I will that Ilke prior and priores that comes to my beryall at y{ t} day hafe iii_s_ iiij_d_ and ilke chanon and Nune xij_d_ ... and Ilke prior and priores that comes to the xxx day (the month's-mind) hafe vj_s_ viij_d_ and Ilke chanon or none that comes to the said xxx day haf xx_d_[223].
Sometimes they attended the deathbeds of relatives; among witnesses to the codicil to the will of Walter Skirlaw, Bishop of Durham, in 1404 was "religiosa femina Domina Johanna Priorissa de Swyna, soror dicti domini episcopi"[224]; and it was not unusual for an abbess or prioress to be made supervisor or executrix of a will[225]. Nor was the sad business of deathbeds the only share taken by these prioresses in public life. Clemence Medforde, Prioress of Ankerwyke, went to a wedding at Bromhale; and unfortunately a sheepfold, a dairy and a good timber granary chose that moment to catch fire and burn down, setting fire also to the smouldering indignation of her nuns; whence many recriminations when the Bishop came on his rounds[226]. Stranger still at times were the matters for which their friends sought their good offices. The aristocratic Isabel de Montfort, Prioress of Easebourne, was one of the ladies by whose oath Margaret de Camoys purged herself on a charge of adultery in 1295[227].
The fact that these ladies were drawn from the wealthy classes and constantly associated on terms of equality with their friends and relatives, sometimes led them to impart a most unmonastic luxury into their own lives. They came from the homes of lords like Sir John Arundel, who lost not only his life but "two and fiftie new sutes of apparell of cloth of gold or tissue," when he was drowned off the Irish coast; or Lord Berkeley who travelled with a retinue of twelve knights, twenty-four esquires "of noble family and descent" and a hundred and fifty men-at-arms, in coats of white frieze lined with crimson and embroidered with his badge; or else of country squires and franklins, like the white-bearded gentleman of whom Chaucer says that
To liven in delyt was ever his wone, For he was Epicurus owne sone,
Withoute bake mete was never his hous, Of fish and flesh, and that so plentevous It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke, Of alle deyntees that men coude thinke;