Chapter 55: Secrets of Medieval Hygiene

Inside the slightly aged barn, Carlo stood quietly, his unique train of thought seemingly condensing into a tangible presence in the air.

Carlo’s gaze was locked tightly onto the large barrels of lard as he pondered inwardly:
"Lard like this is available in endless quantities here in Flanders, making it the absolute ideal material for concocting that miraculous soap."
"All of you, listen up!"

Carlo suddenly raised his volume, his voice rebounding off the barn's four walls and shaking loose a flurry of dust from the roof.
"Cut these fats into small pieces, and make sure the sizes are uniform. If they are all jagged and uneven like a dog's breakfast, that simply won't do!"

Upon receiving the order, the peasants hurriedly and frantically picked up their knives and set to work cutting.
Carlo paced slowly nearby, his eyes glued to every single movement of the peasants.
"Yes, just like that, even smaller! Look at the size of what you've cut, it's as big as a brick—how is that supposed to melt quickly?"

Frowning, he shouted aloud, a hint of dissatisfaction and anxiety visible on his face.
Shortly after, the peasants hastily set up a cauldron in a corner of the barn. The flames beneath the pot instantly blazed fiercely with a roaring sound, signaling that a wondrous transformation was about to begin.

As soon as the fat was poured into the cauldron, it began to sizzle noisily, as if in painful protest:
"Oh dear, oh dear, what on earth are they turning us into?"

A pungent odor immediately permeated the air. Unable to help himself, one peasant pinched his nose and cried out in utter disgust:
"My lord, this stench smells worse than the old outhouse back at my farm."

Carlo broke into a wide grin, a cunning glint flashing in his eyes:
"Endure it for a bit. Soon enough, this stuff will make your jaws drop, just like the time Old John from the village head suddenly took himself a fair young bride."

Carlo did not relax in the slightest while waiting for the fat to melt.
He turned and shouted to the peasants:
"Go fetch me some oats, and make it quick!"

The peasants scurried off in a hurry, returning shortly with arms full of oats.
Carlo directed them to grind the oats into powder using a stone mill. Standing close by with his eyes fixed firmly on the millstone, he muttered under his breath:
"Once this oat flour is added, the exfoliating properties of the soap will surely be extraordinary. It's bound to be a huge hit when the time comes."

Once the fat had completely transformed into a golden liquid, Carlo carefully carried the bowl of oat flour and slowly poured it into the cauldron, speaking in a soft voice:
"This is just like a master chef preparing a supreme delicacy; not a single step can go wrong."

He then yelled out to the peasants again:
"Bring me a wooden stick and stir vigorously! Treat it just like kneading dough, and make sure it gets mixed thoroughly and evenly!"

Immediately following this, Carlo pulled out some pre-prepared madder root and dried roses from his tunic and handed them to the peasants:
"Finely crush these and toss them in as well, so that the soap isn't just effective, but also looks and smells delightful."

With these operations completed, the soap mixture entered the crucial stage of the saponification reaction.
Carlo knew very well that the saponification process for the hot-process method would take several hours, and he certainly lacked the patience to stand guard the entire time.
"You lot keep a close watch here. The moment it thickens, run and fetch me immediately. If you mess this up, none of you will escape punishment!"

With a stern face, Carlo finished issuing his orders to the peasants and strolled leisurely out of the barn.
Outside, the sunlight was somewhat dazzlingly bright, and vast stretches of grassland rolled out endlessly before him like a green velvet carpet.

Flanders could truly be called a paradise; possessing a temperate maritime climate with distinct and shifting seasons.
The climate in late September was mild and gentle, with temperatures hovering leisurely between 10 degrees and 20 degrees Celsius, much like a tranquil beauty.
Such a pleasant temperature served as the natural hotbed for cool-season grasses.
Abundant cool-season grass varieties such as ryegrass and bluegrass here still dyed the meadows a lush green at the end of September.
Coupled with the fine, drizzle-like rains typical of September, which fully replenished the moisture in the meadows, that lingering touch of green rippled endlessly across the earth.

How could he possibly resist taking a comfortable nap on the grass?
Carlo stretched his arms in a massive yawn, took a deep breath of the fresh air, and, finding a patch of soft turf, threw himself down upon it.

A gentle breeze brushed past, carrying the fragrant scent of green grass and damp earth, touching his face like the gentle hand of a tender maiden.
Carlo stretched his limbs with utter contentment, gazing up at the sapphire-blue and flawlessly pure sky where a few marshmallow-white clouds drifted lazily.
His heart was filled with delight, and he felt as though he had distanced himself entirely from the clamor and troubles of the mortal world, entering a tranquil realm that belonged solely to him.

Before long, he gradually drifted off to sleep upon the peaceful meadow.
In his dream, Carlo seemed to have traveled back to modern times.
He beheld spacious, brightly lit shopping malls filled with an overwhelming variety of consumer goods.
The bathrooms were as exquisitely decorated as fairy-tale palaces, and all kinds of cleaning products were as numerous as the stars in the sky.

Yet, without any warning, the dream suddenly shifted, plunging him back into the cruel wars of this world woven from blood and fire.
Burning war galleys raged across the sea, flames licking at the sky like the terrifying arrival of doomsday.
Arrowheads fell like rain, blotting out the sun and preventing its rays from piercing through the dense barrage.
Shattered villages groaned in agony amidst the fires of war; the great battle of Tournai resembled a scene straight from hell, with corpses littering the earth in a horrifying sight.

Carlo jolted awake from his dream in a panic, his forehead beaded with cold sweat as he gasped heavily for air. Clutching his garments tightly with both hands, he muttered in a trembling voice:
"Phew, thank goodness, it was only a dream; the war is already over. This must be post-traumatic stress disorder. When on earth will the ominous shadow of this dreadful war finally disperse completely?"

He rolled over, attempting to steady himself, and then slowly drifted back to sleep.
After who knows how long, Carlo was awakened by the urgent shouts of a peasant.
Rubbing his sleepy eyes and letting out a prolonged yawn, he returned unhurriedly to the barn.

By now, the soap liquid had grown noticeably viscous. Regaining his vigor, he resumed directing the peasants through the subsequent steps.
Carlo kept his eyes locked on the state of the soap mixture as if appraising an invaluable and priceless treasure. He instructed the peasants to adjust the heat while incessantly chanting:
"Stir carefully! Yes, just like that, don't you dare ruin it! If you destroy this whole batch, can any of you afford to compensate me?"

Under his meticulous guidance, the soap mixture grew increasingly dense and acquired an even more appealing color.
Finally, the soap mixture reached the ideal consistency, and Carlo had the peasants pour it into the molds.
Gazing at the soap mixture within the molds, a look of ecstatic joy spread across his face.
In his mind, he could already picture the wonderful sensation of bathing with his own soap, as if he could already feel the delicate lather sliding smoothly across his skin.

Hours later, Carlo sat holding a red, rose-scented bar of soap in his hand, filled with irrepressible eagerness, much like a child with a brand-new toy who intended to test it out immediately.
Before heading out, he instructed the peasants:
"Follow this exact method to make more using indigo, lavender, and mint. Present them to me for inspection once they're done. If the results are poor, every single one of you will be punished!"

Inside the modestly appointed room of the lord's residence, a cheerful fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting a cozy glow over every corner.

Carlo indulged in a rare luxury, having hot bathwater prepared for himself.
He stepped slowly into a large wooden tub filled to the brim with hot water. The water continuously billowed with steam, acting like a soft gauze curtain that flushed his cheeks a gentle pink and brought out a fine sheen of sweat upon his forehead.

"Lalalala, lalalala, lala lala lie. Lala lala lala lie..."
Carlo hummed a cheerful little tune while briskly scrubbing his body, the corners of his mouth upturned and his eyes beaming with satisfaction.

"Heh, this lard-based soap is truly a marvelous creation!"
Carlo muttered aloud to himself:
"Its cleaning power is far stronger than olive oil soap, and with the added oat powder—look at that, it's scrubbed away all those years of accumulated grime from my skin!
And this lavender scent is simply classic!"

He picked up the bar of soap, turning it over in his hand to appreciate its texture as though appraising a precious piece of art.
After finishing, Carlo leaned back against the edge of the tub, casually tracing circles on the water's surface with his finger, his gaze gradually growing deep and contemplative.

"From the looks of it, people don't seem quite as averse to bathing as I originally assumed.
It was only following the massive outbreaks of the Black Death that physicians and certain religious figures began preaching against bathing.
They believed that hot water opened the pores, allowing harmful airs—their erroneous understanding of disease transmission at the time—to enter the human body, thereby causing infection. But things aren't like that right now."

Carlo frowned slightly, his mind filled with doubt:
"This era deviates somewhat from my preconceived notions of the Middle Ages.
After all, a long time has passed since the last major plague outbreak. To maintain their dignity and enjoy life, nobles, along with religious figures needing to fulfill ritual purity, cleanse themselves quite frequently.
Moreover, in the towns, influenced by the cultures of ancient Rome and Greece, many places boast luxurious public bathhouses."

Carlo murmured to himself, scooping up some water and watching the droplets slide off his fingertips as if pondering a momentous decision.
He picked up a towel, gently wiping the water droplets from his face, his gaze brightening as if struck by a sudden new idea.

"My soap cannot simply be reserved for my own enjoyment; it must be pushed out to the market for sale.
After all, maintaining a noble lifestyle requires a vast amount of money.
Relying solely on the rents from those two villages is hardly enough to secure a wealthy life for me.
What's more, I'm not even truly the lord of those two villages."

Carlo's brow furrowed tightly, and he shook his head with helpless resignation, a flash of worry crossing his eyes.
"There isn't any particularly high technological barrier to producing soap.
Take Castile soap, for instance; its large-scale production stems primarily from the region's abundance of olives, fetching up to twenty pence a piece on the market.
Yet my soap, with its unique ingredients and superior efficacy, is bound to make waves in the market."

Carlo calculated inwardly, hope and fighting spirit reigniting within his eyes:
"I must plan this carefully. I'll start by promoting it among the surrounding nobility so they can appreciate its virtues, and then gradually expand the sales territory.
Perhaps I can amass a great fortune; once that happens, I can truly gain a firm footing in this medieval era and no longer be at the mercy of others."