Medieval Housewives’ SECRET WEAPON Against Rats Revealed

Step back into the medieval world where housewives weren’t just cooks and caretakers—they were warriors waging a silent war against relentless invaders: rats. 🐀✨

In How Medieval Housewives Fought Off Rats With Lavender, discover how everyday women battled plague-carrying rodents using unexpected weapons like fragrant lavender, herbal brews, and ingenious homemade traps.

This soothing 2-hour narration blends fascinating historical facts with vivid storytelling, revealing:

✅ Why rats were feared as deadly bringers of disease and destruction
✅ How lavender became a secret weapon in medieval pest control
✅ The ingenious, quirky, and sometimes bizarre methods medieval women used to protect their homes
✅ The resilience and cleverness of housewives who fought to keep their families safe

Perfect for fans of medieval history, bedtime storytelling, and relaxing audio designed to help you unwind and drift into sleep while learning something new.

Whether you love Boring History For Sleep, crave tales of the past, or simply enjoy gentle storytelling, this episode will carry you through flickering candlelight, herbal remedies, and the quiet triumphs of women who kept the rats at bay.

If you’re someone who enjoys listening to and watching images, the YouTube Video section is a great choice for you. On the other hand, if you’re a fan of reading stories, the Reading Section is where you can enjoy it.

Table Of Contents

Boring History For Sleep Video

Boring History For Sleep | Reading Section

Section 1

Hey guys, tonight we begin with something surprisingly intense: rats, lavender, and the medieval woman’s daily battle for survival. Picture this—stone walls sweating with damp, firelight flickering over rush-strewn floors, and a sour draft wafting in through a half-shuttered window. You’re standing barefoot in a coarse wool dress, one hand gripping a broom, the other cradling a pouch of dried herbs tied with twine. Something just scurried past your toes. Was that… another rat?

Because yes—tonight, you’re a housewife in the Middle Ages, and your to-do list is about to get a lot hairier. Rats are not the occasional nuisance here. They’re practically roommates. They chew through your stores, nest in your thatch roof, and worst of all, they carry disease. The simple cold you caught last week? It might not be just a cold.

So, before you get comfortable, take a moment to like the video and subscribe—but only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here. And let me know in the comments where you’re tuning in from and what time it is for you. It’s always fascinating to see who’s falling asleep to this across the world.

Now, dim the lights, maybe turn on a fan for that soft background hum, and let’s ease into tonight’s journey together.

You start your day before sunrise. There’s wood to split, porridge to stir, and laundry to boil, but before anything else—rat check. You lift the grain sack. Chewed. You tap the wooden beams under the bed. Hollow-sounding. You hear tiny claw sounds above. The rafters again. It’s going to be one of those days.

Back in the modern world, you complain about a bad Wi-Fi signal. But here? Your stress comes from that soft scratching noise behind the bread bin.

It’s easy to forget just how persistent these animals were. You can’t open a food jar, a chest, or a sack without checking for droppings. You sleep with one ear open, trained to hear the faint scritch-scratch that means your pantry is under attack.

You probably won’t survive this, by the way. The sheer emotional toll of fighting vermin with no bleach, no mousetraps, no steel wool—it’s a wonder anyone kept sane. Your options are: shriek, throw a shoe, or try one of the many “remedies” passed down from other women in your village, most of which involve herbs, candles, and whispered Latin.

The only upside? You’re not alone. Every housewife you know is in the same boat. Your neighbor Agnes claims she hasn’t seen a rat in weeks. You don’t believe her. She also says her cousin’s cat killed a rat “the size of a goose.” That seems… unlikely.

Rats aren’t just in the home, either. They’re in the market stalls, scuttling under carts loaded with turnips. They’re in the churchyard, where people toss bones from the feast of Saint Leonard. They’re even in the monastery kitchens, where supposedly divine recipes still can’t keep rodents out of the butter.

So, what do you do? You go to your tiny kitchen altar, tucked in beside a bundle of dried lavender, some rosemary, and a crusty little chunk of old soap. You light a candle. Not for prayer—though maybe a bit of that too—but to get a better look at the rat trail behind the cupboard. Tiny black pellets. Greasy smear along the wall. Yep. They were here last night.

You grab your broom. You mutter something unholy. You wish, for the hundredth time, that someone would invent an affordable iron trap. Or cats that weren’t such moody freeloaders.

This is your world now. Pest control is a daily ritual, part science, part superstition. You sprinkle ashes by the doorframe. You lay sweet-smelling herbs in a ring around your grain bins. And you clutch your lavender. It’s one of the few things that make you feel like you have even a shred of control.

Lavender, you’ve heard, repels them. They hate the smell. Supposedly. Historians still argue whether this was genuinely effective or just a form of medieval aromatherapy. But you don’t care. It’s better than doing nothing.

And honestly, your nose needs a break. You live in a time where “clean” means rinsed in a stream, and your neighbor’s chamber pot is just dumped behind the hedges. Anything that smells even vaguely floral feels like a miracle. Lavender tucked into bedsheets, hung over doorways, stirred into boiling water—this is your medieval Febreze, your disinfectant, your rat-banishing talisman.

You can almost hear your mother’s voice: “If it doesn’t smell bad, maybe the rats will think it tastes bad too.” Maybe. But the rats? They’re tenacious. And worse, smart. You saw one the other day eyeing the dried fish as if weighing the risk.

The terrifying thing? They’re not afraid of you anymore. Not really. They’ve learned your rhythm. When you leave. When you sleep. They time their visits like clockwork.

So what do you do? You get smarter. You shift your food stores nightly. You burn rosemary and mint as incense. You oil the wooden chest hinges so you can open them silently and surprise the furry invaders. You teach your toddler to shout “mouse!” even if it’s just a shadow. Better safe than sorry.

And every day, you check your skin. You’ve heard the stories. Swollen lumps. Sudden fever. The girl down the lane who started coughing and didn’t stop. You don’t know what the plague is, exactly. But you know what follows rats.

Your hands tremble sometimes, lighting the tallow lamp at night. You stare at the ceiling, at the beams. Listening. Always listening. Because in your world, even something as innocent as a soft, persistent scratch could be the beginning of a nightmare.

Still, the lavender helps. It doesn’t just smell like flowers—it smells like hope.

Section 2

You flinch as the sound comes again—this time from the corner where you keep the barley sacks. You creep closer, holding your breath, broom in hand like a knight with a lance. The moment your foot brushes the ground, something darts behind the firewood. You curse softly, under your breath. Another one. Or the same one. Who can tell?

The medieval rat isn’t just a nuisance. It’s a walking health hazard, a four-legged threat to your family’s survival. Sure, you don’t know the science yet—you haven’t read Pasteur or Koch, and no one’s handed you a pamphlet explaining bacteria. But you know this: when the rats come, sickness follows.

You don’t call it the plague. You call it “the pestilence.” The Black Death. The thing that steals people in the night. One day they cough. The next, they’re buried.

And you’ve heard the whispers: it travels with the fleas. Fleas live on rats. So you draw the line—no rats in the house. Not ever.

Too bad the rats didn’t get the memo.

They are, to put it mildly, everywhere. They come up through the floorboards. They chew through the walls. They slink through the thatch roof. You’ve even seen one jump. You didn’t know rats could jump. You still try not to think about it too much.

They aren’t just in your home either. They’re in your church, scrambling beneath pews during mass. They’re in the market square, gorging on spilled beer and trampled sausage skins. They even infest the manor houses, the castles—anywhere with food and warmth. In this way, rats are the great equalizer. Peasant or lord, it doesn’t matter. If you store grain, you have rats. And if you have rats, well… you have fear.

But there’s more to it than food. You don’t just hate rats because they eat. You hate them because they feel wrong. Like omens. Beady-eyed and quick, always appearing where death soon follows. It’s not just superstition—it’s pattern recognition. A mother knows when something is dangerous.

Historians still argue whether medieval people really believed rats brought disease or whether they simply observed coincidence. But in your world, it doesn’t matter. Belief is protection. If enough people burn herbs and mutter charms, maybe the sickness won’t come. Maybe.

That’s why lavender isn’t just for scent. It’s part of a whole herbal armory. You keep bundles of rue by the door. You hang wormwood above the window. You tuck bay leaves into the corners of your bread box. But it’s lavender that makes you feel the safest.

There’s something about it—the sharp, clean smell, the deep purple color—that feels almost sacred. You crush it in your fingers and breathe it in. You boil it in water and wash your linens. You sprinkle it in the baby’s cradle. You even chew it, sometimes, because your aunt swears it keeps your blood “cool.”

And it seems to work, at least a little. You notice fewer rats near the lavender-scented parts of the house. Or maybe they just hate how much you reek of it. Either way, you’ll take the win.

But nothing works forever. Last week, you found a chewed pouch of dried lavender behind the cupboard. The rat didn’t care. It had nested right beside it.

So you escalate. You start tying lavender with garlic. You mix it with ashes from the hearth and smear it across the door frame like some kind of rustic holy symbol. You don’t care how it looks. If it keeps your children safe, you’d smear it on your face.

The rat problem isn’t limited to your home, though. It’s structural. The village is full of warm places. Barns, bakeries, storage sheds—all packed with tasty food and plenty of nooks to hide in. Even the mill, with its thudding wheel and grinding stones, shelters a rat community so bold they barely move when you stomp your feet.

Sometimes, the priest warns against too much faith in herbs. He says true protection comes from prayer and moral purity. But you’ve seen how the rats chew through scripture. You’ll keep your lavender, thank you very much.

Some say rats are demons in disguise. Others believe they carry the spirits of the damned. One man swore his dead brother came back as a rat and gnawed on his ear while he slept. You don’t believe it… not really. But sometimes, when the moon is low and the wind rattles the shutters, the rustle in the corner sounds almost… deliberate.

You remember when the pestilence came to the next village over. People stuffed lavender into their nostrils and held sachets to their faces as they passed by the sick. The scent was strong enough to make your eyes water—but it was worth it. No one wants to inhale the breath of the dying.

Now you do it too. You wear a pouch around your neck. You refresh it every few days. It’s not elegant. It’s survival.

And just in case the rats are listening, you mutter a little threat under your breath: “Come for my grain again, and I’ll feed you poison soaked in lavender oil.” You don’t know if that works either, but it feels satisfying.

Meanwhile, your kids think the lavender smells nice. They twirl the stems, wave them like swords, pretend to be witches and rat-catchers. You let them play. But you also make sure they understand—this isn’t just a game.

You teach them how to spot droppings. You show them the signs of chewed fabric. You tell them: if you see one rat, there are five more you don’t see. And always, always tell Mama.

Your husband? He helps, when he can. But he works in the fields from dawn to dusk. The home is your battlefield. The rats are your enemy. Lavender is your weapon.

And even though you end the day exhausted, aching, and slightly paranoid—you do sleep better when the scent of crushed flowers is in the air. Because in a world without antibiotics, without pest control, without even understanding why people get sick, lavender feels like the only thing standing between your family and the unknown.

Section 3

You wake before dawn, again. The fire’s gone cold, and your bones feel it. You reach for your shawl and sit up slowly, ears straining for the tiny sounds in the walls. You hear it faintly—claws, wood, breath. They’re still here. Of course they are. Rats don’t take holidays.

Your first job this morning isn’t feeding the chickens. It’s rat duty.

The coals still glow faintly in the hearth, and you toss on a handful of kindling. As the flame catches, you light the stub of a candle and crouch beside the pantry. Your knees pop—age is catching up. But you lean close, inspecting the shelves. One dried apple, gnawed. The barley bin, disturbed. A perfect little trail of droppings. One even left a tail print in spilled flour. You grimace.

Rats aren’t afraid of your presence anymore. They know your rhythms, your routines. You’re like a predictable storm to them—annoying but survivable.

That’s what stings most. You’re not in control anymore. And yet, control is your job.

Being a housewife in the Middle Ages isn’t just about cooking and cleaning. You’re part carpenter, part herbalist, part health officer. Pest control? That’s just one of your unpaid specializations.

The role of the medieval housewife was broader than people today imagine. You’re expected to preserve food without refrigeration, detect spoilage by smell and touch alone, administer basic medicine, keep vermin out of supplies, teach the children, help in the fields, and still be cheerful when your husband trudges home covered in dirt and bad moods.

You rub your temples, then grab a bundle of dried herbs—lavender, marjoram, a bit of thyme—and toss it onto the hearth. The room fills with a sharp, calming scent. For a moment, it even smells… clean.

Lavender isn’t just your comfort blanket. It’s strategy. You tie it in little bundles and hang it in dark corners. You grind it into ash and smear it with lard along the baseboards. Some women in your village say lavender keeps rats away because they hate the smell. Others say it confuses their tiny rodent souls. You’re not sure which is true. Maybe both. Or neither.

Historians still debate whether lavender really repelled rats or simply masked the smell of food. But for you, it’s a daily ritual with sacred weight. When you place lavender behind the bread chest, you’re not just using a plant—you’re drawing a line.

The morning continues, and you enlist your youngest to help. He’s barely walking, but he’s good at spotting movement. “Mama! Rat!” he squeals, pointing to a dark shadow under the bench. You grab your broom and swing, but it’s already gone. Smart little beast.

There’s no shortage of advice from the other women in town. Some say mint works better. Others swear by tansy. But your grandmother used lavender, and her grandmother before her, and you trust that more than some wandering tinker selling rat potions made of boiled pig knuckles and lime.

And besides, lavender smells better. The rest of your house might stink of damp wool and old broth, but lavender gives the illusion of grace. A pocket of calm.

It’s strange—no one ever told you this would be your job. When you were younger, you thought marriage meant baking bread and maybe sewing. You didn’t realize it came with rat patrol, flea inspections, and catching weasels in the cellar.

You shake out the blankets on the sleeping bench. You’re careful to check each one. A family in the next village had a rat climb in with the baby. Took a bite out of his ear. You’ve never forgotten that story. Every time your kids lie down, you run a hand under their pillows, over the straw mattress. Just in case.

The worst part? You start to hear rats even when they’re not there. A creaking floorboard? Rat. A rustling sack? Rat. The wind shifting a reed broom? Definitely rat.

You become a bit obsessed. You whisper about it to your friend Joan. She nods. Says she sprinkles lavender in her husband’s boots. Says she’s not entirely sure it helps, but it makes her feel like she’s doing something.

And that’s the secret, really—action, even symbolic action, brings peace of mind.

You start to treat lavender like armor. You wear a pouch around your neck. You tuck sprigs into your sleeves. You press it into the folds of clean linen and keep some under the bed.

The other day, your husband laughed. Said you’d turn purple from the smell. But you noticed he didn’t complain when you tied a bundle above the door, and the pantry stayed untouched that night.

You still don’t know if the lavender is working—or if the rats are just taking a break. But in a world where death often arrives unseen, invisible, and unstoppable, you cling to the rituals that feel like protection.

That’s how you win, day by day. You stay watchful. You outsmart. You scent. You sweep. You trap. You pray, just a little. And you survive.

Sometimes, it feels like the house is holding its breath with you. Like the wood, the stone, the straw—everything is waiting to see if tonight will be peaceful. Or if you’ll hear the scurry again.

For now, the kitchen is quiet. The lavender smoke lingers. You take a moment to sit. To breathe.

To hope.

Section 4

You glance around your small kitchen and sigh. The fire is going now, your children are chewing stale crusts without complaint, and your hands reek of ash and lavender oil. This is peace—at least, for the next few minutes. But you’re already thinking ahead: it’s time to refresh the bundles.

You reach for your herb pouch and untie the string. Inside, the lavender is brittle, dry, and losing scent. It’s no longer sharp—just a whisper of what it once was. That won’t do. You need it pungent. Potent. This is war, not potpourri.

You head to the back of the cottage where you hang your drying herbs—lavender in bundles, tied with twine, the stalks pointing downward so the oils settle in the blossoms. You run your fingers through them and pull a fresh bundle free. The scent hits you like a tiny wave of comfort and power. You grin.

This isn’t just flower arranging—it’s warfare, medieval style.

Today you’re arming your home.

Lavender might seem gentle, but it’s a botanical battering ram against infestation. Or so you hope.

In truth, many medieval women used lavender as a multi-purpose remedy. It wasn’t just about rats. You used it in poultices, in teas, in soaps when you were lucky enough to afford some. Lavender was your perfume and your protection. It made your home smell less like smoke and cabbage and more like something divine.

And honestly, you need all the divinity you can get. Because a rat’s nose, as you’ve learned, is frighteningly good. They can sniff out a bag of grain tied in oilskin. They can find a piece of meat buried in ashes. They know exactly where you stash the good stuff.

That’s why you hang lavender by the doorframe, above the window, and over the pantry. You know it might not stop a determined rat. But maybe, just maybe, it’ll slow them down—or make them choose a neighbor’s house instead.

And let’s face it—you’ve been that neighbor. Remember last winter when someone dumped lavender trimmings near your door? That wasn’t generosity. That was redirection. Tactical herb placement. You can’t even be mad.

Lavender’s use in pest control dates back to Roman times. Historians still argue whether it was effective as a true repellent or simply used to disguise the scent of food and filth. But in a world with no disinfectant, no bleach, and no pest control hotline, you use what nature offers—and lavender is queen.

You crush a few blossoms between your thumb and forefinger and let the scent fill your nose. It reminds you of your mother’s kitchen, of the way she used to hum as she swept ashes out the door and scattered herbs behind the hearth. She believed in it deeply. Not just for cleanliness. For protection.

She used to say, “Lavender chases away more than rats.” And maybe she was right. Maybe it also keeps fear at bay.

You kneel by the pantry again and gently scatter some of the crushed flower heads beneath the shelves. Then you tuck a fresh bundle into the rafters. You even press some under the legs of the baby’s cradle. No risks. Not tonight.

Out of habit, you check the traps. They’re not the steel jaws you’d love to have—they’re simple wooden mechanisms, baited with fat and barley. One is sprung. Empty. Another has a tail sticking out. You grimace and fetch the tongs.

It’s not pretty. Rat control never is.

You dispose of the corpse in the compost pile outside, where the chickens already seem curious. They’ll pick at anything.

You glance around the yard. The lavender growing along the edge of the cottage is tall and hardy. You’re proud of it. You started that patch with a single cutting from a neighbor years ago. Now, you have enough to dry for the winter—and maybe even trade at market.

Lavender, it turns out, is also good economics.

Some of the older village women distill it into oil. You’ve seen them with their bubbling copper pots, the steam rising, the smell so strong it makes your eyes water. They claim it keeps better that way. You don’t have the tools for oil-making, but you admire the women who do. They’re part apothecary, part businesswoman.

You wonder sometimes how your life might have been different if you’d learned that trade. But you’re here now—homesteader, rat-warrior, lavender queen of your own small realm.

Inside, the children are playing quietly. One is stacking firewood. The other has made a doll out of a spoon and a bit of twine. You smile. They’re good kids. And thanks to your vigilance, they’re safe—for now.

You rest for a moment, standing in the doorway with your arms crossed. The breeze carries a mix of smells—woodsmoke, lavender, something slightly unpleasant from the pigpen. You breathe it in. Home.

Then you hear it again.

Scritch. Scraaaaatch.

Somewhere behind the wall. Still there.

You close your eyes. Count to five. Then go fetch another bundle.

You’re not giving up.

Not tonight. Not ever.

Because while rats never stop trying, neither do you.

And as long as there’s lavender hanging from your rafters and a broom by your side, you’ve got this.

Section 5

You’re crouched on your knees in the darkest corner of the cottage, lavender bundle in one hand, a cracked clay cup of vinegar and ashes in the other. The smell is intense—floral, sharp, and slightly burnt. It’s your own homemade pest paste. You’re not sure if it repels, poisons, or just confuses the rats, but again—effort equals hope.

This corner is always suspicious. It’s where you once saw a rat slither behind the firewood and vanish. You’ve stuffed every gap you can find with rags and straw soaked in lavender water. Still, something chews through it. You suspect it’s not just one rat. It’s a family. A rat dynasty.

So tonight, you go further.

You dip a twig into your lavender ash paste and smear it along the baseboards like a holy rite. It’s messy. It’s smelly. It’s oddly satisfying. As you work, you remember a tale Joan told you last month.

She claimed her grandmother once warded off an entire rat colony using lavender mixed with cow urine and something called “blessed tallow.” When you asked what that was, she just shrugged and said, “It glows when you whisper to it.” That’s… comforting.

Medieval pest control was often experimental at best. You didn’t have controlled studies—you had trial, error, and gossip.

And gossip spreads fast in your village. Like the time Edith swore by burying dried lavender inside onions and placing them at each corner of the house. She claimed the rats vanished for a full moon cycle. Her cousin tried the same and ended up with lavender-scented rot and a family of mice living in her shoes.

Historians still argue whether these herbal rituals were believed literally, or whether they served a psychological function—giving women a sense of power in a power-starved world. You can say with certainty: it’s probably both.

You don’t think rubbing lavender oil into the pantry door actually banishes rats. But it calms you. It tells your body: I’ve done something. I’m trying.

Your grandmother once told you, “Herbs don’t need to work if they make you work better.”

That line echoes in your mind now as you tie another bundle and hang it upside down from the rafters.

Then comes the fringe stuff—the weird, the whispered, the desperate.

You’ve heard about a woman in the next village who wears a lavender crown every night and hums while she sleeps, claiming the vibrations keep pests away.

You’ve also heard of people who paint crude rat symbols on their doors in pig blood to “warn off the colonies.” You… don’t do that. You’re committed, not cursed.

Instead, you mix up a new potion.

Today’s recipe: boiled lavender, garlic skins, the peel of a sour apple, and three drops of lamp oil. You strain it into a cloth and wipe down the shelves. The result smells… intense. But it’s better than rat urine. Everything is.

Even your kids start to notice. “Mama,” your daughter says, “why does our house smell like soup and flowers?” You laugh. That’s honestly a great description.

You’re becoming a backyard alchemist, combining what’s available and what’s rumored to work. Medieval life isn’t clean-cut. You’re not handed solutions. You invent them. Through herbs, heat, and hearsay.

Your husband brings home a bundle of fresh-cut lavender from the outer field. It’s rare this late in the season, but he spotted it and thought of you. He drops it in your lap like a bouquet.

“Protection for my general,” he jokes.

You smile but don’t say anything. Because deep down, you know this is more than domestic warfare—it’s identity. You’re not just a mother or wife. You’re the protector of this tiny empire. Lavender in your hands is like a sword.

And there’s comfort in the repetition. Cut, dry, hang. Crush, boil, mix. The rhythm of herbal prep becomes a kind of meditation.

You even start trading. Not gold. Not grain. But knowledge. You learn that rosemary boosts lavender’s strength. That peppermint confuses a rat’s sense of direction. That bay leaves, tucked inside a rat’s path, might just make it turn around.

You try these tricks. Some fail. Some maybe work. One morning you wake to untouched barley and a single, tiny lavender bloom sitting in the middle of the floor like a calling card.

You smile like you’ve just won a battle. You don’t know for sure what happened. But for once, it wasn’t you cleaning up rat crumbs.

Lavender, you begin to think, isn’t just a plant. It’s community. It’s knowledge passed from hand to hand, mother to daughter, neighbor to friend. It’s one of the few tools you share openly, lovingly, without barter or suspicion.

Because everyone in this village—every woman, at least—knows the sound of claws in the night. The fear of tainted bread. The worry that one bite from the wrong rat could be the end.

So you keep crushing the flowers. Keep tying the bundles. Keep whispering the little prayers, even if they’re half joke, half habit.

“Lavender, lady of the lintel,” you say softly tonight, tucking a sprig behind your ear. “Chase the vermin, guard the grain, and let me sleep.”

You’re not sure where that rhyme came from. You might’ve made it up.

But it doesn’t matter.

It works.

Section 6

You’re back in your garden, late morning sun warming your back, as you gently snip a few sprigs of lavender from the border. You’ve taken to planting it not just for its scent or the rats—but because it’s beautiful. Soft purple among the coarse greens and browns of your yard, it feels like a little rebellion. A pocket of peace.

But peace doesn’t pay taxes, and your lavender’s doing more than looking pretty. You’re preparing for market day.

This batch will be dried and bundled, tied with rough string, and maybe even traded for salt, wax, or a wedge of cheese. Lavender is currency now—maybe not to the men who deal in silver, but among women who know its worth.

The lavender economy, as you’ve come to think of it, is alive and well.

In the village, you know three other women who grow and trade lavender regularly. One sells fresh bundles at the market. Another distills a rough oil using copper scraps and boiled water. A third swears her lavender bread is the only reason her family hasn’t gotten sick all season. You tasted it once. A little chewy, a little odd. But fragrant.

You pass by her stall sometimes, where she yells in rhymes:

“Bread that’s clean, bread that’s sweet—keeps the rats from chewing your wheat!”

Catchy. Almost suspiciously so.

Historians still argue whether lavender ever served as true economic leverage for medieval women, but you’re living proof that it can. When coin is scarce and goods are limited, anything of use becomes tradeable.

And lavender is useful.

You keep yours in a simple wooden box, lined with cloth. When you’re not using it to battle rats, you’re selling it. Or bartering it for butter. Or using it to scent laundry. You’ve even heard of women adding it to their dowries, tucking sprigs between layers of cloth as a promise of cleanliness and health.

Some days, you wonder if you could’ve gone into business. Opened a stall, made a name. You daydream about being known as “the Lavender Lady,” the one with the best bundles and the strongest infusions.

But then one of your children spills goat’s milk on the floor, and you snap back to reality. No time for daydreams when rats smell dairy from fifty paces.

Still, even in your small circle, lavender brings status.

You’ve learned how to dry it best—cut before full bloom, upside down, away from sunlight. You store it in a cool, dry place, packed tight. Other women have noticed. They ask for advice. You give it freely. Because this isn’t just about selling a product—it’s about building defenses.

You even keep notes. Not formal ones. Just scratched symbols and coded marks on the corner of your recipe parchment. A little drawing of a rat for when the concoction failed. A flower symbol when it worked. A line through both when the results were… unclear.

One time, you traded a satchel of dried lavender for a small clay pot of honey. That honey saved your daughter’s throat when she fell sick that winter. That’s when you really began to trust the lavender.

But not everyone is as devoted.

The miller’s wife scoffed once and said your house smells like a perfumed coffin. You smiled politely and watched her shoo away three rats from under her flour sacks the very next day. She hasn’t said much since.

And then there’s the problem of authenticity. Some people try to fake it—selling bundles that are part lavender, part random weeds. You’ve learned how to spot them. The scent isn’t right. The color is off. You once bought a bundle and found grass tied into the bottom. You didn’t say anything—but you never traded with her again.

This is your livelihood, your armor, and your offering. You don’t treat it lightly.

There’s also a ritual to it. The way you arrange the bundles. The way you tie them, tightly at the base, loose at the top. The way you brush off dead leaves and keep the stems clean. It’s like prayer, but with twine.

The satisfaction is subtle but strong—knowing you’ve grown something, protected something, created something from the earth that now guards your home.

Even your husband notices. “The rats haven’t been at the bread in weeks,” he says one evening, mouth full. “Must be your weeds.”

You grin. “Magic weeds.”

“Expensive magic,” he mutters, eyeing the small stash you’ve set aside for market day.

You let him mutter. He doesn’t see what you see.

He doesn’t see how the other women lean in close when they pass your stall. How they inhale deeply and ask, “Is it strong this season?” He doesn’t hear the whispers—how your lavender lasts longer, smells richer, wards better.

That’s your quiet pride.

You teach your eldest to tie the bundles now. She’s not very good at it yet, but she’s learning. You watch her fumble with the string, tongue sticking out in concentration. It warms you.

Because someday, she’ll have her own home. Her own walls to guard. Her own rats to fight.

And when she does, she’ll know where to start—with lavender.

You’ll make sure of it.

Section 7

You’ve just uncorked a jug of something sour-smelling—your latest rat-repellent recipe. It sloshes uneasily in the clay jar, a cloudy mix of lavender vinegar, crushed garlic, ash, and something that might have once been onion. Your nose wrinkles. It smells like feet. Floral feet, but feet all the same.

Welcome to medieval experimentation.

This isn’t the first concoction you’ve brewed in the name of home defense. Over the years, you’ve tried just about every folk remedy that passed through the village. Some are harmless. Some are… questionably legal. And some just make your house smell like a salad that went wrong.

Still, you press on. Because if there’s one thing medieval life teaches you, it’s persistence.

You dip a rag into the solution and begin wiping it along the floor beams. The wood hisses faintly as the vinegar settles. The scent is strong. Strong enough, you hope, to repel even the most daring rat scouts.

You recall a neighbor once insisting on steeping lavender in cow urine for a week, claiming the smell alone would scare anything with a nose. You didn’t try that one. You have standards. Sort of.

Medieval pest control methods walk a fine line between practical and completely unhinged. You’ve heard of people placing dead snakes in corners to scare rats away. Someone once buried a fish head under their hearth. Another soaked bread in wine, let it mold, and then left it out to “trick” rats into thinking the house was already diseased.

Historians still argue whether these strange brews and tactics were based in science or superstition. Honestly, you think it’s both. In a world without microscopes, you rely on patterns. If something smells foul and no rats come near, you repeat it. If something smells lovely and attracts a plague of mice, you abandon it, no matter what the priest says.

You’ve developed your own internal rubric by now. Anything with vinegar seems to help. Garlic is hit or miss. Onion—only in desperation. Lavender, though? Lavender stays.

Today’s brew is particularly noxious. You left it steeping by the stove overnight, covered with a cheesecloth, and the smell woke your husband before the rooster did. He asked if you were trying to poison the whole house. You told him yes, starting with the rats.

You swipe the solution across the inside of the pantry door and whisper a silent prayer. Not because you think the spirits are listening, but because rituals make the job easier. A rhythm, a rhyme, something to keep your mind from spiraling into all the things that could go wrong.

It’s funny. You never thought of yourself as a potion-maker. But here you are, with stained fingers and jars of bubbling herbs, muttering incantations like a village hedge-witch.

You even have a dedicated shelf now. Lavender bundles, yes—but also little pots of dried rosemary, sage, bay leaves, and vinegar infusions. You’re tempted to label them, but that feels too modern. Instead, you rely on memory and scent.

One jar has a mix you made two months ago—lavender boiled with rosemary and sheep fat. You used it to coat the grain bin lid, and you think it worked. No gnaw marks for almost a week. That counts as success in your book.

Another has a paste of mint, garlic, and lavender oil you mashed with a wooden spoon after someone swore it repelled weasels. No idea if it works on rats, but it made your dog sneeze for ten minutes. Close enough.

Then there’s the infamous “plague blend” you tried last winter. Dried lavender and rose petals soaked in wine vinegar, strained, and dabbed on window frames. It didn’t keep the fever away, but it did attract bees in spring.

And yet, you keep experimenting.

Your friends call you inventive. Some call you strange. One whispered you were “a bit of a herb woman.” You took it as a compliment.

You’re not trying to be a healer or a mystic. You just want your house to stop smelling like grain and fear. You want your children to sleep without scratching at imagined crawling things. You want to wake up and not see droppings on the hearth.

So you keep brewing.

Sometimes you fantasize about writing it all down. A book of household alchemy. “The Lavender Ledger,” maybe. You’d include recipes, notes, little warnings like “avoid eye contact while mixing this” or “may explode near open flame.” Not that anyone would read it. But it would feel good to know it exists.

One of the more eccentric remedies you tried involved soaking a ribbon in lavender vinegar and tying it around the neck of your cat. The cat was not amused. But you swear it stopped sleeping in the pantry and started spending more time near the grain sacks. Possibly to escape you, but still.

You laugh now, remembering how many scratches that cost you.

You’ve learned lavender doesn’t need to be fancy to work. The dried stems, the spent flowers, even the leaves have power. You crumble leftovers into your mop bucket. You burn the stalks as incense. You even toss spent bundles into the fire, just for the scent.

There’s a satisfaction in it—the slow cycle of use, reuse, repurpose.

It makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’ve figured something out in this chaotic, rat-chewed world.

Tonight, your house smells sharp again. Clean in its own strange, herbal way. You sit back and stretch, your arms tired from all the scrubbing, but your chest light.

You did something. You tried. You brewed, mixed, smeared, and splashed. Your house is not perfect—but it’s yours. And it smells like lavender.

Even if the rats come back, they’ll know they’re not welcome.

Section 8

You wipe your hands on your apron and glance around the room. The scent of lavender lingers, layered over the sour tang of vinegar and the earthy sting of garlic. The air feels different—not clean, exactly, but fortified. Like you’ve done everything you can. And in this world, that’s a rare comfort.

You sit for a moment on the edge of the wooden bench and run your hand over the dried stems on the table. Lavender has become so many things to you. It started as a simple herb. Then a shield. Then a recipe. But over time, it’s become something more—a symbol of what you know. Of how much you know.

Because people underestimate you. The men in the fields don’t see the labor in a clean hearth. The priests don’t smell the effort behind a scented pillow. But you do. You see every choice. Every motion. Every half-spoken ritual behind the acts of daily care.

Lavender is your quiet triumph.

And in the marketplace, it’s your mark of pride.

On market days, you walk with your basket on your hip, filled with neatly tied lavender bundles, their stems trimmed, flowers intact, scent still sharp. You don’t have to shout like the fishmongers. You just sit, and people come.

They know.

Some ask for sachets to hang over cradles. Others want to mix it into bath water, or to boil it in soup for a sick loved one. One girl whispers that she hides some in her brother’s shoes because “he smells worse than the pig stall.” You nod in sympathy. Lavender doesn’t judge.

But there’s another side to it, too. A deeper layer.

It’s medicine. It’s magic. And in your hands, it’s marketing.

You’ve learned what sells. You’ve learned how to spin your words just right.

“This bundle?” you’ll say. “It’s from the eastern slope. Sun all day, morning dew every night. Stronger oil.” You don’t know if it makes a difference—but it sounds convincing, and no one questions you.

Some women swear your lavender helped their fevers fade faster. Others say it kept fleas out of their blankets. One claimed her baby stopped crying at night when she stuffed some under the mattress.

Historians still argue whether these were real effects or coincidence. But you know this: belief matters.

Belief is medicine in a world without certainty.

You take pride in the layering of it all. Lavender for scent. Lavender for peace. Lavender for trade. It’s like a flower-shaped coin you can spend in many ways.

And as more women take notice, a sort of quiet alliance forms. You share stems, swap drying tips, compare notes on the best time to harvest. One woman shows you how to crush lavender into a thick paste using just salt and ash—something you’d never thought to try. Another tells you to hide some under the bread oven to keep weevils away.

You test each idea, scribble little marks on your recipe scrap, and pass it on. Your circle grows.

But not everyone is eager to believe.

The village priest is wary. He warns during Sunday mass that too much trust in herbs is prideful. That pestilence comes from sin, not rodents. That protection lies in purity and confession, not flower bundles.

You sit in the pew with your arms crossed and your lavender pouch tucked under your shawl. He can say what he wants. But he wasn’t the one scrubbing rat droppings from the flour barrel last week.

After service, a few women sidle up and ask—quietly—if you have any fresh bundles.

You nod. You always do.

Some nights you sit by the hearth and just watch the bundle sway gently from the rafters. You wonder about the lives it’s touched. The babies soothed. The homes protected. The grain saved. The nights made less terrifying.

It feels ancient, somehow. As if by using lavender, you’re part of a chain of women stretching backward through time. All of them improvising. All of them trying. All of them wrapping knowledge in twine and hope.

You teach your daughter how to crush the flowers gently between her fingers to release the oil. You show her how to check for mold in a dried bundle, how to rehydrate it with a little steam, how to tie it just tight enough that it doesn’t shed petals too soon.

She doesn’t get it yet. But someday she will.

And when she does, it won’t be just about keeping rats away.

It will be about agency. About the invisible knowledge that moves through kitchens and gardens and whispers, “You can protect something. You can make something better.”

Tonight, as you check the usual places—the pantry, the corners, the cradle—you notice something strange.

Quiet.

No droppings.

No scratch.

No movement.

You pause, your fingers resting on a sprig tucked behind the bedpost. Could it be? Did it work?

Probably not forever. Rats always come back. That’s their nature. But for now, you have a reprieve. A soft, fragrant stillness.

You let yourself smile.

Then you turn to the hearth, toss a few dry stalks on the coals, and let the smoke drift slowly upward. It curls around the beams and settles in your hair. You inhale. Deep. Satisfied.

The lavender’s doing its job.

And so are you.

Section 9

The year is 1348. You don’t know it yet, but the world is shifting beneath your feet.

It starts with whispers. A sick man in the next town. Then two. Then twenty. No one knows exactly what it is, but everyone feels the tremor. Mothers clutch children closer. Doors close earlier. Markets grow quieter.

And the rats? The rats are bold.

You notice more of them now. Fat, quick, fearless. They skitter through doorways in daylight, squeal under your floorboards at night, and seem to multiply by the hour. You stomp and shout and throw shoes, but they keep coming. Even your cat won’t chase them anymore. It just watches, tail twitching, like it knows something you don’t.

You double the lavender.

You hang it in thicker bundles. You grind it into oil. You rub it along the baby’s cradle legs, the grain bin lids, the inside of your sleeves. The scent is overwhelming now—sharp, bitter, almost medicinal. You bathe in it. You boil it with vinegar and steam the house.

Because the fear is here.

One town over, people are dying. Fast. First a fever, then boils, then silence. The priest says it’s divine punishment. The women in your village say it’s the rats. You believe both, and neither. You believe in what you can smell, touch, and tie in bundles.

Historians still debate how much common folk knew about the plague’s true cause. But they knew what followed what. Rats, fleas, sickness, death. And so you take action.

You block every hole you can find. You sew shut tears in the thatch roof. You move all food off the floor. You hang your herbs like charms, like shields, like spells. You crush garlic and lavender together and place it in bowls by the doors. You even whisper little rhymes.

Lavender for lungs,
Lavender for breath,
Lavender to chase away pestilence and death.

You don’t remember where you heard it. But the repetition helps.

The children are scared. You try not to let them see how your hands shake when you check their skin for swelling. You press your lips to their foreheads daily. They smell like sweat, smoke, and lavender.

You’ve never loved a scent more.

One woman in the village tries something drastic. She covers her floor in a carpet of crushed herbs—lavender, rosemary, mint, marjoram. She refuses to speak to anyone without a sachet over her nose. She won’t even let the priest inside her home. People call her mad. You call her brave.

The sickness arrives anyway.

A neighbor falls ill. Then her son. Then her husband. You watch from your window as the family disappears behind closed shutters. No one sees them again.

The priest comes to bless the door. He coughs as he leaves.

You spend the next day scrubbing your home from corner to corner. You burn rosemary and lavender until your eyes sting. You wipe every surface with ash water and vinegar. You boil your linens.

You don’t have answers. But you have rituals. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep the panic at bay.

The market is half empty now. No one wants to linger. People glance around nervously. Every cough turns heads. Every sneeze draws distance.

You don’t stop selling your lavender.

In fact, your bundles are selling faster than ever. People come from nearby villages asking for it. One man offers three loaves of bread for a single pouch. You give it to him freely. You don’t need bread. You need protection.

There’s a strange kind of solidarity growing. Women exchange recipes like secrets. One whispers about a mixture of lavender and ox bile. Another about boiling petals with vinegar and cloves. You write them down in your ledger, careful to note what you’ve tried and what you haven’t.

The church tolls its bells every day now. More than once. Sometimes more than five times.

You say little prayers as you hang fresh bundles.

“Keep them safe. Keep them whole. Keep them breathing.”

You start to dream of rats. Not scurrying rats, but looming ones—tall as men, their eyes glowing red, their mouths opening with human voices. In the dream, you hurl lavender at them, and they vanish in smoke.

You wake up drenched in sweat and press your nose to the nearest bundle.

Still fragrant. Still here.

Still hope.

Your daughter asks you why the air smells so sharp. You tell her it’s because the herbs are doing their job. You don’t tell her that you’ve added a pinch of crushed wormwood to the mix now. Just in case.

The fear ebbs and flows. One week, no new deaths. The next, three more. But your household stays whole. Your family, untouched.

Maybe it’s the lavender. Maybe it’s luck. You don’t care which.

You just keep hanging more bundles.

One day, you walk to the stream and see something shocking: a rat, floating belly-up in the shallows. Then another. Then three.

You’ve never seen that before.

Some say it’s a sign of mercy. Others say it’s a sign of worse to come. You walk home in silence, clutching your satchel of herbs.

That night, your husband takes your hand and tells you he thinks the lavender’s been working. You want to believe it too. But belief is fragile. So instead, you nod and go refill your sachets.

Because belief won’t stop the next wave. But maybe, just maybe, preparation will.

And tomorrow, you’ll plant more.

Section 10

The church bells toll again today.

You pause, mid-stir of the barley porridge, and count them silently. Two rings. Then a long pause. Then three more.

Another family.

You glance toward the shuttered house down the lane, once filled with laughter and bread smells. Now quiet. Still. The rats still skitter under the eaves there, but no one shoos them away anymore.

Inside your home, you light a stub of tallow and walk the perimeter. It’s become your morning ritual—lavender check, pantry check, rat check. You inspect the corners of the room for droppings, listening for that telltale scritch. Nothing. You exhale slowly.

You reach up to straighten a lavender bundle above the door. The scent is strong, earthy and cool. You’ve added bay leaves this time. Not because you know they work—but because someone said it “pleased the spirits.” You’re not sure which spirits. But at this point, all hands on deck.

It’s not just survival anymore. It’s something deeper. Something moral.

You’ve noticed it in the whispers. Rats, some say, don’t just bring disease—they bring judgment. They come where sins fester, where faith has frayed. And lavender? Lavender is the plant of purity. Of grace. Of God’s approval.

You tuck a sprig into your bodice. Not because you’re superstitious—but because you’re careful. There’s a difference. Sort of.

The Church has taken notice. The sermons are sharper now. The priest’s voice shakes when he speaks about divine wrath. He warns against “pagan charms” and “herbal superstition,” eyes scanning the pews. You lower your head, but keep your pouch tied tight around your neck.

Later that day, he stops by your stall in the marketplace. Eyes your bundles. Doesn’t say anything. Just walks on. You take that as a blessing.

But not everyone agrees.

One woman—Margery, sharp-tongued and always too loud—says rats are demons. Literally. That they creep into homes to count the sins of the occupants. She swears the lavender just hides the scent of guilt. You raise an eyebrow and ask, “Then why are they always in your pantry?” That shuts her up.

Still, the fear spreads.

You’ve heard rumors that in some towns, people have started burning their entire houses after just one death. That they pile the sick and their belongings and light the match to “cleanse the rot.” You can’t imagine doing that. But then again, you couldn’t imagine floating rats either.

That night, you speak to your husband in hushed tones. You talk about what you’d do if someone in the house showed signs—just a fever, or a swelling.

He grows quiet. Then says, “We trust you. You’ll know what to do.”

You don’t sleep well.

Your dreams are filled with gnawing sounds and lavender fields covered in ash.

Still, when morning comes, you do what you always do. You boil water. You crush herbs. You hang bundles. You sing softly as you sweep the floor. A lullaby for the rats.

You’ve added rosemary to your standard bundle now. It doesn’t smell as nice, but something about it feels sharper. Stronger. Your grandmother used to say rosemary keeps the dead from lingering. You don’t know if that’s true, but you place a sprig near the windowsill just in case.

One of the children finds a dead rat in the yard. You try not to panic. It could be the plague. Or it could be the bucket of boiled onion-and-lavender mash you poured near the compost pile yesterday. Either way, you bury it carefully—gloved hands, ash covering, a silent prayer.

Later that week, you speak with a woman from a distant village. She’s come to barter for herbs. She tells you something strange: in her town, people are hanging lavender in the church itself. The priest encourages it. Says it represents the Virgin’s grace.

Historians still puzzle over these contradictions—the tension between herbal folk practices and church teachings. But you know this: when enough people are afraid, lines blur. Old rules bend.

You ask the woman how her family is. She hesitates, then says, “I’m the only one left.”

You give her two bundles, not one. For free.

You’re not a healer. You’re not a priest. But you are a woman with lavender, and that feels like something.

That night, the wind picks up. You can hear it rattling the herbs strung across the ceiling beams. They sway like ghostly bells. You pull your shawl tighter and watch the fire sputter. Then, quietly, you press a bundle of lavender into each of your children’s hands and tell them to hold tight.

Not because it’s magic.

But because it’s yours. And in this world, protection often comes in humble forms.

Lavender, laced with hope.

Section 11

The lavender isn’t just hanging from your rafters anymore—it’s in your bedding, your bread tin, even the folds of your underclothes. Not because you’re obsessed, though that’s what your husband jokingly says, but because it’s everywhere for a reason.

You’ve learned its strengths. Lavender keeps the air clear. Or at least, it makes it bearable. It masks the damp wool smell. The scent of spoiled milk. The meat that’s starting to turn. Lavender, in short, is dignity.

You reach into the small linen bag near your bed and pull out a fresh bundle. It’s still pliable, not yet brittle, and the smell makes your eyes close for just a moment. You crush a few petals between your thumb and forefinger, then rub the oil along the edge of your pillowcase.

Your mother taught you that one. “Lavender in the bed, no rats in your head,” she’d say.

You never knew if she meant it literally or not.

You smooth out the covers and check the child’s bed next. Lavender is tucked along the corners there too. You’ve sewn tiny pockets into the seams and filled them with dried petals. When your youngest wakes from nightmares, you give her one to hold.

“Smell this,” you whisper. “It’s safety.”

Because safety is rare now.

Even the bread is suspect. You’ve started keeping it in a hanging basket by the hearth, a lavender sachet tied to the bottom. The rats haven’t gotten to it in days. You count that as a miracle.

Historians note that lavender became more than an herb in some medieval households—it became symbolic. A plant associated with chastity, clarity, and calm. The church sometimes adopted it as a symbol of purity. But among women, it meant something more personal: control.

You feel that, even in the way you lay it out. Lavender in the bedroom? You sleep better. Lavender in the pantry? Less checking. Lavender between the linen layers in your wedding chest? Well, no rats have chewed through your bedsheets yet, so that’s a win.

It’s become routine now. You change out the bundles weekly. You rotate placements. You keep a bundle in your underthings drawer—not for rats, necessarily, but because it reminds you that you’re not just a tired body in a worn dress. You’re still you, beneath it all.

Your husband rolled his eyes once when he found lavender in his boot. But the boot next to it, without lavender? That one had a chewed insole. He doesn’t roll his eyes anymore.

One of the neighbor women tells you she keeps lavender in her flour bin. You try it. It works. The flour smells sweet, and there are fewer bugs. You feel like you’ve unlocked a cheat code to life.

Then you take it a step further: lavender in the wash water.

It’s not fancy. Just a few sprigs steeped in boiled water poured into the final rinse. The clothes come out smelling faintly floral, and your youngest says they’re “softer.” You’re not sure if that’s true, but you do notice that your linen chemise doesn’t itch as much. Maybe it’s the oil. Maybe it’s all in your head. But again—belief matters.

Your home smells like a cross between a garden and an apothecary now. Visitors notice. They comment. They ask questions.

“Is it true lavender keeps rats away?”

You shrug. “So far.”

“Do you sleep better with it?”

You nod. “Don’t you?”

Even the midwife starts recommending it. Says a sachet near the bed keeps newborns calm. That the scent settles colicky stomachs. You don’t know about stomachs, but it’s helped calm your nerves more nights than you can count.

You remember one night—weeks ago now—when a storm hit. The wind howled through the shutters, rain leaked in, and a rat scurried across the hearthstones. Your youngest screamed. Your husband grabbed the broom.

You? You reached for a bundle of lavender, tossed it in the fire, and let the room fill with that thick, calming smoke.

It was symbolic, maybe. But it worked.

The rat didn’t come back.

Since then, you’ve started burning it once a week. Just a small handful. You toss it on the coals and sit near the hearth, eyes closed, breathing deep. It clears your thoughts. Grounds you.

Not every herb does that.

You’ve tried others—rue, mint, even mugwort. Some are too sharp. Some make you dizzy. Only lavender hits that perfect middle ground: strong, but gentle. Comforting, but not cloying.

Your daughter has started mimicking you. She ties her own bundles now—lopsided and loose, but sweet all the same. She hangs one near her toy shelf. Another near the cat’s basket.

You don’t correct her. You just smile.

Because you know what this means: she understands. She’s learning what protection looks like. What peace smells like.

Even the cat doesn’t seem to mind anymore.

And so your home, humble though it is, feels different. Lighter. Safer. Not because the rats are gone entirely—no home is ever free of them forever. But because you’ve reclaimed space.

And in this century, in this life, that’s everything.

Section 12

This morning, you’re up early, as usual. The fire is low, the bread is rising in the corner, and you’re shaking out a blanket beside the hearth when you notice a tuft of fur. Not yours. Not the cat’s. Coarser. Grayer.

You freeze.

And then you spot it—a hole chewed through the floorboards. Small. Recent.

The rats are back.

You mutter something under your breath that would’ve earned you a sharp look in church and drop the blanket. This is war—again.

But this time, it’s not just herbs.

You reach for the broom, sure—but you also glance toward the door where the cat and the ferret are sleeping, curled awkwardly in the same sunbeam. You never expected that alliance to happen, but necessity makes strange bedfellows.

Because lavender isn’t the only line of defense anymore.

It’s the lavender and the whiskers.

You remember when you first heard about ferrets. Some woman at market was selling a pair in a basket, said they “murder vermin with joy.” You laughed at the phrasing, but she wasn’t wrong. These little beasts were natural rat assassins. You didn’t buy one that day, but the idea lingered.

And then, after three nights of scratching in the pantry, you traded two dried lavender wreaths and a bolt of coarse linen for a wiry, half-wild ferret named Plum.

He bit your husband the first week.

But then he cleared the cellar in two nights flat.

The cat, at first, was offended. Deeply. But eventually, the two reached an understanding. The cat keeps the upper shelves and rafters under surveillance, while Plum handles the floor-level patrol.

You’ve even started naming the rats. Not because they’re pets, but because giving them names makes it feel like you have an edge.

That big one from last week? Gerald. He’s clever. Avoids traps. Doesn’t seem fazed by lavender. You suspect he’s developing immunity.

But cats and ferrets don’t care about immunity. They care about movement. Sound. Warm, twitchy bodies.

So your defense system is now twofold: scent and sharp teeth.

Historians still debate the effectiveness of natural predators versus herbal deterrents in medieval homes. But you can tell them from experience—it’s not either-or. It’s both. It’s layered. A little lavender in the rafters. A well-fed cat by the hearth. A slightly deranged ferret under the cupboard. And you, standing in the middle, commanding the troops like a general with a basket of herbs and a ladle.

You still hang your bundles. Of course you do. But now you also track movement. You sprinkle flour across the floor before bed to see if there are paw prints in the morning. You study their patterns. Like a rat astrologer.

It’s not glamorous. But it’s oddly satisfying.

You notice, for example, that Gerald doesn’t come in when you burn rosemary. That he favors the side of the house where the kitchen wall traps heat. That he avoids corners near mint, but doesn’t mind sage.

You jot these things down on a little scrap near the fireplace. You call it your pest calendar. The kids think it’s funny. You think it’s science.

Tonight, you sharpen the traps.

Yes, you still use them—simple mechanisms of wood and spring, baited with pork rind or oat mash. Lavender-scented, sometimes. Just to see.

But more and more, you rely on instinct. On the sounds the cat makes when it huffs and flicks its tail. On the way Plum vanishes under the floorboards and comes back smug. On the smell in the air—when it shifts from herbal to sour, you know you’ve had an intruder.

Sometimes, you wonder if all this effort is madness. But then you look around your home—clean, warm, lived-in—and you know it’s worth it.

You don’t hate the rats anymore. Not really. You respect them. They’re clever. Persistent. Survivors.

Just like you.

Your daughter asks if she can train the cat to wear a lavender collar. You laugh but say no—cats don’t wear things. But you help her braid a little thread of dried lavender into the cat’s sleeping blanket. Just in case.

You light a bit of lavender on the coals. The scent floats up. The cat stretches. The ferret sneezes.

It feels like a normal evening. But better.

Because this house is yours. And you’re not defending it alone anymore.

Lavender might make things smell nice.

But teamwork? Teamwork makes the rats nervous.

Section 13

You’re sitting at the kitchen bench, grinding lavender with a flat stone, when your eldest runs in with a shriek.

“Mama! It’s in the basket! The flour basket!”

You don’t even need to ask what it is.

You rise slowly, already forming a plan in your mind. No panic. Panic doesn’t help. Lavender is strong, but it doesn’t scream. Neither should you.

You walk over, lifting the lid of the grain basket carefully. The rat inside freezes, mid-chew, eyes like pinpoints. It’s not Gerald. This one’s smaller. New.

You don’t scream. You don’t flinch. You just tip the basket forward slowly and calmly call out:

“Plum?”

In less than ten seconds, a streak of brown and fur dashes across the room. You hear a scuffle, a thump, a squeak—and then silence.

You breathe.

This is what it’s come to: domestic life punctuated by tactical strikes.

It’s not just the animals helping. You’ve been crafting tools. Primitive, sure, but effective. You’ve whittled tiny wedges of wood to jam into suspicious holes. You’ve woven mesh covers out of stiff straw and coated them in lavender vinegar. You’ve devised a rudimentary hanging trap using an old bucket and a smoothed stick—baited with bacon grease and, yes, a lavender sprig for flavor. Or maybe intimidation.

Historians tend to overlook the DIY pest-control ingenuity of the medieval housewife. But you live it.

Because at the end of the day, you don’t get to wait for help. There’s no lord of the manor sending a cleanup crew. No official pest patrol. There’s just you, your household, your broom, your herbs—and a deep, abiding refusal to share your bread with rodents.

You’ve taken to organizing your space with defense in mind. Pantry off the ground. Baskets hung from beams. Drying racks doubled as rat deterrents. Your husband laughs sometimes—“Are we preparing for war or supper?”

“Both,” you say.

Because supper is never safe until the scurrying stops.

Even your cooking has changed. You add herbs now not just for flavor, but for function. A sprig of lavender tucked under the stew pot lid seems to keep flies away. A pinch of rosemary on meat before smoking makes it last longer. You’ve become an alchemist of necessity.

One night, you sit back and realize: you’ve created a home where even the layout is lavender-infused. It’s in the floorboards. In the rafters. In the seams of your curtains. This isn’t just a scent—it’s strategy. Architecture with an aroma.

Your friends have taken notice.

Maggie, the candlemaker’s wife, stops by and asks if you’ll help her “herb her house.” That’s what she calls it. You nod. You bring bundles. You walk her through your placements—pantry corners, hearth edges, bedding folds.

She looks at you with admiration. “You could teach this,” she says.

You don’t think much of it at first. But then Joan visits. Then Edith. And soon, you’re hosting what’s become, unofficially, “Rat School.”

Just three or four women at a time. Seated around your table. You show them your dried mixes. You let them smell the difference between fresh and stale lavender. You demonstrate how to make paste using boiled petals and vinegar. You even let them peek at your scribbled notes—your rat calendar.

You didn’t plan to become the local authority on vermin control. But here you are. Lavender Lady in full command.

The men don’t get it, of course. One said your house smells “like a perfumer’s grave.” Another muttered about wasting time on “witchy things.” You don’t mind. You’ve heard worse.

You’ve seen worse.

Because you remember what it was like before all this. Before the bundles. Before the boiling. Before Plum and the traps and the knowledge you carry now. You remember what it felt like to live in a house that belonged to the rats more than to you.

Never again.

Now, every part of your daily rhythm has a lavender beat to it.

You change the pillow sachets every week. You sprinkle petals in your shoe chest. You stuff the broom bristles with crushed stems, so even sweeping becomes scented warfare.

You’ve turned repetition into ritual.

The house has responded in kind.

The noises are fewer now. The droppings, rare. The pantry, untouched.

You know it won’t last forever. Rats adapt. They always do.

But you’ll adapt faster.

And every time you hang another bundle from the beam, you feel it—that quiet pride.

Not because you’ve won.

But because you’re still playing.

Section 14

You rise before dawn, again.

The fire’s gone cold, but your feet know the path by heart—over the creaky board near the hearth, past the lavender-stuffed grain box, toward the water basin where the cat sleeps curled like a comma.

You move like a ghost, soft, careful, with ears tuned for sound.

But this morning, it’s quiet.

Not the uneasy silence of something hiding. The real quiet. The kind where you realize—just for this moment—there are no rat sounds. No chewing. No skittering. No midnight raiders rustling behind the beams.

And you exhale.

Maybe it’s working. Maybe the weeks of paste, pets, petals, and persistence are finally adding up.

You press a hand to the pantry lid and lift it slowly, half-expecting to see a chewed edge or a pair of beady eyes staring back. But no—everything is intact. Clean. Whole. You run your finger along the edge out of habit. Nothing.

Then you notice something new.

The lavender bundle you tied there two weeks ago has turned dull gray, its stems brittle, the flowers shriveled. Spent.

You smile at it like you would an old soldier. Job well done.

You remove it gently, as if it deserves a thank-you, and tuck it into the ashes of last night’s fire. The scent, though faint, rises for one final breath before vanishing into the air.

You’ve come to respect the lifecycle of lavender. Fresh and potent, it’s your sentinel. But even faded, it carries history—proof of all the nights it guarded you.

Your daughter stirs from the other room, calling your name. You start heating water and let the rhythm of the day begin again. And though your muscles ache and the sky outside is still blue-black with stars, something inside you is lighter.

Because today is lavender day.

That means harvesting, drying, bundling, boiling. You’ve done this routine dozens of times, but it never gets old. You want to do it. It reminds you of your strength.

Your garden is small, but the lavender grows wild and thick along the edges. You snip it carefully, watching for bees and brushing your fingers along the blossoms as you go. You always hum while you harvest. Something soft. Wordless. The kind of melody your own mother hummed when she picked herbs in the cool dawn.

You return to the kitchen with your arms full, the scent already clinging to your sleeves. You lay the stalks out on your cloth runner and begin sorting: thick stems for bundles, loose heads for oils, trimmings for fire scent, and crushed petals for your new experiment—a sleeping satchel to tuck under the baby’s mattress.

Your husband peeks in as you work, eyeing the piles.

“That much again?” he says.

You nod. “It’s been two weeks. The rafters need fresh.”

He doesn’t question it. He’s seen the difference.

Even the cat seems more relaxed lately, sprawled belly-up on the warmed floorboards, no longer flinching at the shadows.

The ferret, on the other hand, is still twitchy. But that’s just him. Plum will always be half chaos.

You let your daughter help tie the new bundles. She fumbles with the twine, makes one too tight and another too loose. But she’s learning.

She tells you she wants her own herb pouch.

Not for rats. “For courage,” she says.

You don’t cry, but your heart does something funny in your chest.

Later, you show her how to boil the petals for the linen rinse. You toss in a few cloves for warmth, then ladle it into a basin and let her dip the washcloths. She giggles. “It smells like bedtime,” she says.

She’s not wrong.

Even your dreams have changed.

They used to be full of scratching and scuttling. Now they drift into fields of soft purple and smoke. Sometimes you wake up with lavender tucked behind your ear. You don’t remember putting it there.

That evening, as the sun drops below the hills and the last of the linen is hung to dry, you take one final walk around the house.

You place fresh bundles behind the woodpile. Over the pantry. At the foot of the bed. You stir a little crushed powder into the sweep of the hearth and light the tiniest pinch in the flame.

The scent rises like a lullaby.

Tomorrow, the rats might return. Or the week after.

But tonight?

Tonight, you sleep in a fortress of flowers.

And you know—not hope, not guess, but know—that the war might never end, but the battle is won.

Because you’ve transformed fear into action.

Because you’ve made your home not just livable, but yours.

And because wherever the rats go, they’ll know: this house smells like lavender.

And they’re not welcome here.

Section 15

You wake to silence—and stay still.

You listen. No squeaking. No thumping. No furtive movement behind the walls.

Just the creak of wood expanding in the morning sun, the soft purr of the cat somewhere near your feet, and the faintest floral scent rising from the linens.

Lavender.

You sit up and glance around the room, where bundles hang like quiet sentries from the rafters. Even in sleep, you feel their presence—calming, steady, protective.

Today is a good day. A ratless day.

So you treat it like a gift.

You begin the morning slowly, lighting a small taper and sitting near the hearth. You press a warm cup to your lips—just barley water, but steeped with crushed lavender stems. Your own personal potion of calm.

The children shuffle out yawning. Your eldest says the blankets smelled “like hugs.” You smile. Because you know how hard-won that comfort is.

You remember when sleep meant dread. When every creak in the night jolted you upright. When you swore you could hear rats breathing under the bed. Now? The silence feels earned.

But you don’t let it make you careless.

There’s still work to be done.

Today you plan to try something new. You heard from a traveling widow last week about a blend of lavender and lime peel—how she used it to wipe her window ledges and claims it repels “creatures of shadow.” You’re not sure what that means, exactly, but it sounds useful.

You slice the lime into thin peels and boil them with dried lavender buds. The scent is bracing—bright and clean, with a bite. You soak a cloth in it and start wiping down surfaces: table legs, the pantry lid, the cradle frame. It leaves behind a soft shine and a sharper scent. It smells like confidence.

While it dries, you move to your laundry.

The linens are dry, fluttering in the breeze like soft banners. You take them down one by one, fold them neatly, and tuck sprigs of lavender between the folds. You’ve learned this helps keep them fresh—and unchewed.

Historians often miss this part of the story: how women’s daily chores doubled as strategic acts of survival. You’re not just doing laundry. You’re building defenses.

You store the clean clothes in a chest and place a bundle of herbs—lavender, rosemary, a pinch of dried mint—inside. Your own version of a security system.

Then you turn to the outer shed.

It’s where you keep the barley sacks, and it’s always been vulnerable. There’s a crack near the baseboard that’s been patched and re-patched. Today, you reinforce it with a paste of ash, vinegar, and the remnants of last week’s lavender crush. You pack it tight and smooth it with the flat of your hand.

Then you step back and breathe it in. Satisfied.

You know it won’t last forever. Rats are persistent. But so are you.

That afternoon, a new face visits your stall at the market. A tired-looking woman with soot-smudged fingers and a pouch that jingles just barely with coin.

She doesn’t speak at first—just lifts one of your bundles to her face, inhales, and sighs like she hasn’t breathed in days.

You say nothing. Just offer her the strongest bundle you have—fresh-cut that morning, tightly tied, deep purple and still slightly damp with dew.

She presses it to her chest and whispers, “We haven’t slept in weeks.”

You nod. No pitch. No price. Just understanding.

You hand it to her, free of charge.

She hesitates, then places a single copper on the table anyway and walks away. Her back is straighter than when she arrived.

That night, you sit by the fire and retie some loose stems. The house smells like herbs and quiet satisfaction.

The children are already asleep. The cat is snoring softly near the coals. Plum, the ever-alert ferret, has wedged himself halfway under the pantry door again. He takes his job seriously.

And you?

You lean back, bundle in your lap, and look around at the house you’ve built—not just from stone and wood, but from attention. From effort. From herbs tied with twine and a refusal to surrender.

Lavender didn’t change your world. You did.

Lavender just helped you believe it was possible.

Section 16

It’s been over a month now since your last real rat sighting.

You don’t want to say it aloud—don’t want to jinx it—but you feel it: the weight in your chest has lifted. You no longer wake with a jolt at every night noise. You no longer inspect the pantry in dread. And you’ve gone three days—three whole days—without checking for droppings under the cradle.

You’re almost… relaxed.

Which, of course, is when you spot something out of the corner of your eye.

A flicker. A blur. Gone before you can turn your head. Could’ve been your imagination.

Could’ve been Gerald.

You stand slowly. You don’t say anything. You just reach for the broom and your lavender pouch. You walk the perimeter of the room like a commander doing rounds.

It’s quiet.

Still, you decide tonight’s the night to re-infuse the whole house.

You light a small pot of water, toss in lavender petals, rosemary stems, a strip of lime peel, and—new addition—a dash of vinegar-soaked elderflower. The mixture simmers, the scent climbing the walls and curling through the rafters. Your very own potion of peace.

You let it bubble as you scrub surfaces. You don’t just clean—you fortify.

You add a few drops of the mixture to your windowsills and the edges of the floorboards. You mop the entrance with it. Then, you dip your fingers and press a thumbprint above the door, just below the lavender bundle. Not a religious mark exactly, but one of your own making. A symbol of presence. A signature of defiance.

Historians might say rituals like these blurred the lines between cleanliness and superstition. But for you, it’s simple: if something gives you peace and might work, you do it.

Your daughter watches you from the corner, her hands stained with lavender sap. She holds out one of her own bundles—clumsily tied, but proudly held.

“This one’s for Plum,” she says.

You take it, sniff it. “Strong enough to scare Gerald himself.”

She beams.

Later that evening, the family gathers around a stew pot simmering with lentils, carrot, and just a whiff of lavender, crushed and sprinkled in for “digestive comfort.” At least, that’s what the widow from the other village claimed.

Your husband eats cautiously. “This tastes… botanical.”

You grin. “It tastes safe.”

After dinner, the children help gather the spent bundles. You show them how to burn them carefully in the hearth—how the smoke carries away the bad, how it cleanses the corners you can’t reach with your hands.

One bundle gives off a sudden crackle as it burns. The cat hisses. Plum leaps into action—though there’s nothing there but smoke.

Still, you watch the shadows a little longer tonight.

You know what Gerald is. Not just a rat, but a reminder. A symbol. The part of your mind that never entirely settles. That always wonders, “Is it truly safe?”

You accept that now.

You might never live without rats entirely. But you can live without fear of them.

You sit on the floor with your back against the warm stones and let your eyes scan the room. The rafters lined with bundles. The corners scrubbed and smoked. The pantry sealed tight. And the air? Full of lavender, rosemary, and just a hint of lemon. It’s a scent you’ve come to associate with power.

You recall a saying one of the older women told you: “Herbs are the voice of the house. They tell visitors what kind of woman lives here.”

You think about that often.

What does your house say?

It says: This home is watched. This home is cared for. This home is ready.

Your friends still come by, sometimes with bundles of their own, sometimes with questions. You trade blends. You experiment. You share stories of the last “clever rat” you encountered like war veterans exchanging tales.

And now? Now you’re the one people whisper about in market stalls.

“She’s the one who hasn’t had a rat in weeks.”
“She rubs lavender into the beams, I swear.”
“She burned an entire bundle on the day the fever passed. Never seen a sick child since.”

You don’t correct the exaggerations.

Let them grow. Let them work.

Because myth, like lavender, can be a kind of armor.

You tuck your daughter into bed that night, placing a fresh sachet under her pillow. She wraps her arms around it, and within minutes, she’s asleep.

No scratching. No squeaking. Just breath and warmth and quiet.

You slip into your own bed and press your face into the lavender-scented linens.

Tomorrow, maybe Gerald will return.

But tonight? You’re safe. You’re ready.

And your house is yours.

Section 17

It’s laundry day.

Which, in your world, means boiling water, scrubbing linen, hauling buckets, and—of course—lavender. Always lavender.

You gather the baskets early, just after sunrise, while the mist still clings to the ground. The laundry area is outside, near the woodpile, and already the chickens are poking around, suspicious of your every move.

The children help, a little. One carries soap made from lye and ash. Another dumps dried herbs—lavender, thyme, and a pinch of marjoram—into the rinse water. It smells like hard work and calm mornings.

You begin with the sheets.

They’re heavy when wet, like dragging half-soggy sails across stone. But you don’t complain. You soak them, scrub them, wring them, and finally pour the herbal rinse through their fibers like a blessing.

The scent rises instantly.

That clean, almost sweet smell, sharp at the edges—lavender taking charge again. You breathe it in like a potion. It’s not just laundry. It’s layering the house in another level of defense.

You’ve long since learned that lavender in bedding isn’t just for comfort—it confuses vermin, masks human scent, and maybe, just maybe, keeps the wrong dreams at bay.

Historians still debate whether medieval laundry practices truly improved hygiene or simply spread disease in new ways. But you know this: fresh-smelling sheets are harder for rats to chew. They seem less drawn to them. And if you can sleep through the night without feeling like something’s watching you? That’s proof enough.

You pin the sheets to dry on the rope strung between your apple tree and the chicken coop. They billow like sails, snapping gently in the breeze. The yard smells like soap, sunlight, and flowers.

Peace.

Back inside, you switch out the bedroom bundles.

Each bed gets a fresh sachet—lavender and rosemary, dried just the day before. You place them under pillows, in mattress seams, tucked deep into the straw beds. One goes at the foot of the baby’s cradle. Another gets tied to the bedpost with a thread of blue wool, just because your mother always said blue was the color rats disliked most.

You’re not sure about that part. But you do it anyway. Traditions matter.

You notice, too, that the children now help without being asked.

Your daughter knows how to tuck a bundle behind the grain sack. Your son sprinkles petals near the hearth before bed. They’re not just chores anymore. They’re habits. Embedded acts of protection passed down like recipes.

The home feels different because of it.

Each layer of lavender adds to the feeling of fortification. A ring of scent and color that wraps around your family like invisible armor.

And beyond its smell, lavender reminds you that beauty and safety can coexist.

You catch yourself humming again as you stir the pot of petal rinse. The same little tune. You’re not even sure where it came from—it lives in your hands now, your breath, your movements. The rhythm of resilience.

Later, as you fold the dry sheets, your neighbor stops by.

She steps into the yard and takes a deep inhale.

“Smells like a saint lives here,” she says.

You offer her a bundle to take home. She refuses at first—then changes her mind. “The rats are back in my cellar,” she mutters.

You nod, but say nothing. You’ve learned not to gloat when lavender wins.

Inside, the house feels lighter.

You stack the clean linens, layering them with sachets between each fold. You place the extras in the chest and drop a whole sprig into the fire just because you can.

The smoke curls up like a ribbon.

The cat stretches in the corner, yawns, and curls tighter. Even Plum, the ferret, is curled nose-to-tail near the oven, not twitching, not hunting. Not tonight.

And you?

You rest.

Not because the work is done—it never is. But because you’ve struck your balance.

You can’t erase every threat. You can’t banish fear entirely. But you can wrap your life in small, powerful choices—each one fragrant, gentle, and resolute.

And in doing so, you’ve built something that can’t be gnawed through.

A home.

Section 18

The air turns colder.

You feel it in your bones before you see it in the sky. The wind sharpens, biting at your hands as you hang the last of the herbs to dry. Summer’s gone. Autumn is slipping away. Winter waits just out of sight.

And with winter comes hunger—for everyone.

Rats, especially.

You’ve seen it before. When the fields are bare and the markets slow, when the bins hold the last of the barley and the smoked meat hangs in the rafters—that’s when the rats grow bold.

They chew faster. Climb higher. Appear at all hours, hunting for scraps, warmth, and weakness.

So you prepare.

The lavender harvest is nearly done. You gather what’s left—late-blooming sprigs, curled and sun-stressed—and dry them above the hearth. They’re not the prettiest bundles, but they’ll do. These are the survival bundles, the winter guard.

Your stores are low, but your knowledge is high. You know how to stretch it now.

You’ve started combining herbs in layers: lavender for scent, mint for sting, marjoram to confuse. You crush them together in rough sachets and place them in strategic spots—behind barrels, beneath floorboards, inside baskets.

The cat gets restless again. You notice her pacing more. Not chasing—listening. You crouch beside her one night, pressing your ear to the floor.

Nothing. Yet.

But you know they’re coming.

You double-check the traps. Replace the bait. Add a few petals of lavender soaked in oil—just to see if it deters the curious. Maybe the rats remember what it smells like. Maybe they’ll choose an easier target.

Your daughter catches you working late again and asks, “Will they come back?”

You look at her. The glow of the hearth dances on her face. She’s older now, in small ways. The way she braids the twine tighter. The way she tucks bundles neatly, without being told.

“They always come back,” you say gently.

She nods. Then helps you tie another sachet.

Historians often overlook these quiet winters—nights when survival didn’t come from kings or knights or noble law, but from women layering herbs in straw-filled corners. From strategies passed down in kitchens, not castles.

You live that history.

And each choice you make—each pinch of herb, each tied string—is another line of defense.

You adjust your home, little by little.

The curtains are thicker now, lined with old cloth and stuffed at the bottom with lavender and hay. You’ve sewn sachets into the lining. Not visible, but they’re there, like small soldiers in the folds.

The beds are layered too. Sheets scented with lavender, of course, but also dried leaves packed into the underside—crumbly, earthy, and sharp to the nose. You know rats avoid certain smells. You’re counting on it.

Even your shoes are stuffed. A trick you learned from a traveling merchant. “Rats hate the smell of soles steeped in lavender oil,” he said. You were skeptical. Until you tried it.

Now your shoes squeak faintly when you walk, but they’ve stayed untouched for months.

The ferret senses something, too. Plum has taken to sleeping in the pantry again—back on patrol. You don’t argue. You just leave a little nest of straw and a dried sprig nearby.

He deserves his comforts too.

At night, you start a new routine.

You walk the rooms slowly, one candle in hand, trailing a thread of scent behind you. Lavender crushed into your palm, warmed by the flame’s heat. It releases slowly, rising like a fog around your steps.

You whisper little lines as you walk. Not full prayers. Not quite spells.

“Quiet corners, no chewing here. Sleep in peace, the walls are clear.”

You don’t remember where you heard that. Maybe nowhere. Maybe you made it up.

Doesn’t matter. It helps.

The house feels still again, wrapped in a soft tension. Like it’s holding its breath, just like you.

You know it’s coming.

But you also know something else:

You’re ready.

You weren’t, before. But now?

Now, you walk your rooms with the quiet confidence of a woman who’s outwitted rats, fear, and doubt. You’ve made mistakes, yes. But you’ve also made progress.

And your lavender is still strong.

You crush one more bundle and sprinkle it across the hearth before bed. The children are tucked in. The cat is on guard. Plum is snoring in the pantry.

And you?

You pull the covers to your chin, close your eyes, and breathe in.

Winter may be harsh.

But this house is not unguarded.

Section 19

Snow dusts the roof like powdered sugar.

The chimney huffs faintly as the fire inside your home crackles to life. You rub your hands together and blow into your palms, feeling the sting of morning frost still trapped in your joints. The winter has arrived, quiet and heavy.

You shuffle to the hearth and press a few lavender sprigs into the embers. They don’t blaze—they sizzle. A soft hiss, then the faintest wisp of purple smoke rising into the rafters. Comfort. Familiarity.

Your children are still asleep under thick quilts. The cat has taken residence directly in front of the fire, positioned like a queen, soaking in the warmth. And Plum? You haven’t seen him yet this morning, which probably means he’s somewhere deep in the pantry, still guarding the stores like a gremlin with a grudge.

Outside, the world is white. Inside, it’s a patchwork of scent and soft light.

And no signs of rats.

Yet.

You’ve learned this pattern. First the silence. Then the scratch.

Winter is always deceptive. When the cold deepens, the rats don’t vanish. They burrow deeper. Into walls. Into floors. Into that strange little crack behind the barrel that you’ve stuffed five times and still hear wind hissing through.

So you don’t waste time.

You begin the morning by refreshing the lavender in all the corners. You check the sachets in the mattress seams. You kneel and push a bundle into the hole by the oven with a stick, pressing until it won’t go further.

Not because you’re afraid.

Because you’re methodical now.

This isn’t a ritual born of panic. This is strategy. Trained. Refined. Your own small form of mastery.

You think, sometimes, about all the women who came before you—whose names you don’t know—who did this same work, in colder houses with less knowledge. Who fought the same enemies without calling it warfare.

And it is warfare. Soft, slow, scented warfare.

Your husband returns from chopping wood, shakes snow from his coat, and wrinkles his nose.

“Smells like a herb shop exploded,” he mutters, smiling.

You hand him a pouch. “Put this in your boots. Last winter, remember?”

He doesn’t argue.

At midday, you prepare the stew—turnips, dried beans, a bit of smoked pork—and while it simmers, you make a new paste. Lavender, rosemary, and this time, soot. The soot was your neighbor’s idea. She swears it tricks rats into thinking a place has already burned.

You don’t know if that’s true. But the black smear looks convincing, and the scent is potent. You dab it along the pantry wall, then smear a bit near the window ledge. Defense by illusion.

Your daughter offers a suggestion of her own.

“What if we draw the rat?”

You blink. “Draw it?”

She nods. “Like on the wall. Then the other rats will think one’s already there.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think rats are that clever?”

She grins. “You do.”

So you let her do it.

She finds a bit of charcoal and sketches the outline of a very lumpy rat near the corner behind the cupboard. She gives it angry eyebrows. You decide not to correct the anatomy.

You leave it up. Maybe she’s onto something.

Historians never talk about children’s contributions to medieval pest control. But anyone with kids knows—imagination is half the battle. And a child with herbs in her hair and charcoal on her hands is a powerful thing.

That night, the wind howls harder.

The fire flickers low, casting long shadows. You sit with a cup of warm milk and crushed lavender. Your eyes scan the room like they always do—corners, seams, rafters, bundles.

Nothing moves.

Not yet.

But even if it does—you’re not the same woman you were when this started.

Back then, a scurry would send you into panic. Now? You pause. You assess. You respond.

You’ve learned what works and what doesn’t. You’ve learned that lavender isn’t a miracle—but it’s close.

You’ve also learned that no one, not even the cleverest rat, stands a chance against a determined woman armed with herbs, cloth, and a little bit of stubborn.

You tuck the children into bed, one by one. Fresh sachets under pillows. A small bundle tied to the cradle rail. The cat follows you, tail flicking. She knows the route now.

You crawl into bed last. Lay your head on a pillow that smells faintly of smoke and crushed petals. Pull the quilt to your chin.

The wind hisses. The walls creak.

But your heart is still.

This house is not silent because it is empty.

It is silent because it is watched.

The ending section

The days are short now.

Outside, the sky turns to ink before supper. The air snaps at your fingers when you step outside for firewood, and your breath curls in little clouds that vanish fast. Even the animals move slower. The cat no longer patrols, preferring a warm basket near the coals. Plum only emerges when he hears bread crusts hitting the floor.

But the rats? They haven’t dared return.

It’s not that they’ve disappeared entirely. You’ve seen tracks in the snow near the shed. You’ve heard tales from neighbors—chewed grain sacks, missing cheese, rats bold enough to run across dinner tables. But not here. Not in your home.

You’ve built something stronger than walls.

Each lavender bundle is a barrier. Each crushed herb, a warning. Each flick of scented steam into the rafters, a line in the sand.

And they’ve listened.

You start your morning with the usual walk—candle in hand, eyes scanning every known entry point. Pantry, clear. Rafters, still. The faint scent of dried petals still lingers near the windowsill. It’s been weeks since you’ve seen a dropping. Longer since a scratch.

Still, you don’t stop.

You replace a faded sachet in the corner of the cradle. You check the lavender behind the firewood bin and add a pinch of mint. You stir a little oil and dried flower heads into the warm rinse water for the linens.

Because this peace? It’s earned.

At midday, your daughter helps you create a new wall charm. A simple braid of dried herbs—lavender, sage, rosemary—twisted together and bound with thread. You hang it beside the door and press your fingers to it gently.

“Protection,” you whisper.

Not because the danger is near, but because the house listens. And because the scent reminds you that everything you’ve done matters.

Historians might never write about this.

There will be no scrolls or sermons praising the woman who smudged lavender oil into the rafters or laid out sachets like soldiers in a row.

But the truth is: history survives in houses like yours.

In a home where no one wakes in fear. Where children sleep undisturbed. Where the fire crackles and the bread bakes and the scent of crushed petals lingers in the folds of every blanket.

You’re not just a housewife.

You are the keeper of safety. The guardian of small things. The architect of quiet.

You step outside briefly at dusk and watch the frost glitter across the fields. The trees are bare, the sky soft with snow. But your home is warm. It smells like ash and herbs. Like the inside of a storybook. Like safety.

And tomorrow, you’ll do it all again.

Because protection isn’t a single act. It’s a rhythm. A life.

You close the door behind you. The candle flickers. The children laugh softly from their room.

And as you settle into bed, you press your face into the pillow and breathe deeply one last time.

Lavender.

Still strong.

Still yours.

You lie back, body still beneath layers of heavy quilts. The fire dims now, just the faintest orange glow pulsing from the hearth. Even the shadows soften, blurring their edges along the wooden beams above.

The scent of lavender floats gently in the room, not sharp, not demanding—just present. Like a quiet friend at your side. Familiar. Constant.

The cold presses in beyond the walls, but it can’t reach you here.

Because this house is sealed not just with stone and wood—but with care. With rituals. With every pinch of dried petals, every careful step taken in the half-light, every string-tied bundle hung with intention.

There’s no scratching now. No chewing. No rush of fear in your chest.

Only breath.

The walls creak faintly—settling into sleep.

Even Plum, ever twitchy, curls fully into himself tonight. The cat doesn’t lift her head from her basket. She knows. All is well.

You feel the weight of your efforts now—not as a burden, but as a soft blanket wrapped around the lives you’ve protected.

And you rest, knowing that lavender still lines your windows. That dried flowers still wait in corners like soft little guards. That if the world outside grows colder, or louder, or darker…

You’ve built this quiet.

You’ve kept it.

You’ve earned it.

Now sleep, lavender-scented and unafraid.

You’re safe.

The night will pass gently.

And morning will come.