Late February in Tudor, England, was not a pretty time of year. The excitement of Christmas was long gone.

The deep, biting cold of January had settled into a damp, miserable chill. The days were still

pretty short. The sun was still pretty weak, and everything felt a little bit worn down. Clothes are patched and repatched. Shoes are

stiff with old mud and the food stores, they're beginning to look worryingly low. Imagine a small

household just as the light begins to creep into the room. Not a bright sunrise, but a slow, gray glow through a

tiny window, the kind that tells you it's morning, but not a cheerful one. The fire in the hearth has

burned down to a few stubborn embers. Someone has to stir it back to life, blowing gently,

feeding its splinters of wood, and then a thicker

log if there's one to spare. The air inside the house smells of smoke, damp wool, and yesterday's

pottage. Nothing has really dried properly in weeks. Clothes hang near the fire, but they never quite

lose that cold, clammy feel. The floor is hard-packed

earth, darkened by boots and ash, and maybe some rushes that probably haven't been changed in a while.

A stool is pulled close to the hearth, and someone sits on it, holding out their hands to the fire,

waiting for the warmth to creep back into their fingers.

Breakfast isn't really much to speak of. Maybe a bowl of thin pottage made from peas or oats.

Aheel of bread, if there's any left. Ail, but the small beer of late winter, not the fresh, lively stuff of autumn.

This is the ale brewed when the malt is nearly gone,

when you stretch the ingredients because you have to. It's drinkable, but nobody's going to call it

good. This was the hungry end of winter. The salted meat that had seemed so plentiful back in

November had been chipped away at piece by piece.

The barrels of grain were lighter, cheese rinds were getting harder and thinner.

Fresh vegetables are a memory. If you had dried apples or onions left, you guarded them carefully.

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