Hints of medieval contraception are not only found in the literature of the Middle Ages, but in reference texts, such as botany and medical books. Michael Scot’s The Secrets of Nature, published in 1730, contains specific recipes which, he advises, women SHOULD NOT prepare and eat because it will render them infertile (wink wink). If they are already pregnant, Scot states women should STRICTLY AVOID consuming certain explicit things, which he lists in great detail, even quantities and preparation instructions, as they could cause miscarriage.
Likewise, Raymond Lull, who dabbled in natural science, as well as more sinister subjects like the occult and math, named a series of plants, among them juniper and thyme, that could “purge the blood”, a euphemism for bringing on menstruation, even in pregnant ladies.
Later in the Middle Ages, herbal books, intended for young male medical students rather than trampy, troubled ladies, insinuated that certain plants were known to contain contraceptives or abortive properties, but journals disguised birth control or abortive recipes as remedies for other vague and mysterious ailments like “stomach aches” or “intestinal distress”.
While contraceptives and medicinal abortives are noted in medieval literature, one other form of birth control, a sad and horrific one, is identified by scholars as the most common means of controlling family size during the Middle Ages. That is concealment of pregnancy and infanticide.
John M. Riddle, in his book Eve’s Herbs, explains, “Infanticide is the explanation for population limitations before 1750 that commands the greatest attention among scholars. Ancient law protected neither the fetus nor the newborn infant until there was acceptance by the parents”. The most common modus operandi was “exposure”, which was simply abandoning the newborn in the woods where it would become part of the circle of life.
Chaucer appears familiar with the concept of exposure as it is implied in The Clerks’ Tale in Canterbury Tales. When she learns that her cruel husband has not accepted her newborn baby and has ordered the child to be removed, Griselde deplores the servant to “…bury this little body someplace where neither beasts nor birds will tear it apart.” Infanticide’s increasing popularity explains the explosion of laws and statutes regarding concealment of pregnancy and secret births in the mid to late Middle Ages.
A quick perusal of medieval laws reveals curious word choices. In addition to medicine and herbs that can be used to stop conception or to terminate a pregnancy, these laws strictly prohibit the use of maleficia and incantations to interfere with natural procreation, tying contraception with black magic, sorcery, and witchcraft. In fact, it was assumed that the spells and chants were just as effective, or more so, than the medicinal herbs. And, often, it was this association with witchcraft that labeled the act of birth control usage as wrong, not the idea that a fetus was a living human being in need of protection.
Proceedings from several medieval court cases have survived the ages to show us how the law dealt with instances of abortion but the majority of these focus on miscarriage as a result of domestic violence or assault. Although the end-result is the same — the loss of a child — the method and intention is not the same as a mother-to-be who drinks a concoction of her own making to rid her body of an unwanted pregnancy.
To sum up this chapter, lusty medieval “maidens” had their own ways of keeping the proverbial stork at bay, even if the effectiveness was questionable. When it comes to the subject of birth control in the Middle Ages, we see a case study in changing ideals heavily influenced by religious doctrines. It was also a study of how one zealot scholar, who was desperate to get laid, manipulated contemporary beliefs and attempted to turn fun-loving medieval folk into a bunch of boring, frigid prudes.
A Medieval Bun in the Oven: Pregnancy in the Middle Ages
“…hindered by the devil.”
In the above quote, we see how a medieval woman, writer Margery Kempe whose book is widely considered to be the first female autobiography, views pregnancy. We realize that Margery was exceptional; most of her contemporaries were not as pious as her and the majority didn’t suffer from mental illness brought on by frenzied pregnancy hormones. Indeed, during her first pregnancy, Margery was kept chained to a room in her house because she displayed erratic and manic episodes related to food. Today, we would call those “cravings”. But in the Middle Ages, her actions were considered so unusual that she was confined for the bulk of her pregnancy. It was only through childbirth (and the return of normal hormonal activity) and salvation from God (oh, yes, Jesus regularly visited her whilst she was chained to the wall) that she regained her sanity. Pregnancy seems to have been the event that kick-started a lifetime of psychotic/spiritual episodes throughout Margery’s life.
The link between pregnancy and religion was a reoccurring one in the Middle Ages, with literature, art and music replete with Virgin Mary and immaculate conception imagery. To the medieval church, Mary represented the perfect woman. She was able to stay chaste throughout her life, yet she bore a child. She set the bar pretty high for women to come. Bombarding medieval maidens with Mary’s story helped to reinforce the mindset of the day that the vagina should be like a one-way door… no one going in, only out.
Pregnancy was physically taxing to medieval women. Medical texts of the day offered dietary guidelines for expectant mothers and recommended daily exercise and fresh air. All this sounds ideal, but let’s look at the reality of life in the Middle Ages. Peasant woman often hovered on the edge of malnutrition and, even in times of plenty, her nutritional needs came secondary to her husband, sons, and other male family members. Most of these women need not seek out additional exercise opportunities; the demands of everyday life provided many strenuous activities, many of which could be detrimental to the health of expectant mothers.
As for fresh air, let us remember that both rural and urban life during the Middle Ages proved to be a daily olfactory assault, no doubt accompanied by a plethora of germs and bacteria. Just imagine crowds of people who haven’t bathed in months, raw sewage in the gutters, and animal odors aplenty and you will have a fairly good idea of what medieval “fresh air” was like.
Least we think that the advice offered in these medical tomes was intended to create a safer birthing experience for the woman, let us remind ourselves about the high value placed on offspring, particularly sons, during this time. But even daughters could be used as a bargain chip to align the family with another family or to marry-up to power and prestige. More importance was placed on the health and well-being of the unborn heir than on the mother who carried him. Here we see hints at a common view of women as simply the vessel holding a precious cargo.
Pressure was put on wives to pop out as many children as possible. Margery Kempe, whose story opened this chapter, gave birth fourteen times, even though, for her, pregnancy was a debilitating experience. And imagine the abuse her poor vagina suffered. But it was better than the unfortunate damsels who could not conceive. Being barren was viewed as a disability in medieval times and a childless woman was scorned as inferior and defective.