Tests, Tests, Tests
“Take two new earthen pots, each by itself; and let the woman make water in the one, and the man in the other; and put in each of them a quantity of wheat-bran, and not too much, that it be not thick, but be liquid or running; and mark well the pots for identification, and let them stand ten days and ten nights, and thou shalt see in the water that is in default small live worms; and if there appear no worms in either water, then they be likely to have children in process of time when God will.”
So important was a legitimate heir in the Middle Ages that much emphasis was placed on the ability to conceive a child and maintain a pregnancy. As the above passage shows us, folks living in the Middle Ages were aware that infertility could stem from either the man or the woman. Knowing which partner was at fault, particularly if it was the female, was the impetus for divorce, spousal abandonment, or worse. Likewise, keeping the child in the womb the full nine months was the responsibility of the woman who would also incur the displeasure of her husband if she suffered multiple miscarriages. With the focus on conceiving a legitimate heir so high, the need for both fertility tests and pregnancy tests arose in the Middle Ages.
It is possible, we will concede, that medieval fertility testing was not done strictly to assign blame, but as a way to try to make sense of the mysterious process of pregnancy and conception. While medical knowledge was not entirely rudimentary, many aspects of the human body — especially the female body — remained wrapped in an enigmatic cloak. If the woman couldn’t get pregnant, or couldn’t keep from miscarrying, most people chalked it up to that good ‘ol medieval catch-phrase: “it was God’s will”. In fact, prayer and penitence were thought to be more powerful cures for fertility issues than medical treatments.
Urine was the most accurate way for medieval doctors and midwives to determine if a woman was, indeed, pregnant. But it wasn’t the only way. Most obvious was observing a lack of menstrual periods. No Aunt Flo equals baby time! A folk remedy instructed a woman to drink mead before bedtime. If she awoke with a stomachache in the morning, then she was pregnant. This could very well have had less to do with the mead and more to do with the morning, as any pregnant lady suffering from morning sickness will contest. No matter what one eats the night before, the morning is puke-alicious.
Once pregnancy was established, the next most pressing question, of course, was the sex of the infant. Because no one, even in medieval times, liked to wait nine whole months to be surprised in the delivery room, cockamamie tests were devised to predict the child’s gender. We have record of many of these medieval gender tests in the pages of the Distaff Gospel, a 15th century French work that is comprised of old wives’ tales and folklore. In it, a bunch of women sit around spinning (and we don’t mean the exercise craze) and swapping tales and advice about all kinds of womanly issues, from managing a household to raising children to keeping a wandering husband from wandering. Predicting the sex of unborn offspring was a hot-button topic among these spinners.
As stated in the Distaff Gospels, a stealthy person should tip-toe into the bedroom of a sleeping pregnant woman and sprinkle salt on her hair. When she wakes in the morning, one should listen closely to the mom-to-be. If the very first name she utters in the morning it is a boy’s name, she will deliver a boy. If it’s a girl’s name, she is carrying a girl. We wonder how this test would work in the modern era with so many popular androgynous names, like Jordan, Dylan, and Devin.
Apparently, people during the Middle Ages thought that expectant mothers subconsciously knew the gender of their buns in the oven. Several tests were designed to “trick” the mother into revealing this secret. One simple test was to ask the mother-to-be for her hand. If she offered up her right hand, her baby would be a boy. If she presented her left hand, a daughter would be born. We are willing to bet the roots of this test have something to do with the long-held prejudice against left-handed people.
The Distaff Gospels suggests a more straight-forward approach. Simply tell the woman that you think she is carrying a boy. If she does not blush, then she must be pregnant with a daughter.
Yet another way to determine the sex of an unborn child was to squeeze a drop of the mother’s breast milk into a cup of pure, clear spring water. If the milk sank to the bottom of the cup, she would bear a boy, but if the milk floated, she would deliver a girl.
Of course, we now know that these tests are pure rubbish, but in the pre-ultrasound days of the Middle Ages, mothers-to-be were desperate to satisfy their curiosity over the sex of their babies. Perhaps it was a way for them to feel a sense of control over a situation that is out of their control. It may also have been a way to stop nine months of worry. A higher value was placed on birthing a son who would be a legitimate heir and a wife who could not produce a male heir found herself in a precarious position within her marriage. If she was unable to gift her husband with a boy baby, then he may have to find someone who could. (Yes, we read The Other Boleyn Girl!) It is no wonder that expectant moms in the Middle Ages sought out ways to put their minds at ease during their pregnancies.
Medieval Childbirth: A Death Defying Act
“If a pregnant woman is beset by pain but is unable to give birth, rub sard around both of her thighs and say “Just as you, stone, by the order of God, shone on the first angel, so you, child, come forth a shining person, who dwells with God.” Immediately, hold the stone at the exit for the child, that is, the female member, and say, “Open you roads and door, in that epiphany by which Christ appeared both human and God, and opened the gates of Hell. Just so, child, may you also come out of this door without dying, and without the death of your mother.” Then tie the same stone to a belt and cinch it around her, and she will be cured.”
Mothers-to-be in Medieval England were incredibly brave. They faced hours upon hours of painful labor with nary an epidural or spinal block. They didn’t just have the thought of imminent pain to look forward to, but the real threat of death. In fact, the church advised pregnant ladies to confess their sins in case they didn’t survive the childbirth. But, as contraception was forbidden, not readily available, and unreliable, pregnancy was a crap-shoot side-effect of sexual activity. Yet, then as in now, birth is viewed as a magical experience. It is during this task that the vagina is in its glory, stretching and squeezing itself to do what it was designed best to do — provide a gateway for new life entering the world.
Scholars disagree on the exact amount but large numbers of women died or were severely injured during the birthing process. Childbirth was a great equalizer; the process was made no easier or less dangerous by wealth or social class. Indeed, royal births were probably made even more awkward and embarrassing because they were witnessed by many more attendants than a peasant’s delivery, with only a few female relatives and a midwife offering assistance.