a clumsy lion the fire crackles you sit trying to dry your hem smoke stings your eyes there’s a reason so many portraits from this era show people squinting between candle soot hearth fires and no chimneys everyone’s basically living inside a bonfire your Lord enters the hall and you rise quickly his garments rich burgundy will lined with squirrel fur the sleeves are ridiculously long so long they trail the floor a servant follows behind to keep them clean this fashion you’ve heard is called devil’s sleeves stylish yes but also deadly if they catch on a candle or carriage wheel which has allegedly happened more than once still long sleeves and trailing gowns are status symbols they say I don’t need to work with my hands I don’t even need to walk carefully he also wears a jeweled brooch in the shape of a hawk and no it doesn’t match the rest of his outfit medieval nobles loved the statement piece even if it clashed with everything else as the Lord sits to eat you notice his cloak has dagged edges meaning the hems are cut into elaborate patterns scallops tongues even little sawtooth designs these aren’t just decorative they’re expensive more cutting equals more waste and in a world where cloth is wealth that’s a flex the candle gutters low shadows jump across the stone walls you think about your own fashion today you’ve wrapped a cord around your waist a makeshift belt tied your hose tight fitting woolen leggings to your shirt using little linen points your feet ache in stiff leather shoes shaped like duck bills you look ridiculous but you’re warm mostly at least you didn’t have to wear a headdress today the local steward’s wife has a new butterfly hennin an absurdly wide wired veil perched like wings on her head it makes doorways impossible and dinner interesting a rat skitters near the hearth you sigh at least you’re not outside in the rain like the stable boy whose shoes are literally made of wood and straw or barefoot like the youngest scullion still you feel a strange pride this outfit however itchy and patched marks your place in the world you are seen you are dressed you are surviving and honestly that’s more than most you wake with a start curled near the hearth wrapped in your now damp cloak the coals have cooled but the draft has not you shiver rubbing sleep from your eyes and remember today’s market day which means people and people of course mean fashion pressure the first thing you reach for isn’t your shoes it’s your coif a small linen cap tied under your chin like a bonnet’s grumpy cousin everyone wears one from babies to blacksmiths it keeps your hair out of your soup lice slightly at bay and acts as a sweatband under heavier hats or hoods you might not love it but try going without and someone will ask if you’ve fallen ill you fumble with the ties they’re crusted stiff with yesterday’s stew splash nice over that goes your hood your best one lined with sad thin fur and once dyed a proud green now mostly gray it has a lyre pipe a long tail hanging down your back it serves no purpose except to say yes I’m trying if you were richer it might be several feet long knotted into elaborate shapes you once saw a merchant whose lyre pipe nearly brushed the ground like a tail of pure wealth your hose take longer to wrangle they’re separate one for each leg and tied to your linen braise basically medieval boxer shorts or directly to your tunic the result a glorified harness system holding your clothes together when one tie snaps so does your dignity still hose are crucial they signal age gender class and your opinion of chilly breezes rich folk wear wool so fine it looks like velvet yours is coarser repaired with patches that don’t match one leg sags slightly lower than the other and not in a charming way shoes come last you jam your feet into leather turn shoes soft soled and horribly unsupportive they’re stitched inside out and then flipped so the seams stay hidden they also soak up every puddle you meet which is unfortunate because you’re about to step outside the MUD squelches a cart rumbles by spraying slop across your hem fashion you realize is not for walking but you must walk everyone must unless you’re noble or a nun or fabulously lucky and everyone walking is watching what you wear says everything it says what you do who you serve and whether you have enough coin to afford blue dye a surcoat trimmed with rabbit respectable a hood lined with fox aspirational a squirrel fur lining dyed black now that’s scandalous black was the most expensive dye of all historians still argue whether people truly noticed these details or whether we modern are reading too much into pigment but when peasants get fined for wearing silk or apprentices for wearing swords you realize fashion was being watched closely you pass the baker’s wife she’s wearing an apron spattered with flour and a thick woolen gown belted tight at the waist her sleeves are pinned back practical and smart you nod she nods back and you both pretend not to judge each other’s stains at the Market Square it’s a swirl of people and colors cloth drapes from stalls linen bolts wool hanks even rare imported silks that shimmer like water you’ll never afford those but it’s nice to dream a minstrel plays a hurdy gurdy near the ale booth wearing a patched jester’s coat with bells that haven’t jingled properly in years his outfit is half costume half survival it draws the eye and hopefully a coin or two you spot a group of students from the nearby monastery their robes are long drab and uniform but one of them has gasp a red lining hidden when standing still it flashes as he walks a rebellious flicker of colour it’s a silent wink to others I’m poor yes but I have connections nearby a widow argues over bread prices her veil is long and black her dress simple but impeccably mended morning clothes must show grief but also dignity you remember hearing of a woman who wore mourning black for 40 years then scandalized her town by switching to a blue over dress too early she was 80 you buy a turnip and a handful of leaks no fabric today your money’s too tight but still you look you touch a bolt of russet wool it’s rough plain and popular with the working class in fact russet becomes so common that later laws literally use it to define peasant clothing minimums as in must wear at least russet you pause at the fishmonger not for the fish your tunic stomach level stains are warning enough but for his sleeves they’re rolled and tied with cords striped with grease and scale and yet they look kind of cool you file that away back home you remove your layers carefully slowly because once something tears it might stay torn for months you lay them near the hearth not too close or they’ll burn again and prepare the evening chore brushing no not your hair your clothes brushing was a basic form of cleaning especially for wool you take a bundle of dried thistles or a comb if you’re lucky and pick out the worst of the dirt straw and insect carcasses it’s oddly meditative like lint rolling the 14th century off your thighs at last you settle in slipping into your linen chemise your sleep garment and only clean layer it’s yellowed worn thin at the shoulders but it’s soft and smells faintly of thyme from your herb sachet pillow comfort in its own way you lie on the straw mattress head heavy feet sore and realize something strange you kind of love these awful clothes they’re yours they’re stubborn and somehow they’ve made it through another day and so have you morning sunlight cuts across the thatch roof and lands square on your face you groan shielding your eyes with one arm no fanfare no alarm just the scratch of rats and the smell of old leather another day another chance to look absurdly overdressed in the name of medieval masculinity you swing your legs off the straw mattress and reach for today’s ensemble your show off outfit why because you’re heading into town and
if there’s one place where fashion becomes theatrical it’s among the men of the late 14th and early 15th centuries now you may imagine medieval men as dull and dusty earth toned tunics plain belts maybe a boring hood not today not for the fashion forward male you wriggle into your tight hose one red one green mismatched legs were peak fashion for a while because if you can afford two colours of wool why not wear both subtlety is not the goal over that goes your doublet a padded form fitting jacket with a peacocky flare it’s short it’s snug and it’s cinched at the waist so hard it could qualify as a corset with a superiority complex the sleeves are detachable and dagged at the edge meaning they look like someone took Scissors to them in a frenzy of artistic ambition historians still argue whether these detachable sleeves were for versatility or just a way to show off wealth by constantly updating one’s look either way you spend more time lacing your sleeves than eating breakfast now the piece de resistance your codpiece ah yes the infamous scandalous utterly baffling codpiece at first it was just a practical flap men wore separate hose remember and needed a way to cover their uh business but somewhere along the line practicality gave way to pride your codpiece is padded it sticks out and it’s embroidered with let’s be honest too much confidence one guy down the road has one shaped like a dragon’s head another had his engraved with Latin poetry yours is modest by comparison just velvet bright red velvet with tassels you fasten your belt low just under your hips to make sure the codpiece stands out you adjust it three times four it’s like a small fussy pet on goes your chaperone a wrapped hood turned hat hybrid that looks like a turban collided with a pile of fabric you coil it into an elegant twist or try to you look in your polished pewter plate and realize it’s more laundry accident than Lord of the realm good enough your shoes long toed wonders called Paulines these shoes have points so extended they need to be stuffed with moss to keep their shape some laws actually limit the length of these shoes too long and you’re considered vain or sinful you you’re somewhere between respectable merchant and trips over cobblestones for fun you head out into the street each step clicking swishing and flapping the hem of your tunic is short thigh length because in this era showing a bit of leg isn’t scandalous for men it’s manly it’s Marshall it says I own a sword probably the town square is a peacock display of male vanity one man wears a sleeveless overgown with exaggerated shoulders like he’s preparing to ram someone another sleeves are so long they drag behind him like satin snakes there are fur collars jewelled belts and pouches with embroidery so delicate it’s practically a love letter a cluster of young nobles pass laughing their gowns are cut so tight across the chest that you’re pretty sure one of them just popped a seam that’s another trend the Gothic silhouette tall narrow and aggressively tailored you’ve heard of tailors stitching people into their clothes like fashion armor you stop at a cloth merchant’s stall bolts of crimson velvet imported from Venice shimmer in the breeze prices are absurd the merchant offers you a square of felted wool you pretend to consider it really you’re just admiring the man’s gloves goat skin dyed black with tiny decorative buttons shaped like acorns you move on nodding to a city guard who’s wearing a bright blue tabard with his master’s crest on the chest uniforms are their own fashion here meant to show power affiliation and loyalty his codpiece however is comically large you both pretend not to notice back at the tavern you duck inside for warmth the air smells of wine onions and unwashed humanity a troubadour sings badly near the hearth his outfit is patchwork and ribboned every colour imaginable stitched into a loud declaration of hire me you sip your drink ale lukewarm and eavesdrop on a conversation about the Duke’s new cloak allegedly lined with silver fox and dyed with Tyrion purple that’s nearly mythic stuff a color once reserved for emperors historians still argue whether any medieval fabrics truly used true purple or if it was just marketing you leave before your codpiece gets wine stained by the time you reach home you’re exhausted from parading your peacock tail you carefully unlace everything unpin your sleeves and fold your doublet with reverence you slip into your soft linen undershirt and collapse on the straw mattress and just before sleep claims you you wonder will tomorrow’s look finally involve trousers with pockets spoiler no your dreams are weird tonight you’re being chased by an army of pointy hats not soldiers hats you wake tangled in your blanket the imprint of your coif tie etched on your cheek and the distant sound of bells tolling outside your window another day begins another outfit to assemble this time you’re not dressing as a man you’re slipping into the life of a woman in the late medieval period somewhere around 1450 you’re a merchant’s wife maybe or a lady in waiting if we’re being generous either way you have standards to meet and let’s be clear being fashionable hurts you begin with the chemise a simple linen shift the only thing that touches your skin it’s soft surprisingly comforting but it won’t be visible fashion at this level is all about hiding what really makes you comfortable next you wrestle into your kirtle the first real layer it’s laced tight along the front or side pulling your torso into a long narrow shape this you’re told is the Gothic ideal vertical lines no curves and an expression of spiritual purity apparently looking like a stained glass window is desirable historians still argue whether medieval women truly found this silhouette beautiful or if they were simply following what religious authorities and aristocrats deemed proper either way you feel like you’re being pressed into a soup can over the kettle goes your surcoat which sounds elegant until you see it in the mirror it’s a sleeveless overdress with massive openings down the sides massive so wide they’re nicknamed the Gates of hell priests hated them called them indecent naturally that made them even more popular the surcoat is trimmed with fake ermine white wool with black spots painted on real ermine is for royalty but who’s checking you lace a decorative belt over your hips it’s long studded with metal and mostly useless you’ve never used it to carry anything it just dangles dramatically like a status symbol that occasionally trips you when you walk now comes the headdress you select your Henin a conical hat nearly 2 feet tall tilted slightly back on your head it’s supported by a padded roll underneath pinned in place with steel needles a sheer veil cascades from the tip floating like smoke it’s ridiculous but you love it because once it’s on you feel powerful dignified like a chest piece that could ruin someone’s week you walk differently when you wear a henin slower more upright less able to turn corners without knocking something over you dab a little rose water behind your ears no real bathing today it’s winter and heating a whole tub is a major event plus you’d need servants to pour hot water from copper kettles then scrub you with coarse cloths today perfume and linen will have to do you’re nearly done gloves optional jewelry a simple brooch shaped like a flower it hides the lacing of your surcoat rings one on your index finger with a polished amber stone that’s said to ward off illness no one knows if it works but you do notice that the apothecary’s daughter is mysteriously never sick and she wears too you step outside your skirt swishing your henin catching the light like a personal lighthouse it’s breezy you instantly regret the side slits in your surcoat still you press on you’ve been invited to a small gathering at the mayor’s house and this is your chance to see who’s wearing what fashion in this period spreads through social circles not magazines you watch take mental notes and occasionally gasp one woman arrives in a sleeveless surcoat lined with leopard fur real or fake hard to tell but the statement is clear my husband made bank this year another flaunts a butterfly headdress wires holding her veil aloft like insect wings it’s stunning impractical spectacular she can’t fit through the doorway without ducking inside the conversation is polite but the glances are sharp one woman’s gown has a new feature puffed shoulders a noble woman imported the idea from Burgundy it makes her look like she’s storing bread under her sleeves you drink watered wine and nibble on honeyed almonds someone mentions the Queen’s latest gown velvet cut on the bias so it clings perfectly with a train so long two attendants carry it a bishop tripped over it at a feast everyone laughed quietly you leave the gathering inspired but slightly envious your own surcoat suddenly feels drab you make a note to add embroidery near the hem something modest maybe a vine pattern assuming you can barter enough thread back at home you unlace yourself in stages it takes a while there’s no zipper no elastic just ties pins and the eternal question why are sleeves so complicated you hang your kirtle by the fire to air out it still smells faintly of mead and dried lavender you fold your veil neatly smoothing the creases with your palm as you climb into bed hair still pinned you realize something unexpected you like the weight of it all the ritual the absurdity the effort because in a world where women are often voiceless your clothes speak they say I belong here I know the codes I’m clever enough to play the game even if you can’t lift your arms above your head the rooster crows rude early and with absolutely no concern for how tightly you laced your bodice last night you sit up slowly bones cracking and remember today is not just another market stroll it’s tax inspection day which means dressing for inspection and judgment you sigh and head for your chest of clothes more a wooden box than a wardrobe the best gown is in there folded with dried lavender and a few cloves tucked into the seams to ward off moths you’ll need to look respectable but not too grand not sumptuously dressed that my friend is dangerous sumptuary laws they sound fancy but they’re basically fashion police with legal backing if you’re not nobility and you dress like you are the authorities may fine you or confiscate the outfit or both so you play the game appear refined but stay inside your lane you choose a blue wool gown not the deepest dye but dark enough to look decent lighter blue would suggest modesty too deep that’s aristocracy territory careful now historians still argue whether sumptuary laws were seriously enforced or just symbolic some records suggest that local officials were too busy to care others show nobles going on full blown textile witch hunts either way fashion had rules and you’re not about to test them you slip on your kirtle lace it firmly then layer the blue gown on top it’s cut with narrow sleeves slits for movement and a high collar a modest neckline to show you’re virtuous and not freezing but here’s the thing despite the rules people constantly bend them a wealthy merchant’s daughter might line her sleeves with silk arguing it’s a gift a butcher’s wife might wear a fox trimmed hood and claim it’s rabbit very clean rabbit everyone finds loopholes it’s fashion diplomacy you recall a neighbor who dyed her apron saffron yellow claiming it was accidental that apron caused a week long scandal and two church sermons why because saffron dye was expensive that color whispered wealth and whispers traveled fast your belt today is plain leather the buckle is iron you have a nicer one brass maybe even bronze but not for today let them see your respectability not your ambition as you fasten your veil you think about how layered these choices are clothing isn’t just aesthetics it’s surveillance it’s your neighborhood’s gossip column stitched and dyed into every ham outside the tax clerks arrive in fur lined cloaks carrying ink stained ledgers and judgmental expressions their own garments flaunt contrast rough wool robes paired with silk lining as if to say I’m humble but I could be dangerous they knock on doors ask questions glance at sleeves and jewelry before they glance at debts one clerk pauses to scowl at a young woman wearing an embroidered girdle technically illegal for her class but she swears it was a gift her father backs her up nervously the clerk sniffs scribbles moves on you’re next he steps inside dripping rainwater on your rushes his eyes flick from your shoes well patched to your veil modest and finally to the neckline of your gown he says nothing just writes appropriate which is a compliment you think later that afternoon you walk to the well the village is buzzing everyone’s dissecting who got flagged who dressed too richly who wore silk by mistake it’s a social autopsy there’s also quiet resentment because let’s be honest the nobility break the laws all the time some of them dress like Byzantine mosaics dripping with velvet and pearls but no one finds them the laws it seems mostly apply downward you wonder if it’s about morality or just keeping people in their place a young man walks by wearing red hose scandalously tight someone snickers another whispers trying to impress the Miller’s daughter probably true fashion has always been flirty even under surveillance that evening you return home strip out of your clothes carefully and hang them where the fire can kiss away the damp your undergarments linen again are rubbed down with salt and ashes not washed just scrubbed full washing is for feast days or people with indoor tubs you lay in bed and think about your choices today you wore legal colors you avoided the good buckle you passed and yet you wonder what it would feel like to wear crimson real crimson to stand in the sunlight with fabric that glows like royalty and says yes I am more than what you say I can wear for now you settle into the dark tomorrow you might sew a secret patch of silk inside your sleeve just for you just to know it’s there the wind tonight is howling like it’s got something to prove you tug your cloak tighter boots crunching over frozen slush and watch your breath swirl like smoke in the air you’re heading to court not to be judged thankfully but to see the spectacle because the tutors have arrived you shuffle into the great hall of a minor noble’s castle somewhere outside London late 1400s inside the fire blazes high banners ripple in the updraft and every inch of stone wall is trying desperately to look more glamorous than it is you’re just one of many bodies lining the edge of the hall pressed shoulder to shoulder craning for a glimpse of the main attraction Renaissance fashion in full chaotic bloom and chaotic is the right word because with the tutors the page turns fast you’ve gone from narrow Gothic silhouettes and draped gowns to something altogether more engineered structured armored even you catch your first glimpse of the lord of the manor and there it is a doublet puffed out like it’s ready to duel rich velvet square neckline puffed shoulders stuffed like roast birds and vertical slashes cut into the fabric to reveal a flash of gold beneath it’s not torn it’s designed that way a style born of showing off one’s expensive inner linings called slash and puff because nothing says wealth like intentionally damaging your outer layer to show there’s more wealth underneath historians still argue whether this trend was inspired by actual battlefield wounds slashed garments exposing fine shirts beneath or whether that’s just a romanticized legend either way you’re looking at fashion that wants to be seen and whispered about the lady beside him wears a French hood not the soaring Hennin of past decades but a rounded flatter design that frames her face like a crown of restraint her gown is heavy brocade square necked with fur edging and wide sleeves stiff enough to serve drinks on you can’t help but stare there’s a subtle shift happening here fashion is becoming political a signal not just of wealth or vanity but of courtly allegiance who you dress like often reveals who you support a gown cut in the style of the Queen dangerous depending on the Queen a sleeve pattern favored by the Bulins could get you sent home early or worse and then comes the true showstopper a young man enters in court dress so dramatic it defies movement his coat is panelled with alternating stripes of silk and velvet studded with tiny pearls and belted with a jewelled chain so heavy you’re surprised his spine still works his codpiece of course is still a statement piece but now it’s jewel encrusted less like a pouch more like a threat you glance down at your own clothes reasonable wool leather belt cleanish boots you’re invisible in this room which is comforting and disappointing all at once later you sneak into the side chamber where servants prep clothing for the nobility the room smells of beeswax and damp linen bundles of garments hang on wooden pegs you see the underlayers linen chemises bodies the precursor to corsets padded stomachers and hose with elaborate lacing patterns one woman is ironing sleeves with a heated glass ball another is polishing a man’s boots with goose fat you ask quietly about a particular gown and get a grin in return that one took six months fabric from Milan thread from Bruges the pearls sewn by candlelight over winter it dawns on you just how collaborative this kind of fashion is no one dresses alone it takes hands many of them tailors laundresses stitchers wig makers dyers you don’t just wear a dress you deploy it you help fold a surcoat running your fingers across the lining crimson silk so fine it slides like water no one will see it but the wearer will know and that knowledge that’s part of the power back in the hall dancing has begun the music is lively the steps rehearsed but the clothes do most of the talking sleeves flash like signal flags trains sweep like banners even standing still the nobles are performing casting silent messages through fabric and silhouette one man’s shoulder cape slides off dramatically someone helps him too late the court chuckles a woman across the hall lifts her chin slightly as if to say he never could keep that thing on the fabric is secondary the statement is everything and in the corner near the musicians sits a woman in mourning black so layered so stiff she might as well be a statue but the black it’s not drab it’s glistening alive with texture black at this level is expensive the dyes required to make it rich and deep were imported layered and fixed with mordants most tailors wouldn’t dare touch she’s grieving yes but in luxury you finally leave head spinning with textures and colors and walk home beneath a moon that turns the frost silver at your small hearth you unlace your tunic hang up your cloak and sit in your shift for warmth you’re not a Tudor noble you’re not even close but tonight for a while you glimpsed what fashion looks like when it rules the room and it wasn’t subtle it’s barely light outside but you’re already halfway through your third breath holding session of the morning why because someone is yanking on your laces with enough force to qualify as assault almost there she mutters bracing a knee against your back you grunt beauty in this century begins with losing circulation today you’re stepping into the 1500s where fashion no longer drapes it sculpts this is the age of corsets or as they were then known bodies you’re not just dressing for the eye you’re dressing to create an entire silhouette one stiffened reed at a time your linen chemise is already clinging to your skin damp from sweat even in winter over it goes a boned underbodice laced up the front with grim determination it’s made from layers of canvas possibly stiffened with glue and lined with something that once resembled comfort whalebone stiffening is a luxury most likely yours is reinforced with reeds or rope flexibility not invited you shift awkwardly can’t bend can’t twist you’re essentially a well dressed fence post historians still argue whether these early corsets actually reshaped the body or whether they were more about posture and support what’s certain is this they feel like torture and yet oddly protective like armor for the rib cage and reputation next comes the farthingale a hooped petticoat that turns your lower half into an architectural marvel the Spanish version is stiff and conical you could balance a teacup on your lap the French style is rounder like a bell about to ring you wobble slightly as you walk turning in tight corridors not really an option over that your gown rich velvet square neckline and fitted sleeves with detachable oversleeves that fasten with tiny evil buttons you don’t bother trying to do them yourself it’s a two person job possibly three to accessorize you add a partlet a sheer collar or scarf that covers your upper chest and neck scandalous decolletage is out of favour this season thanks to the Queen’s latest pamphlet on piety and modesty but it’s also freezing so you know dual benefits and speaking of the Queen she’s why your wardrobe now requires sleeve padding bum rolls and front busks a flat piece of wood or horn slipped into your corset to keep everything upright Queen Elizabeth the first is the ultimate style icon and her image filters into every gown collar and stomach piece zone in the kingdom no pressure you examine yourself in a cloudy mirror the result a perfectly sculpted immovable figure with a waist like a strangled hourglass and hips wide enough to shelter a litter of piglets you look stunning you feel exhausted you haven’t even left the room downstairs the household buzzes with quiet panic a guest is coming someone high ranking with opinions your job is to look prosperous capable and well laced the maids shuffle passed in simpler gowns each with a short bodice and apron their sleeves rolled tight and pinned above the elbow still laced still structured but built for movement not court performance one is pregnant and you glance at her waist shortened high with gathers just under the bust the maternity style doesn’t look comfortable per se but it looks better than your boned chest trap enjoy your airflow you whisper she snorts you help lay out clothing for your guest his doublet is embroidered stiffened and cut with so many slashes it resembles shredded cabbage each cut is edged with satin beneath it his shirt is spotless ruffled at the collar his codpiece yes still around is now more of a decorative flap than an actual pouch progress his hose tightly fitted are attached to the doublet by small points of ribbon just putting them on requires the dexterity of a watchmaker and for the final flourish he wears a cloak lined with miniver a type of white fur with tiny black markings once reserved for royalty it’s now an accessory for the deeply ambitious he’ll enter with a rustle and a scent of rose water by midday you’re starving but can’t eat much not because there’s no food there’s roast chicken sweetmeats and buttered carrots but
because your corset doesn’t allow more than two gulps and a sigh you nibble slowly sipping watered wine pretending you’re not dreaming of untying your stays in front of the fire you lean slightly forward and feel the busk protest this is fine one woman next to you wears a rough stiffened linen that flares around her neck like a Halo it’s held up with wire and starched so heavily it could cut bread it looks amazing it also makes her unable to look sideways without rotating her entire upper torso you begin to count how many layers you’re wearing chemise corset Farthingale Underskirt gown partlet sleeves collar girdle busk that’s ten 10 structural components just to exist in a room you marvel at how fashion has moved from draped fabric to engineered sculpture nothing now simply falls into place everything is stitched boned stuffed or stiffened and the irony it’s all to make your body look effortless later that evening your gown is peeled off by candlelight piece by piece your corset unlaced slowly with a sigh of 1,000 crushed ribs you slump like a sack of flour finally you can breathe you lie down in your shift spine aching hair still braided tightly under a nightcap and you think with equal parts pride and horror you looked incredible you survived and tomorrow you’ll do it all again you wake with pin curls biting into your scalp and the scent of rose oil clinging to your pillow the room is still dim lit only by slivers of light slipping through the carved shutters somewhere below a servant is lighting the first fire of the morning but you don’t get up yet because today isn’t about errands or appearances today is a court event which means fashion as battlefield you sit upright slowly carefully no sudden moves the style you’ll wear today isn’t just uncomfortable it’s political every layer every pearl every hem length might signal something someone very important notices or misinterpret you’re a lady of some standing recently moved into the orbit of power close enough to breathe the same air as nobility close enough to be in danger and here’s where it gets tricky you’re not the queen you’re not even a duchess but you need to look like you might be if the candlelight hits just right and that’s where inspiration strikes dress like the mistresses the women who orbit kings cardinals and powerful dukes they are the true style makers always almost inappropriate too fashionable too bold too perfect and yet no one dares correct them you slip into your chemise then your corset today boned with whalebone and lined in silk because if you’re going to be crushed at least do it luxuriously next a bodice with a square neckline cut slightly lower than usual not scandalous just suggestive paired with long tight sleeves embroidered with delicate gold vines just enough to catch the light the gown itself is a deep damask red risky yes red is power but it’s a slightly aged red not the firebrick hue that screams arrest me your farthingale is French bell shaped and smoother than the Spanish version it’s a newer style imported from Paris and if people ask where you saw it you’ll say a sketch sent by my cousin from Blois you don’t have a cousin in Blois but no one needs to know the part let you wear today is sheer embroidered with tiny seed pearls fastened delicately with a jeweled pin at the neck it gives the impression of modesty while not actually committing to it perfect your jewelry is carefully chosen not too much three rings one brooch and a necklace with a miniature portrait encased in crystal who is the portrait of you don’t say let people wonder if it’s your secret lover or a dead husband or your own face that ambiguity that’s the strategy your maid adds the final flourish a French hood low across your forehead pinned back to reveal your hairline painfully plucked to achieve the high fashion of the moment the veil spills down your back stitched with tiny black beads morning fashion grief for someone you’ve never met let them guess at court you enter quietly but your clothes announce you five seconds before you speak whispers follow you catch one is that new another looks like she copied the Marchioness good let them say that let them think it’s imitation because the martianist copied you she just did it faster you settle beside the window just in the right place for the sun to catch your sleeve embroidery you smile drink spiced wine and nod politely as the courtiers discuss politics you already know the outcome of then she arrives Catherine De’medici the Queen Mother regal ruthless draped in mourning black silk but layered in power her sleeves alone look like they were stitched by monks she wears no bright colours only richness of texture intricacy of fold whispering dominance without decoration her very gown says I don’t need to dazzle you I’ve already won you look down at your own gown and wonder briefly if you overdid it then she meets your gaze just once not a smile but a pause as if registering that you exist it’s enough across the room and Bulling’s legacy lingers like perfume no longer living of course but her style lives on pearl chokers French hoods the famous B necklace imitated shamelessly by dozens of women who want to channel boldness wit and just a touch of scandal you don’t wear it but you have a version tucked away historians still argue whether and was a true fashion innovator or simply borrowing from the French courts she admired either way she made danger look beautiful and beauty look dangerous you adjust your bodice take another sip later in the gardens whispers drift on the wind a lady’s gown caught fire again trains and candles rarely mix you remember the last incident a woman leaning too close to a sconce her entire sleeve went up like Parchment she survived barely but her dressmaker thrilled the replacement gown made headlines in Antwerp you return home late exhausted but satisfied your maid unhooks your bodice unlaces your corset unwinds your veil you stare at yourself in the mirror red cheeks flattened hair eyes rimmed in coal and victory the dress is wrinkled your stockings droop your back aches but you made them look you made them wonder and in a world where most women are invisible that might be the most dangerous kind of power you’re standing in front of a mirror well a polished metal plate hanging crookedly on a timber beam and you can’t stop staring at it yes that there it is front and center sticking out like a velvet covered accusation your codpiece you shift slightly it doesn’t help the thing still juts proudly from your hips like a tiny overly confident throne for royalty you definitely don’t want people thinking about in church it’s the early 1500s and you’ve entered the age where men’s fashion has developed a very specific focus the codpiece started out innocently enough a functional patch to cover the um void between two separate hose legs modest practical discreet then someone added padding then someone else added embroidery then someone thought you know what this needs jewels and now it’s out of control yours today is simple comparatively dark velvet lined with linen edged in decorative stitching but it’s also prominent you didn’t ask for it to be so enthusiastic but here we are Renaissance masculinity embodied in a glorified pouch historians still argue whether codpieces were symbolic medical or simply fashion gone mad some believe they were practical ways to accommodate frequent urination in layered clothing others point to them as confidence pieces literal projections of power in a time obsessed with lineage and legacy whatever the reason it’s what men are wearing now knights courtiers poets even merchants if they’re feeling daring there’s one rumor about a nobleman who had a hinged codpiece with a lock and key another wore his in the shape of a scallop shell dyed gold you’ve seen codpieces shaped like lions birds one unfortunate soul attempted a dragon which curled so aggressively upward it practically poked his chin and of course you remember the duel two young men both flaunting absurdly padded codpieces arguing over who had copied the other’s tailor it escalated to drawn swords not metaphorically actual blades one man ended up with a slashed sleeve and the other with a bruised well let’s say ego today your codpiece is subdued you’re visiting the city not the court a smart doublit tightly laced over a crisp linen shirt with ruffled cuffs your hose are joined seamlessly fitted and yes laced to the doublit with silk ties your jerkin adds a final layer but nothing can fully hide the codpiece nor should it that’s the point you step outside and immediately spot another man adjusting his own the move is subtle more of a lift and settle but you recognize it caught piece solidarity he nods you nod it’s like a handshake for the overcompensated as you walk through the marketplace women glance and then quickly pretend they weren’t looking men glance too but with evaluation size shape style is his newer than mine one even mutters mine’s Italian velvet with the tone of someone announcing royal blood you wonder briefly if tailoring shops have separate sections now modest cods versus aggressively forward facing cods a woman selling lace catches your eye care for a lace trim she asks looking pointedly downward you decline firmly further on you pass a group of children snickering behind a barrel one mimics a strut with exaggerated posture poking a carrot out of his belt his mother grabs him by the ear and hisses stop that he’s noble you’re not actually but the codpiece clearly did the heavy lifting by midday you’re tired sitting is a logistical negotiation crossing your legs risky so you stand hands folded posture stiff sipping wine with the slow dignity of someone afraid of creasing their pride pouch you hear a joke floating through the crowd he doesn’t carry coin his purse is otherwise occupied you don’t laugh you’ve heard it before maybe too many times back home you strip it all off carefully the codpiece unbuttons and detaches it’s literally removable like a hat for your hips you set it gently on the table there’s something ridiculous about seeing it there limp and empty looking like a fancy pin cushion that lost a duel you sit in your shift stretch your legs and finally exhale without restriction you wonder what future generations will think of this fashion will they laugh will they understand will they wear equally ridiculous things without realizing it probably fashion always finds a new place to exaggerate and tonight in the quiet you hope that tomorrow’s outfit requires a little less stuffing and a little more sense today begins as many do with you stubbing your toe on your own shoe not the soft kind mind you the long dangerously stiff practically weaponized kind the kind of shoe you wear in the 15th and 16th centuries if you have money ego or a deeply troubled relationship with ankle support you’re in a well to do household this time preparing for a walk through town and you must choose carefully not your gown or your cloak your shoes because yes in this era shoes are where fashion gets weird you slide your feet into a pair of Paulines long pointy shoes with toes that could double as fencing foils the tips curve up slightly stuffed with moss to help them hold their shape some reach 6 inches past your actual toes one noble once wore 24 inch tips which had to be tied with ribbons to his knees so he wouldn’t trip and face plant into a soup pot why so long because excess fabric equals status if your shoes are ridiculous it means you don’t have to walk far or at all let the peasants wear boots you wear statements historians still argue whether poleyns were purely fashionable or also meant to imitate eastern styles brought back by Crusaders either way they became the it footwear of the 14th century and eventually sumptuary laws had to step in because when your feet require their own leash system society starts asking questions you take a few test steps the toes slap the floor like floppy fish elegant to protect your precious polaines from MUD you strap on pattens wooden or Cork platforms that elevate your feet above the grime think of them as medieval flip flops with ambitions they’re loud clunky and absolutely essential unless you want your velvet shoes to die a horrible soggy death in the gutter patterns clip to the bottom of your regular shoes walking in them is an exercise in both balance and blind faith the cobblestones are uneven the streets are damp one false step and you’re airborne fashionably airborne sure but still headed for the pig trough you teeter your way into the marketplace the clop clop of pattens echoes across the stalls announcing your presence long before you arrive you pass a man whose polaines are painted blue and lined with fur he nods at you acknowledging your mutual discomfort like a secret handshake of the absurdly well shod further down a young noblewoman wears show pants the next level Venetian nightmare of footwear they’re platforms towering ones some as high as 20 inches she walks like a cautious baby deer two maids at her elbows to steady her rumor says one noblewoman had show pants so tall she needed a step ladder to get on a gondola you overhear whispers one man mutters she doesn’t walk she floats another says she hasn’t touched the earth in years admiration jealousy maybe both because Chopin say one thing loud and clear I have servants money and zero intention of running anywhere and yes falling from them is a real hazard you once heard of a bride who wore a pair so tall she fainted during her wedding vows from blood loss to the toes back in town children giggle and mimic your walk one pretends to trip arms flailing dramatically you raise an eyebrow and glide past wobbling slightly they cheer anyway you stop at a shoemaker’s stall leather boots hang from hooks soft slippers line the shelves he offers you something new duck billed shoes wide and flat at the toe like you guessed it a duck’s Bill they’re the hot trend now King Henry VIII wears them the toes are square sometimes slashed for decoration and they look like someone tried to turn a bread roll into footwear you try a pair on they’re oddly comfortable roomy they don’t stab anyone when you walk past revolutionary you consider buying them but you also remember your cousin fined last month for wearing a pair too wide sanctuary rules again they dictate how wide your toes can be based on your rank nobles get the full flipper treatment merchants slightly narrower peasants stick to boots still you take the shoes back home you polish your polaines gently brush the moss out of the tips and hang your pattens on a peg to dry your feet are sore your ankles hum with betrayal but you looked marvelous or at least expensive as you rub your heels with Rosemary oil and flex your aching toes you Muse fashion has lifted you off the ground wrapped your feet in fur and demanded you suffer for elegance it’s given you inches of height of confidence of smugness and taken away your balance your silence and your ability to sneak up on anyone ever but hey who needs stealth when your shoes can be seen and heard from across the square you wake up wrapped in the scent of time and old wool your head is foggy your shoulders ache and your chemise smells earthy not bad just lived in you stretch yawn and immediately regret it your back cracks like an old floorboard it’s laundry day or rather the closest thing to it in a world where laundry is a full blown ordeal let’s get something straight your clothes are filthy but not in the modern sense not ketchup on your shirt filthy more like absorbed two months of you filthy linen underclothes were designed to soak up sweat oil and the general grime of existing and they’ve been doing an exceptional job now it’s time to thank them with an aggressive round of beating boiling and prayers you drag your linens outside to the wash tub no soap yet first the soaking water hauled by hand from the well slightly warmed by the sun you add wood ash and stir it into a basic lye solution this mix is caustic enough to clean and to remove fingerprints if you’re not careful you dunk your shift the water instantly goes cloudy then comes the beating on stones with sticks or by slapping them over a washing bench like you’re tenderizing a particularly stubborn ham it’s loud wet and deeply satisfying medieval anger management historians still argue whether most garments were boiled or just scrubbed some regions used cauldrons others relied on cold water methods paired with sun bleaching but either way the process took hours sometimes days and that’s just the linen wool that’s another monster entirely wool hates water it shrinks warps felts so instead of washing your gowns you brush them with thistles or coarse combs you hang them to air out over Rosemary bushes or near a fire not too close unless you want to explain to your lord why his doublet now fits a squirrel you also fumigate your clothes occasionally no really herbs like lavender sage and mint are bundled and tucked into sleeves and hems some people even burn Juniper or pine resin near their garments letting the smoke cleanse the fabric whether this works or not well it smells like it’s working today you prepare one of your herbal bundles cloves bay leaves and a little orris root all tied into a scrap of linen you tuck it into your belt pouch instantly you smell like a walking spice merchant which is the goal because if you can’t clean your dress you can at least outsmell it you pass the local apothecary who’s selling rose water of Damascus in tiny glass vials pricey yes but a few drops in your hair or dabbed under your collar worth it at least until it wears off at church you sit beside a woman who smells like boiled nettles and Lysol it’s sharp sour and honestly not worse than the man behind you who smells like stew and stress but the real standouts the rich folk you don’t even need to see them you can smell them civet musk ambergris imported scents harvested from the bodily fluids of animals you definitely don’t want to meet in person civet comes from a gland near a civet cat’s tail Musk comes from the scent gland of a musk deer ambergris whale vomit expensive whale vomit aged and prized for its ability to fix a scent meaning it makes perfume linger longer on the skin you think of Lady Amalini who wears ambergris every feast day her gown smells like roses honey and mystery she once entered a room and was noticed 5 seconds before physically arriving that’s power you don’t have access to whale products but you do own a pomander a small ball of scented material usually carried on a chain or in a pouch yours is a wooden orb filled with crushed cloves and dried orange peel you hang it from your belt when the wind hits just right it masks the fact that your gown hasn’t touched water since Michaelmas and then there’s the ritual of public display you wear your cleanest least defensive outfit when you go into town not because people care how clean it is but because you do and in a world where social hierarchy is stitched into your seams smelling like Rosemary instead of sweat can make you seem two notches wealthier that evening you air your gown one final time inside out over the back of a chair near the hearth the steam from the stew pot helps kind of you take your shift and lay it flat pressing out wrinkles with your hands you’re not clean not by modern standards but you’re freshened you smell like thyme oranges and effort and tomorrow when you pass the steward’s wife and she raises an eyebrow you’ll raise yours back ever so slightly because in a world where no one’s really clean fragrance is armor your fingers are stained red again you knew it would happen every time you help the dire it does but somehow it still surprises you you rub your thumb against your forefinger and marvel it’s not blood not Berry but madder root a plant based dye so vivid it clings to skin like guilt today you’re in the back lanes of a bustling city far from noble halls and candlelit courts this is where clothes are made not just worn and behind every rich brocade and crimson cloak is a row of sweat streaked craftsmen boiling stretching and labouring to make the impossible wearable you start the morning at the Fuller’s workshop the stench hits first sharp animal sour the floor is wet everything is wet fullers are the ones who finish cloth especially wool by soaking it agitating it and shrinking it to the right texture the method urine human urine you gag a little you never really get used to that smell but it works the ammonia helps cleanse and felt the wool in fact towns often collect urine publicly yes you read that right just to keep fulling operations running some cities even have official pee collectors it’s a job and no it’s not one you want after falling the cloth heads to the dye here color reigns vats bubble and steam and rose each one carefully tended the dyes rare expensive finicky matter for red wode for blue weld for yellow and if you’re in the really wealthy leagues cochineal crushed bugs from Mexico or Tyrian purple extracted from thousands of tiny sea snails so precious it was once worth more than gold you help stir a VAT the smell is earthy almost sweet but the fumes burn your eyes one misstep with the heat or the mordants substances used to fix dye to fabric and the color won’t hold or worse the cloth might rot dying is part alchemy part gambling historians still argue how widely these expensive dyes were used among the middle class some claim only the elite could afford them while others suggest town merchants often flaunted small bits cuffs linings hats dyed with prestige colours just to show they could and then comes bleaching you walk with a bundle of linen to the local bleach field an open grassy area where fabrics are laid out in the sun and due to whiten gradually it’s a slow process often taking weeks involving repeated soakings in lye or sour milk then airing out but the result that crisp dazzling white worn by priests nobles and anyone hoping to signal I don’t do hard labor you walk past a young shearman sitting on a stool clipping the surface of a woolen cloth with heavy Scissors his job is to trim the nap make the fabric smooth and soft one wrong snip and the whole bolt is ruined no pressure then there’s the barber surgeon down the lane he doesn’t make clothes but he sure helps keep them looking clean or tries he bleeds people pulls teeth lances boils all in the name of health and by extension keeping those fine clothes free of unsightly stains you help deliver a dyed bolt to the tailor shop next here precision takes over the tailor measures cuts pins no paper patterns just chalk lines and instinct he has a block of beeswax for stiffening thread a cushion of pins strapped to his wrist and fingers tougher than boiled leather he’s working on a jerkin for a local alderman you see the order chest 38 waist 34 codpiece discreet you smirk outside a laundry woman beats shirts against a rock another uses soap made from tallow and lye sharp enough to sting skin you remember that soap it once removed a stain and half your sleeve at day’s end your hands are raw nails tinted with indigo and your sleeves smell like vinegar and smoke you haven’t even made a full garment just prepared materials but you feel it the work behind the wealth the labor behind the lace back home you hang your apron near the hearth and slip into your shift you spot a stain mysterious dark probably permanent and decide it adds character you sit down sip weak ale and flex your fingers every velvet hem and silk ruff you’ve ever seen someone’s back bent to make it fashion doesn’t grow on trees it boils in vats it’s scraped scalded fermented bleached stitched and ironed with stones it takes blood sweat and let’s not forget urine and tomorrow you’ll do it all again because while nobles strut and peasants patch you know the truth it’s the workers who wear the stains and make the style the morning sun creeps over the rooftops catching the gleam of polished brass and the dull shine of what used to be hair you sit in front of a small mirror wincing your scalp stings from last night’s beauty treatment the culprit a mixture of ashes vinegar and the optimism of someone who believed a DIY bleach session wouldn’t backfire welcome to the strange world of medieval and Renaissance hair trends where a forehead can be more important than a face and your eyebrows optional you reach up fingers brushing the top of your hairline smooth too smooth because yes fashion demands a high forehead one so regal and refined it appears to go on forever and to achieve that noble look you’ve plucked or waxed or shaved sometimes all three eyebrows gone hairline raised an inch or two carefully to create the illusion of intellect and class 5 Head is in the higher the better and yes sometimes it’s bloody sometimes the skin gets infected but that’s the price of beauty or at least of looking like someone with a book collection historians still argue whether this practice started as a religious modesty trend or a courtly fashion obsession either way women across Europe spent hours each week depilating styling and reshaping their faces not with makeup but with absence your own face looks a bit alien in the mirror bare brow long forehead tight braid pinned close to the scalp your ears peek out and you briefly debate plucking the hairs there too but let’s not get carried away next comes the oiling you reach for a pot of goose fat and lavender warmed near the fire you rub it into your hair massaging from root to tip it smells wonderful it feels greasy but oiling your hair keeps it sleek tamed and hopefully lice free hopefully you comb it carefully with your wooden comb cleaning it as you go to avoid spreading any potential visitors in a time without modern shampoo oiling and combing is your best bet for keeping your hair intact washing rare more like a quarterly event especially in winter wet hair plus cold air equals sickness possibly death and no one wants to die with dirty linens and wet bangs once your hair is smoothed you begin the wrapping you wind a ribbon around the braid coil it around your head and fasten it in place with pins then the veil a simple one today folded neatly over your head and neck held in place by a decorative circlet if you’re feeling especially bold maybe you’d wear your hair in a padded roll a bourdaloue like the French nobility or perhaps a double horn style veiled dramatically like two rising moons but those are for festivals for now you stick to the basics you pass the baker’s wife on your way to market her hair is pinned into a call a netted hairpiece embroidered with gold thread it keeps everything tidy she gives you a look half judgement half envy your veil is cleaner than hers barely the butcher’s daughter her hair is loose scandalous only girls and brides wear their hair down and even then not for long unbound hair is wild sensual dangerous priests warn against it and secretly you know that’s part of the appeal one noble woman you knew wore her hair uncovered in the garden and had a priest lecture her through the hedge she didn’t cover it he came back with another priest she braided her hair into a crown and covered the priest’s mouth with a fan it said her marriage proposals tripled you reached the market feeling a little bold yourself you’ve left a sliver of hair showing beneath your veil not enough to scandalize just enough to hint a man selling ribbons winks you pretend not to notice nearby an elderly woman is selling false hair pieces coils of blond and Chestnut woven and wrapped extensions medieval edition nobles often bought them to bulk out their styles some even used other people’s hair purchased from servants or scavenged from corpses yes really you once heard of a countess who owned seven wigs one for each day of the week dyed to match her mood today you suspect she be wearing Tuesday Auburn twisted like rope with tiny beads sewn in you return home and remove your veil with care your hair is still in place tight tidy and a little itchy you run a comb through it again checking for guests all clear you light a sprig of Rosemary waft the smoke over your head and thank whatever saint is in charge of scalps you’re not sure you like this look you miss your eyebrows you miss your fringe but when you passed the mirror earlier you looked right like you belonged to your time and tonight as you oil your comb and lay your veil across the chair you whisper maybe tomorrow I’ll let one brow grow back maybe the paper is crinkled at the corners smudged by fingers ink stained and eager you smooth it carefully holding it up to the light that filters through the lattice window the lines are delicate almost too fine to be real tiny figures posed dramatically wearing gowns with puffed sleeves sweeping skirts slashed sleeves and impossible collars it’s not a letter not a map it’s rarer than both it’s a fashion print the year is somewhere in the mid 1500s and for the first time fashion is not just seen it’s reproduced in print on paper in the hands of the curious the ambitious and the deeply stylish thanks to the invention of the printing press clothes are going viral you’re holding a page from a new kind of book a costume book or a fashion plate it might have come from Nuremberg or Paris or Venice the figures on it are stylized with tiny waists angular limbs and exaggerated poses but the message is clear this is what people in power look like this is what you should look like too historians still argue whether these prints were meant to educate inspire or intimidate some were guides to foreign dress others were satirical and many like the one in your hands functioned as a wearable wish list you traced the design with your finger that ruff that skirt the way the sleeves split open to reveal contrasting fabric beneath it’s not just a picture it’s a blueprint for status you’re a merchant’s daughter not quite noble not quite common and this little page has become your obsession you’ve shown it to your seamstress three times this month she just raises her eyebrows and mutters more slash we’ll need more lining you try anyway a sleeve here a ribbon there you can’t afford velvet but you found some fine wool in a deep green that almost passes your tailor helps you fake the rest folds padding trims small tricks to echo the elite without attracting their wrath because yes there’s still risk in looking too fashionable laws still try to dictate who can wear what but now with fashion printed and shared those lines are blurring the moment a queen wears a gown with a pink hem and triple ruffles three copies of it appear on paper within the month and within the year women in five cities are wearing some version of it to church you wear your new gown to the next feast it turns heads a matron nearby scowls slightly you hear the whisper she’s seen the plates and it’s not a compliment or a critique it’s both the printing press hasn’t just spread religion and rebellion it’s spread ruffles you visit the bookshop later that week the stall is stacked with pamphlets sermons almanacs travel guides and tucked between them a tiny folio of fashion sketches you flip through slowly German you think or Flemish the styles are slightly exaggerated with men wearing shoulders like baked loaves and women wrapped in skirts so wide they could shade a Vineyard one figure makes you pause a woman with a fan shaped rough hair coiled high bodice slashed in diamonds and sleeves ending in a cascade of lace you exhale slowly that’s the one you don’t even dream of copying it exactly just the essence a nod a single ribbon in that same shade of seafoam green maybe a small ruffle if you can find a lace merchant who’ll barter for apples the illustrations don’t show how the garments are made just what they look like tailors must guess the construction that’s where creativity explodes no two copies look alike a French sleeve gains an Italian twist a German doublit gets a Dutch lining you visit a tailor you’ve never used before he’s young with too many pins in his sleeve and ink stains on his fingers I’ve seen this one he says tapping the plate it’s impossible make it possible you reply that becomes your motto in time the printed patterns expand they show regional dress historical costume imagined outfits from ancient Rome even mythical garments some are purely artistic others are dead serious you even find one pamphlet claiming to detail what Eve wore before the fall it’s just leaves stylishly arranged one day you hear news from Italy a book filled with fashion designs by a real court tailor published and bound it’s expensive elusive but copies are rumoured to be spreading north you imagine holding it page after page of approved fashion straight from royalty to your lap you start sketching your own designs just tiny ones in charcoal modified versions of what you see in prints adapted for your budget your body your town you realize something you’re not just copying anymore you’re creating and somewhere out there maybe someone will copy you the room is quiet except for the ticking of a wall clock and the soft rustle of linen you’re standing over a wooden chest lid open staring down at a folded white garment it’s simple modest made of fine wool hand stitched no embroidery no ornamentation just a plain long robe it’s the last outfit you’ll ever wear because yes even in death fashion matters you unfold the burial shroud gently it’s soft faintly scented with lavender and clove not for you well not yet but for an aging aunt who passed last night and now the family prepares her for her final appearance in the medieval and Renaissance worlds burial garments were more than fabric they were a final message to god to neighbors to posterity and as always the message was layered for the poor death often meant being wrapped in a sheet usually reused sometimes communal a plain white shift if anything no shoes no jewelry the body was often buried quickly quietly without much ceremony but for the wealthier that’s where it gets elaborate you help a maid lift the shroud beneath it the winding sheet a longer piece used to swaddle the body covering from head to toe like a final embrace the corners are stitched closed sometimes with crosses occasionally with prayers it’s not just fabric it’s ritual and here’s where it gets surreal some people prepare their own burial garments years in advance it’s considered wise responsible pious like writing a will but for your wardrobe you once knew a widow who kept her shroud folded in her closet occasionally shaking it out to check for moth holes can’t meet the Lord in rags she used to say historians still debate whether the white of the shroud symbolized purity penance or simply practicality but everyone agrees it had to be clean spotless holy you help lay out the underlayer it resembles a simple shift cut wide no shaping long enough to cover the ankles there’s a small neck slit just enough to ease the garment over the head the sleeves narrow because no one moves their arms in the grave a priest enters briefly murmurs a prayer and leaves you light a candle near the chest careful not to let the flame catch the edge of the wool you remember other funerals the merchant who insisted on being buried in his best velvet doublet his family argued the priest won he was buried in wool the noble woman who wore a stiffened farthingale in life but chose a soft chemise and braided hair in death no corset no jewels just simplicity at last and then the tailor whose friends sewed his own designs into his winding sheet tiny stitched Scissors near the hem a thimble embroidered at the neck the priest was furious everyone else wept there were even times odd ones when burial garments were fashionable in plague years for example people were buried in droves mass graves speed efficiency no time for rituals so when the plague receded funerals became performative again lavish shrouds black veils even silk lined coffins for those who could afford them you once saw a morning veil so long it trailed behind the widow like a bridal train her dress was black trimmed in jet beads the whole ensemble whispered I loved deeply I grieve expensively but now for your aunt it’s a quiet robe wool handmade humble you help fold it over her one layer then another there’s a moment still fragile where the fabric falls into place and she looks peaceful dignified dressed even in death later that night you lie awake your own burial robe is somewhere in a trunk you sewed it years ago simple linen you stitched a tiny bird near the hem not too big just enough to remind yourself that even when you’re gone part of you flies you wonder who will dress you you wonder what they’ll notice the stitches the smell of Rosemary the quiet careful folds and you hope more than anything that your last outfit will say I lived fully I dressed honestly I left gently because in the end fashion isn’t about being seen it’s about being remembered word count 1,080 so now as the fire crackles low and your blanket settle softly around you let the images of these centuries drift through your thoughts like falling fabric wool cloaks heavy with rain velvet sleeves brushing candlelit banquets the rustle of linen shifts under stars all those garments those seams and stitches whispering stories of survival of spectacle of silent status you’ve walked in shoes too pointy to be practical you’ve worn sleeves too long to eat in you’ve itched under fur shuffled in wooden pattens and winced under corsets laced tight with ambition you’ve plucked your brows into oblivion dabbed orange water on stale cloth and hidden perfume pomanders in your sleeves and through it all fashion never stopped speaking it told the world who you were sometimes even before you did it shielded it revealed it mocked and it dazzled now let it fade gently let the last lace untie itself in your mind let the bells of court fall silent and the weight of velvet slip from your shoulders close your eyes you’ve made it through centuries of style threadbare to brocade cradle to grave and now wrapped in your own soft layers you rest shoo you look perfect sweet dreams
Fall Asleep to the ENTIRE Story of Medieval Fashion’s Forgotten Glamour
00:00:00 – Velvet, Mud, and Candlelight
00:08:09 – Head to Toe, But Never Too Clean
00:16:12 – When Men Dressed Like Peacocks
00:23:33 – Lacing, Stuffing, and the Gothic Silhouette
00:31:08 – Sumptuary Laws and Fabric Crimes
00:37:59 – Royal Wardrobe Drama: The Tudors Arrive
00:45:09 – Corsets, Bodies, and Squeezed Ribs
00:53:02 – Fashion Icons: Queens, Mistresses & Martyrs
01:00:40 – Codpieces: The Elephant in the Room
01:07:20 – Shoes You Can’t Walk In
01:14:05 – Layers of Filth and Fragrance
01:20:49 – The Barber, the Bleacher, and the Dyer
01:27:24 – Hair, Wigs, and Invisible Eyebrows
01:34:19 – The Printed Pattern Revolution
01:41:07 – Dressing for Death: Burial Garments