The third doorway in the screens passage led to a narrow corridor between the pantry and the buttery, which opened out on to the kitchen. Bodiam’s kitchen is quite cleverly arranged, making ingenious use of the space available. A great fireplace for cooking is built into the thickness of the exterior wall and connected to a crenellated chimney on the roof (yes, he even did the chimneys). In one corner of the room a stairway led down to the bottom of the southwest tower, where there was a well – of sorts. Today it is filled with water from the moat, but this can’t have been the case in the fourteenth century; apart from anything else, the moat serves as a sewer for the castle’s many toilets. One possible solution is that the ‘well’ was in fact a water tank, lined with lead to isolate it from the moat, and actually filled with rainwater from the roof. At the top of the same tower was another feature designed to keep the kitchen supplied. It was once a dovecote, and you can still see the hundreds of little holes where the doves would have nested – before they were baked into pies.
Kitchen, buttery and pantry therefore stood on one side of the screens passage. Together, their job was to supply food and drink to
the
room that stood on the other side: the castle’s great hall. As great halls go, Bodiam’s is quite dinky, measuring only twenty-four feet wide and forty feet in length. It could probably seat only around fifteen or twenty people, which gives us some idea of the size of the Dallingridge household. Nevertheless, the room is laid out according to all the conventions expected in Sir Edward’s day (which are also still preserved in many Oxbridge colleges). Two long tables ran lengthways down the hall, where the ordinary members of the Dallingridge household (like the students in a college) would have sat. With benches on one side only, diners faced one another across the hall, and the servants enjoyed unrestricted access to the inside of the tables as they approached with plates of food. At the far end of the room, raised off the ground by a small platform to emphasize its importance, was a third table. This, the high table, was where Sir Edward, his family and his most distinguished guests would have sat (a role fulfilled today by the fellows of a college). In all probability, they would have sat not on benches but individual chairs. In keeping with its high status, this end of the hall was lit by a very large, south-facing window. Interestingly, the room has no fireplaces, despite the fact that there are dozens of others throughout the castle. Instead, the hall was lit by an open hearth in the centre, with a vent in the roof above to allow the smoke out. This arrangement – having a great fire in the middle of the hall, providing light and warmth to the whole household – can be traced right back to the Dark Ages, and continued to be used well beyond Dallingridge’s day.
While some traditions were preserved, however, others were gradually being abandoned. By the late fourteenth century, for example, aristocratic households were beginning to spend less time travelling. As a market economy continued to develop, noblemen could rely on getting a greater percentage of their produce locally. Indeed, they might even take steps to encourage the process. In 1383, Dallingridge obtained permission from the king to hold a weekly market in
the
village of Bodiam, as well as an annual fair. In addition, a knight like Sir Edward would have kept his own stocks of animals in order to feed his household. Meat of all kinds was expensive and high-status food, and therefore formed the principal part of an aristocratic diet. As well as keeping herds of animals for grazing, Dallingridge and his family would have supplemented their diet by hunting. Precisely because they were beasts associated with the chase, deer and expensive game birds like pheasants and partridges were regarded as especially noble dishes. They could be especially delicious too – Dallingridge’s venison would have tasted twice as nice if he had personally poached it from under John of Gaunt’s nose.
Of course, the bad thing about medieval aristocrats, as everybody knows, is that they did not eat their vegetables. Stuff that came out the ground was the food of peasants, and therefore not highly prized by well-to-do knights. Dallingridge would probably have turned up his nose had you offered him cheese, too, unless it was of a particularly fine variety. Fish, however, came a close second to meat as a dish of distinction, and was also an essential alternative to meat during Lent. It could be stored salted or pickled in barrels, but Dallingridge had plenty of ponds round and about the castle to keep him supplied with freshwater fish on a day-to-day basis. He might have splashed out from time to time for something a bit more fancy if the occasion demanded it: larger fish like pike or bream were viewed as suitable delicacies for top table. And if Sir Edward had a hankering for a bit of fresh seafood – well, that was hardly going to be a problem. After all, Bodiam (as he no doubt reminded whichever skivvy he sent to fetch the shopping) was right next to the sea.
This, as their household accounts testify, was the diet of the English nobility in the Middle Ages. Moreover, by the time we reach Edward Dallingridge’s day, we know not just what the aristocracy ate, but also how they cooked it. In the 1390s, Richard II asked his master
chef
to compile a book of recipes, and the manuscript has survived. Known as the
Forme of Cury
, it is nothing less than the first English cookbook. There was more to medieval cooking, it transpires, than putting a pig on a spit and garnishing its mouth with an apple. As well as recommending simple dishes like ‘Chykens in Gravey’ and ‘Makerel in Sawce’, the book also contains wonderfully inventive recipes, calling for expensive spices and rare ingredients. One of my favourites (having tasted it) is the ‘Hastelet of Fruyt’, a joke dish of almonds and raisins, strung together and fried in batter so as to look like deers’ entrails. The book also indicates that English cooking was far from insular. Richard’s chef betrayed his knowledge of Italian cuisine with Lumbard Mustard, and could also serve up peas, German style (Peson of Almayne). Even pasta might have found its way on to the king’s menu – the
Forme of Cury
has a recipe for ‘Macrows’ (i.e. macaroni).
We can imagine, therefore, similar dainty dishes being set before Sir Edward and Lady Elizabeth as they sat down to dinner in their great hall at Bodiam; though in fact, if they were throwing a major party, they might not have used this hall at all. To the north of the castle, 300 yards or so up the hill, is a grassy platform, now known as the Gun Garden, and for this reason long assumed to have been an artillery earthwork dating to the seventeenth century. Recent excavations, however, have revealed traces of a large medieval building, almost certainly contemporary with the castle. Its position, as well as its size, is very suggestive; from this point, the castle, with the river valley behind it, looks particularly splendid. The vanished building, it has been plausibly proposed, was once a banqueting hall, where Sir Edward could entertain honoured guests in grand style and, as they were eating, invite them to gaze on his achievement.
So, let us picture the scene back at Bodiam Castle at the end of the fourteenth century. Sir Edward Dallingridge has given a feast, as great as his pocket can bear. He has invited a number of
distinguished
guests, including his friend and patron the Earl of Arundel. His lordship’s presence has pushed the numbers up, so the evening’s entertainment has taken place in the banqueting hall up on the hill. The meal has been served, the sun has started to set, and everybody has taken their cue and said how nice the new castle looks in its river valley setting. They have broken their bread, quaffed their ale and slurped their wine. At one point they were horrified to see deers’ entrails being carried into the room, but were relieved to discover it was just another hilarious joke dish. Minstrels have been hired especially for the evening, and the guests have listened attentively to their plaintive songs, and have had a dance to one or two of the more jaunty numbers. But now, the evening is finished, and everyone is very tired. Slowly they begin to filter out of the hall and make their way down the hill, where they can see the castle and its reflection clearly in the moonlight. Nevertheless, that wine was very good, and it is therefore with exaggerated carefulness that they make their way across the bridges, into the castle courtyard, and mount the stairs to bed.
It is at this point that Sir Edward’s castle comes into its own. The amount of accommodation crammed inside the walls is one of the major differences between Bodiam and castles of an earlier generation. No longer were people expected to find a space on the floor of the hall at the end of the evening; anyone of any importance staying overnight at Bodiam was shown to his or her own room. Most of the chambers are squeezed into the towers, stacked vertically on top of one other, and therefore quite small and low roofed. All of them, however, are very well appointed; each has a fireplace and a window (with a window seat), and all have en suite toilets. Sadly, the castle’s interior is too ruinous to say exactly how many of these chambers were bedrooms; but the extent of the hospitality potentially on offer can be gauged from the surviving architectural details – altogether, there are no less than thirty-three fireplaces and twenty-eight toilets.
Such
lavish facilities give a strong indication of the role that Dallingridge envisaged for Bodiam. This was not a castle for keeping a garrison of soldiers, but for entertaining honoured guests. In order to play the role of the great lord he was becoming, it was essential for Edward to exhibit the virtue of generosity. ‘Mi Castillo es su Castillo’, he might well have said, for the architecture of the castle itself said as much. Observing its ponds teeming with fish, its well-stocked deer parks, its now-vanished banqueting hall, and especially its many, many suites of bedrooms, a visitor to Bodiam was intended to understand that guests were always welcome chez Dallingridge.
The best private rooms, of course, were reserved for the Dallingridges themselves. Most of the east side of the courtyard is occupied by suites of grand chambers for Edward, Elizabeth and their children. As well as their bedrooms, there were great chambers where the Dallingridges could, if they wished, dine in private, or receive especially honoured guests. Although they are very dilapidated today, we must imagine these rooms as being richly decorated; perhaps not with tapestries (a bit too expensive, even for Sir Edward) but with painted wallhangings. As for other furnishings, we know from surviving wills and inventories the kinds of things that fourteenth-century aristocrats valued most highly. Fur-lined cloaks, silks from the Mediterranean, and bedding were all treasured and passed on, and so too was silver plate. In the Dallingridges’ private chambers, we can picture all these things. Perhaps, too, we can picture Sir Edward’s most prized possession hanging above the fireplace in his chamber. The mantelpiece in this room is carved, and you can still make out the little battlements on top. This, surely, was the perfect place to display a licence to crenellate.
Close scrutiny of Bodiam castle, therefore, reveals a charming picture of medieval domestic bliss. It was a place where Dallingridge and his family intended to enjoy the good things in life. However, no sooner
had
Sir Edward conceived this vision than it was thrown into jeopardy. In 1386 the Earl of Arundel, in alliance with several other magnates, planned to seize control of the king’s government. Dallingridge, as Arundel’s right-hand man, backed the earl in his endeavour. If they succeeded, they knew, the rewards would be unimaginable; if they failed, it would cost them dearly. One false move, and Edward stood to lose everything: his castle, his family, and even his life.
Arundel was prompted to act in 1386 by the policies of Richard II. The young king had been welcomed to the throne with much rejoicing, but the feel-good factor had quickly evaporated. As Richard had grown older, he had turned into a foolish, haughty, and self-obsessed king. From the point of view of Arundel and his allies, however, Richard’s biggest problem was his attitude to war; basically, he didn’t like it. As soon as the king was old enough to influence government policy, he began to negotiate with the French for peace. For war-profiteers like Arundel and Dallingridge, this was not good news. Towards the end of 1386, in the charged atmosphere created by the expectation of a French invasion, Arundel and his hawkish colleagues ousted the king’s existing councillors, seized control of government, and set about prosecuting the war with renewed vigour.
A pro-war strategy, however, is only popular if you win convincing victories, and the new regime had little success. Arundel, with Dallingridge by his side, led two separate expeditions to France, both of which ended in failure. At home, meanwhile, the opposition of the king’s friends drove the new government to increasingly desperate measures. Having defeated Richard’s allies in battle, Arundel and his associates cornered the king and threatened to depose him, and shortly afterwards they sentenced four of his former councillors to death. With the war going badly, and the new government looking increasingly discredited, sympathy for Richard’s position grew. In 1389 the king managed to split his opponents, and on 3 May that
year
he declared he was resuming personal power. Arundel and his allies were ejected from the council, and anxiously awaited their fate.
Dallingridge, however, proved once again what a skilled survivor he could be, even when the odds were stacked heavily against him. In the very week that Arundel was dismissed, the crafty Sir Edward quietly detached himself from his patron’s side and sought the protection of the royalist Earl of Huntingdon. The king, who was hardly in a position to refuse support from any quarter, graciously overlooked Edward’s recent opposition, and accepted him among his new councillors. Even as his old master’s ship was sinking, Dallingridge, with remarkable nimbleness, had hopped on board the royal barge.
Having pulled off this breathtaking political stunt, Edward set about making his position secure through sheer hard work. Surviving royal records from the early 1390s show that he was the most frequent attendee of council meetings. Also revealing is a wonderful little expense account submitted by Dallingridge to the Exchequer in 1393, covering the costs that he had incurred in the previous year. As well as proving that he spent no less than 207 days in the king’s service, the roll also exposes the extent of his movements. Dallingridge seems to have acted as a liaison between the king, who still habitually toured the country, and the council, which for the most part met in Westminster. Destinations ranging from London to Stamford and Dover to Nottingham show that Edward was rarely out of the saddle. His assiduousness, however, paid off. After only a few weeks in the king’s service, Dallingridge was permitted to purchase new lands in Sussex, and was granted a royal pension of a hundred marks (£67) a year.