Yes, medieval people washed their clothes — and for once, the historical myths are real medieval facts. I love historical myth busting, and medieval myths are rarely true. But when it comes to laundry, the past really was as backbreaking, blister-inducing, and sudsy as you imagine. The history of doing laundry will make you deeply grateful that you’re not out by the river right now, scrubbing your shift with lye and prayer.
Whatever we think about medieval hygiene (and let me remind you, medieval people did bathe), they absolutely did laundry. Medieval laundry day was nowhere near as easy as it is today. It was labor-intensive, often communal, and sometimes even dangerous. From brewing caustic soap to battling unpredictable weather, the laundress’s life was a cycle of wash, wring, rinse, and repeat — centuries before the spin cycle was invented.
Laundry in a World Without Machines
The history of laundry is, predictably, a bit grimy. Washing machines — even the earliest hand-cranked contraptions — wouldn’t show up until the 18th century. That means for most of history, every shirt, sheet, and smock was cleaned by hand. And hands, as we all know, were the hardest-working tools of all.
Most medieval people didn’t wash their outer clothes at all. Wool garments were precious, and constant washing would have ruined the fibers. Instead, they wore linen undergarments called “shifts” or “chemises” beneath everything — a practical, breathable layer that absorbed sweat and dirt. Those linen layers were the ones washed regularly, often every few weeks depending on social class, water access, and just how much “freshness” one could tolerate.
There was no medieval laundry room. No cozy utility space with a stackable washer and dryer humming in the corner. Instead, laundry meant hauling heavy baskets of soiled linens to the nearest water source — a stream, river, fountain, or communal washhouse if you were lucky enough to live near one. The sound of water slapping against cloth, the rhythmic beating of paddles, and the laughter (or gossip) of washerwomen filled these spaces.
It was physical work, deeply social, and occasionally scandalous. Washerwomen saw everything — stains, secrets, and symbols of status — and they knew how to talk about it.
Soap, Suds, and Scalding Secrets
If you’ve ever thought your detergent smells too strong, count your blessings. Medieval soap-making was part chemistry experiment, part dark art. There was no Tide, no lavender-scented softener, no gentle cycle. The main ingredient? Lye — a caustic solution made from ashes. To make it, women saved wood ash from their hearths, poured water through it, and let the liquid collect into a slippery, stinging brew. This lye solution would then be mixed with rendered animal fat or oil to make crude soap.
Gentler options, like Castile soap (made with olive oil), existed but were prohibitively expensive. The average laundress made do with what she had — which sometimes meant scrubbing linens in harsh black soap or soaking them in ammonia. And where did that ammonia come from? Human urine. Collected, stored, and used as a whitening agent. That’s right: medieval laundry was powered by pee.
Clothes could be left to soak for hours, sometimes even days, before being beaten with paddles, rinsed again, and laid out to dry. Laundresses had to trust the weather — a gamble in any century. If rain hit, all that labor could be undone in an instant, and the whole process started over.
The Washerwomen: Hard Work and Hidden Power
Laundry wasn’t just a household task — it was a livelihood. Washerwomen, or “lavandières,” occupied a curious space in medieval society. In royal or noble households, they were often well-paid and respected, responsible for the fine linens and delicate garments of their employers. But in towns and villages, washerwomen were part of the working poor — independent, loud, and often feared by the patriarchal order.
Why feared? Because they gathered. Medieval washerwomen formed small, tight-knit communities, pooling their labor and knowledge. They looked out for one another when other social structures — the church, the guilds, even family — failed them. In many ways, they were the first “mutual aid societies” for women, creating support networks in a world that didn’t offer many. Their work was dismissed as lowly, but it kept society literally and symbolically clean.
And yet, these women lived in the margins — strong backs, blistered hands, and tongues as sharp as their paddles. Artists often painted them as bawdy or unrefined, but washerwomen knew the truth: they worked harder than most and saw the world as it really was, stains and all.
The Weight of Water
Imagine lifting a single linen sheet, soaked through with river water. Now imagine dozens of them. The weight of medieval laundry wasn’t just metaphorical — it was backbreaking. The repetitive bending, wringing, carrying, and beating left laundresses physically spent. And yet, there was pride in the work. Laundry was cleanliness, morality, and order made visible. It was proof that you cared, that you belonged to the rhythm of life, even when the labor nearly broke you.
Final Spin
It’s rare that I write about a historical myth that turns out to be true. But medieval laundry? It really was that bad — and that fascinating. Beneath all the grime and exhaustion was a quiet dignity, a lineage of women who refused to let filth, or fate, win.
Every time I toss a load into my modern washer, I think of them — of the women beating linen against stone, of the soap boiling over the fire, of the communal chatter by the riverside. Their work made survival possible, even beautiful in its own raw, relentless way.
So the next time you hear that spin cycle hum, take a moment. You’re part of a long, unbroken line of human hands trying to wash the world clean.
The Laundry Club Blog 
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