Creating an Authentic Cotte, Part 7: Sleeves

When it came to creating the sleeve pattern for the cotte, I had the least amount of reliable period information to go on for how to achieve the pattern.

Set-in sleeves had been in widespread use for some 70 years by the 1410's, and appears to have been a somewhat standard method in use for cotte sleeves in Northwestern Europe.(1) Unlike tunic sleeves- where the straight line of the sleeve head was sewn to the straight line of the armhole- the set-in sleeve made possible the type of tight fit in the bicep that was in vogue and desired. A combination of a small armscye and a shallow S-curve at the top of the sleevehead would provide a slim fit and full rotational movement.(2)

The issue I had here, though, was not knowing how the medieval tailor measured and patterned for such a sleeve. This is the only step in the process in which I had nothing but the final look at my disposal for determining a process.

I decided to consider what measurements are the minimum necessary to be able to create a sleeve that fits. These are the length from the top of the shoulder to the wrist, around the bicep, around the wrist, and the length of the arm underneath from the wrist to the lower side of the armpit. I also needed the measurement around the armscye.

In general, knowing that these measurements are the basis for my more thorough patterning method, this method has a high success rate for me. This time, however, something was off. After attaching the sleeve to the cotte, the shoulder was being pulled significantly off. I was also getting much more bunching in the underarm than I would expect.

After several minutes standing in front of the mirror moving every which way to assess what was happening, I determined that the issue was that the upper crest of the sleeve head S-curve was too shallow.

When I looked at the other side of the dress (without a sleeve attached), I noticed that when I'd cut the armholes, they had been positioned much larger than I needed them. What this meant was that my measurements had been taken from the wrong places, since I'd simply measured at the points I typically do, believing the armhole to be where I meant it to be.

To determine what was actually needed, I measured from the armhole to my wrist on the other arm and added the difference as a gusset onto the sleeve to see if that was the only error that required correction. After sewing it back on, I realized I was still getting bunching in the underarm. After a few more minutes looking in the mirror, I realized that the sleeve needed to be rotated about 2" toward the back where the curve actually reached its peak. After rotating the sleeve to match, everything fit exactly as needed.

I used this sleeve to cut new sleeves at the correct size, thankful that I had enough wool left to do so.

From here, I had more period sources to fall back on.

Just as for the neckline and side opening, the openings for buttoned sleeves were faced, either with silk or with the same material of the sleeve.(3) Since I still had the tan silk, this is what I used to face the side of the opening where the buttonholes would be. The other side is a double folded hem, providing the necessary stability for the buttons.

There are several fabric buttons still attached to their garment remnants in the London finds which has allowed us to figure out a few different methods for creating them ourselves. Though Crowfoot does outline the method they were able to document from the finds, over the years, I've developed my own slightly different version that creates a nicely rounded button at a very quick pace. (I wrote about my method here.)

I used the same linen thread I had been using and the bone needle to create all the buttons. I needed 28 in total.

Since I was still attempting to create this garment has intuitively as possible without a lot of marking and pinning, I had to come up with a simple and reliable method of getting the buttons evening spaced. To do this, I sewed the first and last buttons into place, then folded the sleeve in half to find the middle point, where I sewed another button.

From there, I filled in each half by just stitching the buttons through once. If I needed to adjust the spacing, I simply pulled the button out and tried again.

Once I was happy with the positioning, I sewed the buttons into place for real. I used the same method on the other sleeve.

For the buttonholes, I lined the two sides up and used short lengths of thread to mark the locations for the holes, again adjusting as needed if something looked off.

I used my buttonhole chisel to create the openings for the holes. Buttonhole chisels are known to have been used after the medieval period, but I have been unable to locate any concrete information regarding their use during the 14th or 15th centuries. Since the chisel is a known tool from other crafts, (4) and they do create clean slits perfect for buttonholes, there is a great case to be made for them. A sharp pair of small scissors would work easily as well. I ultimately chose the chisel for this project because my sharpest small scissors are significantly more modern than this 18th-century-style chisel.

Just as there are buttons to review from the period, there are accompanying buttonholes. From the extant buttonholes, we can review (5), there are a few things that make the medieval holes distinct. First, there is no "bar tack" used at the ends of the holes. Second, the holes were finished with a simple stitch, either buttonhole stitch or a tightly spaced overcast stitch. Finally, they were finished most often with silk thread.(6) I used these exact "rules" for the buttonholes.

With the sleeves complete (after double-fold hemming the wrists), I attached the sleeves to the cotte using the same construction and seam finishing techniques I'd used for the rest of the garment. A double fold stitched down with running stitch completed the skirt hem, and the cotte was complete.

Overall, this project was an excellent way to not only push my skills but to also challenge my assumptions on what makes a medieval cotte more authentic. I learned several things that I either didn't know before or had simply not questioned how I knew them before. I also learned some hard lessons about making decisions too quickly or taking it for granted that I know what I'm doing. I love this cotte for the challenge it presented and the research and techniques it allows me to move forward to the next projects with.

Thank you for following along on this project with me. I know I stretched it out a lot, but I wanted to give each part its due!
____
NOTES
1. See my tables in this post.
2. For a thorough and excellent explanation of the theory behind why set-in sleeves work the way they do, check out Ikat Bag's Subtleties in Draft Sleeves.
3. Crowfoot, Elizabeth, et al, "Textiles and Clothing c. 1150-c.1450," Museum of London: Medieval Finds from Excavations in London: 4 (London, HMSO, 1992).
4. Goodall, Ian, "Ironwork in Medieval Britain: An Archaeological Study" (New York, Routledge, 2017).
5. Crowfoot, Elizabeth, et al, "Textiles and Clothing c. 1150-c.1450," Museum of London: Medieval Finds from Excavations in London: 4 (London, HMSO, 1992).
6. There's a brief but informative write up about medieval buttonholes available from Master Bran Mac Fynin here.

Creating an Authentic Cotte, Part 6: Finishing the Neckline & Side Opening

The addition of a facing to an edge of a garment, either an opening for buttons or around a neckline- is well supported by the London finds. While the surviving examples utilize a tabby woven silk material, there were other types, including now missing linen, and self-facings created with a fold of the garment cloth itself. There is no clear consistency or standards to the width of applied facings, which implies that whatever was needed in the specific application was used. The extant silk facings appear to be cut from a larger cloth and are cut straight to the grain rather than on the bias. (1)

In one well-preserved example, lines of running stitch are top stitched over the facing. (2) Crowfoot indicates speculation on the functional purpose for this, but the extra stitches add stability to the neckline, preventing it from stretching, as well as, possibly, a decorative addition.

For the neckline facing, I used a tan, tabby woven lightweight silk that I created strips of by ripping along the grain. This frays the edges but ensures that they are straight. I quickly learned that the bone needle was too large to sew the fine silk, so I switched to a modern steel needle I had on hand. To conserve silk thread, I used linen thread for all the facing stitches, though the extant pieces use silk more prevalently.

After attaching the facing to the front side with a running stitch, I was confronted with a logistic issue. Since I wasn't using straight pins (except for two dress pins as needed), I realized that attempting to fold the facing inside and tucked under was tedious and difficult. I discovered instead that I could much more easily sew a line of running stitches near the top, locking the facing in place on the backside.

A second line of running stitch allowed me to snag the folded-under edges. Then a final line of hemstitch tacked the bottom edge of the facing down. In this manner, I discovered a plausible case for the running stitches found on faced necklines having a functional purpose in the construction of the neckline, rather than secondary additions applied over the attached facing.

I used a similar method on the facings for the laced opening and buttonhole area on the sleeves later in the process.

After completing the neckline, I began creating the laced opening on the side (see Part 3 for my reasoning for the side opening.) Most of what we understand about late medieval lace openings (those with eyelets) comes from just a few extant examples, one of which is described in detail by Crowfoot from the London finds. (3) It is understood that lacing was a necessary component of late 14th and 15th century fashions because we can see its use in the visual record, particularly tomb effigies like that of Katherine Mortimer (d. 1369), and from our own experiences in recreation, we know that the silhouette of both men’s and women’s styles are difficult (though not impossible) to create without an opening of some type to pass the wider areas of the body through narrow portions of the garment.

Crowfoot describes the extant London eyelet piece as a strip of silk with remnants of wool under the eyelet stitching. The eyelets are evening spaced with the finishing silk thread (worked in buttonhole stitch around each hole) passed under the silk to the next eyelet. The piece only has 6 eyelets and no corresponding piece for the other side of the opening was found.

To understand how the eyelets were arranged, we must rely on the visual evidence, which shows that lacing was typically arranged in a spiral or sometimes a ladder configuration, rather than crossed like a shoelace. (4) When secured into place on one end, a spiral lacing allows the lace to be pulled at the other end to close the gap. This is a useful and practical feature since it makes dressing faster and without the need for a helping hand.

BL MS Burney 257, Thebais and Achilles, circa 1405, fol. 81

Another feature of edge finishing that can be found on garment fragments is the use of a woven edging. Applied directly to the edge of the garment during the weaving process, this feature is perhaps intended to be both functional and decorative. While it does provide stability to the edge so that areas under tension like that of a laced or buttoned opening don’t stretch out of shape, it is also found on the buttoned openings of sleeves which would have been under considerably less stress.

Since I had never used this technique on a garment before, I decided to utilize this technique on the edges of the laced opening, since that area of the garment would be receiving the most stress and the opening warping out of shape would adversely affect the support and shape of my bust.

I began by re-opening the seam along the length I had determined- a few inches below the armscye and about to where the skirt began to flair. I added the silk facings, but only attached them at this point to the opening.

Using Crowfoot’s diagram (on page 161) as a guide, I set up a makeshift tablet weaving rig using my bed’s headboard and two tablet weaving cards made of bone. The silk warp (same gray silk I was using elsewhere) was attaching to the bed, and I pulled from the other end for tension.

I worked with the backside of the opening up, from the bottom of the opening to the top on one side, then from the top down on the other, since this configuration worked best with my right hand. More silk and my bone needle functioned as the weft and shuttle, and each pass through the weave included a pass through the fabric.

Once the edging was complete, I tucked the ends of the weave under the silk facing and used a hemstitch to secure the silk down, leaving room for the eyelets.

I began creating the eyelets with a bone awl, but after a few eyelets, I realized that it was too small, so I exchanged that for a large wooden awl or spike. (5)

I used a measuring rule to fix the distance between each eyelet one at a time. In the same manner as the extant piece from London, I passed the thread through the layers to the next eyelet. Knots and thread ends are all contained between the layers as well.

Since the lace itself would come at the end of the project, I used a temporary lace to try on the garment and test the completed lace opening, with enjoyable success.

----------
NOTES

1. Crowfoot, Elizabeth, et al, "Textiles and Clothing c. 1150-c.1450," Museum of London: Medieval Finds from Excavations in London: 4 (London, HMSO, 1992).
2. Ibid, pages 158-161
3. Ibid, pages 164-5
4. “Spiral Lacing - Why and how to do it on 14th century clothing”, La Cotte Simple, http://cottesimple.com/lacing/spiral-lacing/
5. While there isn’t much extant evidence for awls specific to garment or fabric applications in the late medieval period, bone awls were known from the Roman era. (See No. 85 and 86 here.) There is also evidence of awls in use for other crafts, such as leatherwork, and the shape and structure of extant holes indicate that they were pieced rather than cut. Awls of bone, wood or metal in use by garment makers of the late medieval period makes conjectural sense.

Creating an Authentic Cotte, Part 5: Seam Construction

Seam Construction Method

When looking through the relevant evidence regarding the joining of two pieces of cloth, it becomes apparent that seam techniques were inextricably related to the cloth type they were applied to. Wool, linen, and silk each had their own sets of seam techniques (with some overlap among them). Weave types, usually in regard to whether the material would fray or not, added additional differences. On top of all of these considerations, it's also evident that the garment or placement of the seam within the garment also bore some relevance to the seam techniques employed. (1)

In order to identify which seam techniques should be employed for the cotte, I needed to narrow down the options to techniques appropriate for a non-fulled woolen. The cut edges of the cloth do fray, and the lack of heavy fulling means that stitches under tension could pull through a single layer of the cloth if placed too near the cut edge.

Given these qualities, the best seam construction types for this project were those that adequately secured the cut edges of the cloth, and, particularly for the areas of the cotte under stress (everywhere but within the skirt), would not rely solely on a single line of running stitch (a relatively weak stitch) to keep the pieces together.

[I want to pause here to move forward in time to interject that while I do think I made the best choice below given what I knew at the time, it turned out that the weave of the gray wool was significantly looser than I had given it credit for. I'll discuss what happened after I wore the cotte for a day at the end of this post, but I wanted to be transparent now that in retrospect, I may have chosen the wrong seam technique for how fragile the weave actually was.]

I utilized the list of medieval stitch types collected by Heather Rose Jones in her online resource, Archeological Sewing, which is organized by cloth type, to identify four candidates. In order to more fully assess which of these three seam types would fulfill my needs, I created samples of each in linen.

#1: Running stitch + raw edges turned under toward each other and overcast together

Pros: Relatively strong seam with a clean finish. Only 2 passes required.

Cons: Turning in allowance edges is tricky. No finishing stitches visible on exterior.

#2: Overcast of (double-fold hem with hem stitch)

Pros: Symmetrical finishing is visible and produces a nice hand-sewn effect. Non-bulky seam finish.

Cons: Takes longer to complete (3 passes). Overcast stitch is weak if stitches are not small and tightly packed. Only the thread in overcast stitch holds pieces together. 

#3: Flat-fell with hem stitch

Pros: Neat technique that creates and finishes the seam at the same time. Only 2 passes.

Cons: May be trickier to execute on curved seams. A bit of a learning curve to interlock the edges together. Leaves a fold on the exterior as well as exposing the hem stitching.

#4: Running stitch, raw edges paired and hem stitched to one side

Pros: Strong flat seam that requires only 2 passes. Visible finishing stitches on the exterior.

Cons: Hem stitch must be tightly packed and deep enough to adequately secure cut edges of fraying material. 

Of note, the medieval type of "flat-fell" stitch is not the same as what is usually referred to as a flat-felled seam in the modern era. A modern flat-fell seam is more akin to the #4 running stitch seam type above, but rather than simply laying the seam allowances down to one side, one is trimmed and the other is folded around it before both are tacked down. Though this is commonly used in medieval recreation (by myself as well), I was not able to locate this technique in the Archeological Sewing database, "Textiles and Clothing", nor in the publications detailing the Herjolfsnes finds.

Weighing the pros and cons of each of the techniques above, along with my own preferences in terms of finished look, I decided to use a piece of the actual cloth to test the #4 seam type to determine if the cut edges would be suitably contained. For this test, I used a black linen thread for the running stitch and a yellow silk for the finishing to approximate the thread types I'd already determined I would use (see Seam Construction - Materials below).

Satisfied that the material handled this technique well with a suitable aesthetic finish, I decided to use this technique for the cotte seams.

I did also identify the use of a "filler" thread in the Herjolfsnes finds that uses a secondary thread to hold the cut edge down a bit more securely, and decided to test this technique in comparison to not using it. (2)

The use of the filler thread didn't significantly add enough functional differences to justify how much time it added to the sewing. I chose not to use it for the sake of time.

Seam Construction Tools & Materials

It is believed that several of the garment fragments recovered in London were stitched together using linen thread, which did not survive. Traces of a vegetable fiber can be found around vacant stitch holes in seams and on hems. (3) Silk threads are also present, often in top stitch applications, buttonholes, and hems. Crowfoot suggests in her commentary that the evidence points to the use of linen thread for the main seams, followed by silk for visible and decorative stitching. (4) This would have conserved the more expensive thread and applied it to where it would do the most visual good. Silk was available in a wide range of colors that could be matched to the fabric. With the lack of suitable linen thread remains, whether that was also colored is difficult to state.

I chose to use a natural gray linen thread (Londonderry 80/3) for the running stitch in each seam, and a gray filament silk thread for the finish stitching. (Both threads are machine-made and dyed as hand-spun and hand-dyed silk sewing thread was not easily available except when outside my budget.) Not only do I feel that the evidence supports these choices, I feel that they, again, fall into line with this garment being constructed with a practical balance of quality and frugality. At a certain point in the creation of the garment, I ended up using the linen for some finishing to conserve the silk for later finishing items where it was more important to have silk rather than linen (e.g. buttonholes.)

Sewing needles have proven to be few and far between in archeological recoveries. One suggested reason is that needles were also rare in period. For the most part, only one needle was needed at a time, and if properly treated, could last through a few generations before being discarded or damaged. It’s believed that steel needles were in use before the 14th century, imported from Moorish Spain, and would have been preferred over the cruder bronze, iron, and copper alloy needles that are found in greater quantities now. (5) Both iron and copper alloy needles have been recovered from the Thames River excavations. One 14th century copper alloy example is roughly 3” long with a triangular cross section and an eye that was first punched then drilled.

In addition to metal needles, which can be assumed to be the better material choice for a sewing needle in the early 15th century, bone needles may have still been used. A bone needle, described as 2 ¾” long with a square eye parallel in style to prehistoric bone needle finds, was recovered from the excavation of Breachacha Castle in Scotland, an early 15th century residence. (6) A bronze needle was recovered from the same site, indicating that both needles were in use around the same. It’s easy to speculate that bone needles may have remained in domestic production throughout the medieval period to make up for the relative scarcity or difficulty in obtaining the superior steel or bronze needles.

Given the dearth of appropriate reproduction metal sewing needles available for purchase (I was unable to source any needles structurally similar to the 14th century examples), one option is to use a modern stainless steel sewing needle, which is not that far away from the medieval examples. A cotton darner is a round needle with long punched eye, and can be found in lengths close or longer than 2”.

For this project, however, in an effort to use more authentic tools, I primarily used a bone sewing needle with a round drilled hole, based on the existence of a bone needle from the Scotland excavation mentioned above. My needle is 1.875” long with a vaguely ovoid cross-section and a round drilled hole.

During the course of sewing the cotte, I ended up further slimming the taper of the needle with a sanding block I had on hand. The chunkier nature of the bone needle is less refined than a metal needle formed with a wire, and requires more effort to use. Rather than slipping unimpeded through the cloth, the bone needle must be slightly tugged to move the thicker end through the weave. This turned out to be a somewhat important consideration during this project that I had not anticipated as it stresses the hand slightly more over the course of a long seam than a smaller gauge metal needle would. Ultimately, I feel the bone needle, unless quite refined and slim, was very likely not suitable as sewing implement for a higher production environment, such as a tailor's shop or royal clothier workhouse, and would have probably been used in a domestic setting as a last resort.

I also discovered that the bone needle was too large when it came to sewing later finishing details, and I switched to a modern needle for those items. (Which I'll discuss in the next post!)

Moving forward in time, after I wore the dress to its first event, a very hot Simple Day, I discovered that the seam finishing hand not held as well as I expected in the areas under the most stress. This included most of the back seam, the front seam just at the base of the bust support curve, and the side seams at the top bust area and at the tightest point on the waist. None of these areas completely blew out (there was no catastrophic seam failure, thankfully.)

Damage to cloth & seam finish after wearing

After reviewing the damage, I determined that the fault was more in the cloth than anything else. I had believed that the cloth was sturdier in the weave. Since I hadn't been able to put it under enough pressure in my tests to mimic what wearing it would do, unfortunately, I think I had to learn this the hard way. I do still stand by my seam choice as the best given the options had this fabric been stronger and/or fulled. If I had known what the cloth would do while making my choice, I would have likely opted for the #1 seam method above instead.

I do believe that the dress has stretched as much as it's likely to (assuming I don't gain weight), so to prevent further damage and to repair the parts of the seam that had pulled out of the finishing, I used a combination of running stitches and some overcast stitching to help mitigate the weave pulling out any further.

Seam with my repairs.

The take-away for me with this is to focus less on the aesthetics and more on the needs and weaknesses of the cloth. Having said that, though, I do also want to save a bit of face and say that this damage was not extensive. All the seams in the areas of the garment that were not under the greatest amount of stress are still intact.

______

NOTES
1. One notable example of this type of seam specialization can be seen the differences in seam treatments used on the various parts of fitted hose. Crowfoot, Elizabeth, et al, "Textiles and Clothing c. 1150-c.1450," Museum of London: Medieval Finds from Excavations in London: 4 (London, HMSO, 1992).
2. Fransen, Lilli, et al, Medieval Garments Reconstructed: Norse Clothing Patterns, (Aarhus, Aarhus University Press, 2011), page 30.
3. Crowfoot, et al, 2001, p.151.
4. Crowfoot points out on page 152 a record in the Great Wardrobe accounts in 1333 a list of materials for a set of green garments for Queen Philippa in which both linen and silk thread were ordered for the project.
5. Findings, 2006, p. 47.
6. Breachacha Castle, Coll: Excavations and Field Survey, 1965-8 by D. J. Turner and J. G. Dunbar.

Additional Tips for Set-In Sleeves

To say that I've spent a lot of time on this blog talking about set-in sleeves in the context of late medieval costuming would be an understatement. As I worked on the sleeves for a new chemise, however, it occurred to me that there are a few items about sleeves after patterning that might be helpful tips for those who are still new to or having trouble with their sleeves. The easiest way for me to do this was via photo examples.

Project Complete: Apple Green Wool Cotte

When I left off, this dress was sewn together with the body seams finished. The sleeves were sewn on, and I had buttons ready. I had an issue with the fit of the forearms, so I removed the forearms to repattern those. The neckline and hemming were also still awaiting finishing. I also knew that I disliked how the back gore draped, so I needed to troubleshoot that.

In-Progress: Apple Green Wool Cotte

Something I haven't done for a long time is to share my dressmaking process as completely as possible from start to finish. Over the years, I've developed my methods, and they often repeat exactly from one dress to the next, so it's a bit weird for me to go into the details since it's mostly just repeating myself. This time, however, I had a few things I did differently, and it gave me an opportunity to more fully document the process for you.

Project Complete: Windowpane Plaid Basic Gown

I'm not presenting this one as a typical "project log" like I normally do because for the most part this project was just for fun, as well as for a chance to work with plaid. Late in 2016, I found this wool at Dorr Mill Store (doesn't look to be currently available), and thought it was really cool. (There's some evidence that grid-like plaids were in use in the 14th century.) The cloth sat in my stash for a year, just waiting for me to get to it. At the end of my Doppelgänger Challenge, I was looking for something to do that would give me a break from dedicated early 15th Century, and this wool practically shouted at me.

In Progress: Oatmeal Wool Hose

This project started when I pulled my in-progress wool sleeping tunic out, and decided that I didn't care for it. As the unfinished tunic sat around over the next month or so, I considered other uses for it. One evening, while talking to a friend about wish list items, I realized that I hadn't made wool hose in a very long time. I normally wear knitted wool or cotton socks. I like them, they are comfortable, and since I always had a problem with garters staying in place (until recently), the fact that they mostly stay where I need them to is a big bonus. They aren't, obviously, correct for an early 15th century townswoman. It didn't take much to convince me that the wool tunic should be recycled as hose.

When I finally got around to starting this project yesterday, I was looking for the easiest option to get finished hose quickly. I also wanted to focus more on the sewing than the patterning. I remembered that I'd pinned a quick hose tutorial from Maria at In deme jare Cristi some time ago, so I pulled that up and figured I'd give it a try. I won't belabor her method here- you should check out her post for that- but it took a little trial and error to pin myself in and make adjustments for the fact that my legs are not at all symmetrical.

Project Complete: A 14th Century Square Hood

Project
A fitted "square" hood with underarm straps from the late 14th Century.

In Progress: Red Wool Cote

Immediately following Pennsic, it was clear that I'd lost just the right amount of weight that my brand new supportive pattern wasn't actually as supportive. One the one hand, that's not a terrible problem to have, but on the other, it meant that I couldn't skip making some additional adjustments to my pattern before moving on to the next dress.

Hand-Finishing a Garment

I, like many modern medieval sewers, often use my sewing machine to sew the pieces of my dresses together. These are referred to as the "construction" seams, and are, for the most part, considered "non-visible" since the thread used for these seams is not seen. While it's possible to sew and entire dress by machine (construction and finishing), this doesn't provide the hand-made quality that gives the garment a medieval character. So once the garment is assembled into its raw form, whether by machine or by hand, I will do most of the rest of the work, the finishing, by hand.