Exactly 630 years ago today, a woman called Eleanor Rykener found herself in trouble. On the night of 11 December 1394, on Soper’s Lane off Cheapside, she had agreed to go into a stall with a client named John Britby, having first demanded an unspecified amount of money for her services. Medieval London’s anti-prostitution laws made this a hazardous venture, but Eleanor was an experienced sex worker, and must have concluded that Britby’s money was worth the risk. Unfortunately, they were discovered by city officials while engaging in ‘that detestable, unmentionable, and ignominious vice’, and were hauled up before the Mayor of London for questioning. It was during the questioning that Eleanor, still wearing the dress she had been arrested in, was revealed to have been born John Rykener. We might describe her, in modern terms, as a transgender woman. Eleanor’s remarkable story is preserved in a single document: the record of her questioning held in the London Archives, currently on display in our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words.

‘Calling [herself] Eleanor’; the account of Eleanor Rykener and her arrest; London, 1395: The London Archives, Plea and Memoranda Roll A34, Membrane 2.

The manuscript and its account are not immediately eye-catching—a dense block of unadorned, bureaucratic text written on a parchment roll, bookended by many other accounts—and, indeed, it went almost entirely unnoticed for several centuries. This is partially due to deliberate censorship: a 1932 summary of the Plea and Memoranda Rolls completely obscured Eleanor’s gender-nonconformity, describing the case as an ‘examination of two men charged with immorality’. The truth of the case was eventually uncovered by Ruth Mazo Karras and David Lorenzo Boyd in 1995. Since then, it has generated a huge amount of scholarship and popular interest, pivoting around fascinating and complex questions: what does it mean to describe a fourteenth-century individual as ‘trans’?  Was Eleanor’s supposed ‘crime’ sodomy, sex work, gender nonconformity, or something else entirely? And—perhaps the most conspicuous gap in the record—what happened to her after this one recorded moment of her questioning?

It’s not possible to answer all those questions today, but we can focus on what we do know of Eleanor’s story, as recorded by a court clerk. Even though her narrative was doubtless filtered through the preconceptions and prejudices of the court that sought to judge her, it remains one of the most detailed accounts we have of a medieval sex worker in something close to her own words.

Eleanor’s early life—the period in which she was, presumably, still known as ‘John’—is completely obscure to us. Her story in the record begins at some unspecified point in time before her arrest with Britby, when a woman named Anna, also a sex worker, ‘taught’ Eleanor how to have sex ‘in the manner of a woman’. It is worth noting that, while the courtroom must have been dominated by men, Eleanor begins her account with a moment of intimacy, knowledge-sharing, and perhaps even friendship between herself and another woman. This theme of feminine community continues when Rykener describes herself being ‘dressed in women’s clothing’ and employed in sex work by a certain bawd called Elizabeth Brouderer (‘Embroiderer’).

Joan of Arc chases away a group of sex workers from her army camp, from Martial d’Auvergne’s Vigiles de Charles VII: Bibliothèque nationale de France, fr. 5054, f. 60v

Eleanor practiced more than just sex work with Elizabeth. It may well have been in her house that she picked up the embroidery skills she put to work while she was living in Oxford. Eleanor’s employment history—she worked for stints as an embroideress and barmaid alongside sex work—indicates that her feminine self-presentation was not confined to sexual role-playing. She positioned herself, and was apparently read, as a woman in almost all aspects of her daily life, including in the courtroom, where she insistently ‘call[ed herself] Eleanor’ and retained her feminine attire. This cannot have been easy. Existing as a woman—let alone a trans woman—in the world of medieval England was often a gruelling business. The fact that Eleanor chose to do so suggests that there were reasons, known only to her, because of which she felt more comfortable as a woman. A trans identification, or something like it, is one plausible explanation for the shape of Eleanor’s life.

The Assyrian king Sardanapalus dressed in women’s clothing spinning silk with a group of noble women, from a 15th-century copy of Valerius Maximus’ Facta et Dicta Memorabilia:  Harley MS 4375/3, f. 179r

There are still more complexities to Eleanor’s story. While she had sex ‘as a woman’ with several named and unnamed male clients (she preferred taking on priests, she explains, because they tended to pay better), she also had sex ‘as a man’ with ‘many nuns’ and ‘many women both married and unmarried’: too many, apparently, for Eleanor to keep count. Several aspects of this part of the story are unclear. Were the women also clients, or did Eleanor have sex with them without financial motive? Did she genuinely desire these women—was she possibly, to use more modern terms, bisexual or queer?

We can never know the answer to these, and countless other, questions about Eleanor. As mentioned above, this is the only known surviving record of her life, and will remain so, barring another remarkable discovery in the archives. We don’t even know if she was found guilty of any crime or faced punishment. What we do have is a glimpse into the life of an exceptional, resourceful woman making her way in the medieval world, one of many on display in our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words.

 The roll bearing the account of Eleanor’s case on display

To see Eleanor Rykener’s account in person, visit our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words, on show at the British Library from 25 October 2024 to 2 March 2025. You can purchase your tickets online now. 

This exhibition is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation. 

Rowan Wilson

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Our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words tells the story of the lives and experiences of medieval women not just through manuscripts, documents and printed books, but also works of art, paintings, jewellery, coins and sculpture. One of these precious artefacts is an ivory cross that once belonged to Sibylla of Anjou (b. c. 1112, d. 1165), Countess of Flanders, who for a time served as regent in her husband’s place and ultimately embarked on a journey to the Holy Land, where her life would change forever. We are delighted that the cross is on loan to the exhibition from the Musée du Louvre in Paris.

The ivory Cross of Sibylla of Flanders: Musée du Louvre, OA 2593

Sibylla was a noblewoman, the daughter of Fulk V of Anjou (d. 1143) and Ermengarde of Maine (d. 1126), and later the stepdaughter of Melisende (d. 1161), Queen of Jerusalem, a significant royal woman in her own right who also appears prominently in our exhibition. In 1134, Sibylla married Thierry of Alsace (d. 1168) and became Countess of Flanders. It was her second marriage, after her first to William Clito (d. 1127), Thierry’s predecessor as count, had been annulled by the Pope in 1124. Throughout much of their relationship, Thierry was away fighting on crusade, leaving her in Europe to rule as regent in his stead. Sibylla was clearly a formidable figure, able to take charge of the administration of Flanders effectively on her own. Notably, during one of her husband’s absences in 1148, the region was attacked by a rival lord, Baldwin IV, Count of Hainault, who intended to annex the territory for himself. Sibylla led her force in a counterattack that not only repelled the invasion, but also devastated Hainault and ultimately led to the negotiation of a truce between the two sides.

Sibylla’s father, Fulk V of Anjou, and stepmother, Melisende of Jerusalem, from William of Tyre’s Histoire d’Outremer: Yates Thompson MS 12, f. 82v

In 1157, Thierry embarked on his third journey to the Holy Land and this time Sibylla went with him. However, when they finally arrived, Sibylla decided to leave her husband altogether to enter the Convent of Sts Mary and Martha in Bethany, one of the wealthiest abbeys in the kingdom, situated less than two miles outside Jerusalem. The convent had an important familial connection for Sibylla, as it had been founded by her father Fulk and stepmother Melisende in 1138, and its abbess Ioveta of Bethany (b. c. 1102, d. 1178) was also her step-aunt, though the two were actually very similar in age. Despite initial opposition from both her husband and the Patriarch of Jerusalem (its leading bishop), Sibylla was successful in taking her vows and ultimately remained in the convent until her death in 1165. There she was able to work together with Ioveta to support Melisende in her ruling of the kingdom, particularly through their combined influence over appointments to positions in the Latin Church.

An itinerary map of the Holy Land, showing the city of Jerusalem, made by the Benedictine monk and artist Matthew Paris: Royal MS 14 C VII, f. 5r

The cross is one of only a small number of surviving objects and documents with any known connection to Sibylla. It is made from walrus ivory and was crafted in the Meuse Valley region, probably a few years after her marriage to Thierry. A small, veiled female figure appears lying flat at the foot of the cross’s base before the crucified Christ, who appears between allegorical representations of the Sun and Moon. An accompanying inscription in Latin asks for pardon and identifies the figure as Sibylla herself:

NATE. MARIS. STELLE. VENIAM. C[on]CEDE. SIBILLE.

You who were born of the Star of the Sea grant forgiveness to Sibylla.

Here, Sibylla addresses Christ, but references the Virgin Mary using her ancient title, the Stella Maris (or Star of the Sea). It is an interesting choice, one perhaps made with her journey across the sea to the Holy Land in mind. The cross probably formed part of the decorative cover of a book, though it is unclear what happened to its original manuscript or if it even came with Sibylla on her journey. Nonetheless, its devotional symbolism remains a testament to a noble and politically influential figure, who ultimately found the greatest strength and happiness in the religious life and the community of women it provided her.

Sibylla kneeling at the base of the ivory cross, with an accompanying inscription in Latin: Musée du Louvre, OA 2593

Medieval Women: In Their Own Words is on show at the British Library from 25 October 2024 to 2 March 2025. You can purchase your tickets online now. 

This exhibition is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation. 

Calum Cockburn

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Imagine you’re a medieval woman with a stomach-ache. Oh, and you’ve got jaundice. And gout. And you’re trying to have a baby. And you’ve recently been bitten by a rabid dog. And, to top things off, you’ve recently been thrown out of a moving vehicle. What’s a girl to do? Well, according to the Tractatus de herbis, a medieval herbal treatise, all these problems could be solved by differing preparations of the herb betony.  

Betony (betonica): Egerton MS 747, f.14r 

The treatise appears in a late 13th-century Italian manuscript (Egerton MS 747) currently on display in our Medieval Women exhibition. It's full of just such marvellous cures, many of them relating to gynaecological ailments and problems facing pregnant women and nursing mothers. For example, if you need to treat ‘suffocation of the womb’, a condition attributed to the womb’s wandering about the body and compressing the heart and lungs, you might turn to clove, ambergris or laudanum. To stimulate lactation, the herbal recommends asafoetida, aniseed, hemp, mint or chickpeas. Meanwhile, a staggering number of different herbs are prescribed for what the text vaguely calls ‘cleansing the womb’.  

Laudanum: Egerton MS 747, f. 51r 

Is there any evidence that these cures actually worked? We are used to imagining that medieval people were ignorant of the medical knowledge required to properly treat diseases. Certainly, some of the cures listed might have harmed more than they helped. ‘Monkshood’, recommended as a treatment for afflictions including intestinal worms and pains of the womb, is extremely toxic, as is ‘lords-and-ladies’, recommended for scrofula, haemorrhoids, and ‘cleansing’ and ‘refining’ the face. At least when the text lists white lead as a cosmetic for women, it also includes a warning that those who make it often suffer from epilepsy, paralysis and arthritis, suggesting that the author was aware of lead's toxicity, but the herbal seems to conclude that white lead’s potency in ‘wiping away impurities’ is worth the risk. 

Monkshood (anthora): Egerton MS 747, f. 11r  

However, with popular interest in sustainable alternative medicines on the rise, it's worth noting that at least some of the treatise’s cures are not quite as bogus as our preconceptions about medieval medicine might lead us to believe. Camphor, which the text suggests can induce sneezing, is still used as a decongestant in products like Vicks VapoRub. Many of the text’s recommended uses for aloe—such as strengthening digestion and promoting wound healing—have been affirmed in recent scientific research. And both the medieval herbal and modern researchers agree that garlic is good for more than just aioli. It also has anti-inflammatory, antioxidant and antifungal properties—though today’s scientists are less confident than their medieval counterparts in recommending garlic as a sure-fire treatment for venomous animal bites.  

Garlic (allium): Egerton MS 747, f. 5r 

Like many other pre-modern herbals, our manuscript uses covert language to identify plants that could be used to induce abortions. Arabian balsam tree, centaury, yellow gentian, madder and rue, for example, are all described as effective in ‘inducing menstruation’ and ‘bringing about the abortion of a dead foetus’. Some of these—like yellow gentian—are still warned against for pregnant people due to risk of unwanted abortion. Given the insistence of medieval canon law on the sanctity of life, herbal writers couldn’t afford to be explicit about identifying plants as a means of bringing about the end of a pregnancy by choice. Medieval women must have been capable of reading between the lines to seek out the help they needed.  

Madder (rubea): Egerton MS 747, f. 84v 

Mugwort (artemisia): Egerton MS 747, f. 7v  

However baffling the advice of herbals may sometimes seem (did you know that if you anoint yourself with marigold juice at night, you will find yourself transported somewhere else in the morning?), it is clear that they still have a great deal to say to medics and patients today. Whether in providing healthy eating tips—celery is indeed as good for you as the treatise suggests—or informing us about the history of women’s medicine, they make for fascinating reading. Still, though, we have to warn you: the British Library cannot advise that you follow our herbal’s advice and include gold, bitumen, opium or cuttlefish bone in your morning herbal tea!

Cuttlefish bone (os sepie): Egerton MS 747, f. 71r 

Medieval Women: In Their Own Words is on show at the British Library from 25 October 2024 to 2 March 2025. You can purchase your tickets online now. 

This exhibition is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation. 

Rowan Wilson

Follow us @BLMedieval