From the Hedgewitch's Journal: Rue thru the Pages of Time

 Rue: The Bitter Herb of the Medieval Healer

"Bitter upon the tongue, pungent beneath the fingers, and surrounded by a reputation for protection—rue was a plant that belonged as much to the medieval healer's world of mystery as it did to the apothecary's shelf."

Walk through an herb garden in summer and you may pass rue without a second glance.

Its blue-green leaves are delicate, almost fernlike, and its small yellow flowers seem rather modest beside the flamboyant blooms of a cottage garden. Yet for centuries, rue was anything but ordinary.

To the physicians, herbalists, monks, and cunning women of medieval Europe, rue was a plant of remarkable reputation.

It was bitter.

It was pungent.

It was considered powerful.

And, like so many plants used in medieval medicine, it occupied a fascinating space between what we might call medicine, folklore, and magic.

For those of us who love the old herbals, rue offers a glimpse into a world where the garden was an apothecary, the hedgerow was a medicine cabinet, and the difference between a healing remedy and a protective charm could be surprisingly thin.

Rue in the Old English Herbal

The Old English Herbal belongs to a long tradition of herbal knowledge that reached England through Latin texts and was eventually rendered into the language of Anglo-Saxon England. Its roots lie in the Herbarium associated with Pseudo-Apuleius, a late antique work that circulated widely in medieval Europe.

The surviving Old English herbal tradition is therefore a fascinating mixture of inherited classical knowledge and the practical world of early medieval England. The manuscript tradition preserves plant descriptions and medicinal applications alongside other medical material, giving us a window into the knowledge available to English healers.

Rue appears within this tradition as a medicinal herb associated with a variety of ailments.

The plant was valued for its strong, penetrating qualities and was used in preparations intended to address problems involving the head, eyes, digestion, and other bodily complaints. Like many herbs of the period, its use was grounded in the medical theories inherited from classical medicine, including ideas about the qualities and properties of plants.

But rue's reputation extended beyond the purely physical.

It was a plant believed to possess strength.

And plants with strength often acquired a reputation for protection.

The Bitter Herb

Rue has an unmistakable character.

Crush its leaves between your fingers and the plant releases a sharp, distinctive scent. Taste it, and its bitterness lingers.

Medieval herbalists often interpreted these qualities as clues to medicinal power.

A bitter herb might be thought useful for the stomach.

A strongly aromatic plant might be considered capable of penetrating or dispersing illness.

A plant that seemed to possess an almost aggressive character could also become associated with protection.

This way of thinking may seem foreign to us now, but it was central to medieval herbal medicine. Plants were observed carefully, described according to their qualities, and incorporated into a system of healing that combined inherited medical theory with generations of practical experience.

Rue's bitterness was part of its identity.

And perhaps that is why it became one of those herbs surrounded by such a powerful folklore.

Rue and the Lacnunga

The Lacnunga offers us a very different kind of glimpse into early English healing.

The name Lacnunga is Old English for "remedies," although the title itself was assigned by a later editor. The collection survives in British Library Harley MS 585, a manuscript compiled in England around the late tenth or early eleventh century. Unlike a neatly organized modern medical textbook, it is a fascinating mixture of remedies, prayers, charms, and traditions.

This is one of the reasons the Lacnunga is so compelling.

It shows us that early medieval healing was not divided into the tidy categories we use today.

There was no clear line between medicine and ritual.

A healer might prepare herbs for a physical complaint and, at the same time, recite words intended to protect the patient.

A remedy might draw upon the authority of Christian prayer while also preserving much older ideas about the supernatural causes of illness.

The famous Nine Herbs Charm, preserved within the Lacnunga, is perhaps the best-known example of this fascinating intersection between herbal knowledge, poetry, ritual, and belief.

Rue belongs to this broader world of healing.

Even when a particular remedy is practical and botanical, it exists within a culture that understood plants as possessing histories, personalities, and powers.

The herb itself mattered.

But so did the words spoken over it.

The Peri Didaxeon

The Peri Didaxeon carries us into another layer of the medieval medical tradition.

The title is Greek, and the work survives in a later manuscript tradition. It belongs to the body of medical writings connected with the transmission and adaptation of Latin medical knowledge in England. Unlike the Lacnunga, with its diverse collection of remedies and charms, the Peri Didaxeon is more closely connected to the tradition of learned medical writing and the organization of therapeutic knowledge.

What makes these texts so fascinating when considered together is the movement of knowledge.

A plant's reputation could begin in classical medicine.

It could be preserved in Latin.

Translated or adapted into Old English.

Copied by a scribe.

Passed into a collection of remedies.

And eventually find its way into the practical knowledge of those who gathered plants in gardens and hedgerows.

The journey of a herb was rarely a straight line.

It was more like a winding path through centuries.

Rue traveled that path.

A Plant of Protection

Beyond medicine, rue developed a remarkable reputation as a protective herb.

In later European folklore, it became associated with warding away illness, misfortune, and harmful influences. Its strong scent may have contributed to this reputation; plants with powerful aromas were often considered capable of driving away what was harmful.

Rue also became associated with ritual cleansing and protection.

The herb was sometimes carried, hung in homes, or used in traditional practices intended to guard against evil.

Its reputation was so enduring that the plant eventually acquired associations with spiritual protection that survived long after the original medical theories had faded.

This is where rue becomes especially interesting to anyone fascinated by hedgewitches and cunning women.

Imagine a medieval healer reaching for rue.

Was she thinking only of its medicinal properties?

Perhaps.

But perhaps she also understood that the people who came to her wanted more than a remedy.

They wanted reassurance.

They wanted protection.

They wanted to believe that someone knew what to do.

A healing plant could provide all three.

 

Rue in the Medieval Garden

If we could step into a medieval physic garden, rue would be easy to imagine there.

It would grow among the other plants gathered for medicine:

Sage.

Fennel.

Betony.

Yarrow.

Plantain.

Angelica.

Hyssop.

The garden itself was a living library.

Every plant had a name.

Every plant had a season.

Every plant had a history.

The healer knew when to gather it, which part to use, and how to prepare it.

Roots were dug.

Leaves were crushed.

Flowers were dried.

Seeds were saved.

Some preparations were steeped in water or wine. Others were combined with honey, oil, or animal fats to create ointments and salves.

The work required patience.

And knowledge.

This was not the world of the instant remedy.

It was the world of observation.

The Cunning Woman's Rue

I often imagine rue sitting in the corner of a cunning woman's basket.

Perhaps it is wrapped in linen.

Perhaps a few leaves have escaped, leaving their unmistakable scent behind.

She might carry it because she knows the old remedies.

She might carry it because her mother taught her to.

She might carry it because her grandmother believed it protected the home.

And perhaps, after generations of use, she no longer remembers where medicine ends and magic begins.

Maybe she doesn't need to.

For the women who practiced healing in the medieval world, the two were often intertwined.

The body could suffer.

The mind could suffer.

The spirit could suffer.

And the healer was expected to tend to all three.

A Note on Rue Today

Rue is still grown as an ornamental and aromatic plant, and it remains part of some traditional herbal practices.

However, this is one of those historical herbs where modern caution is particularly important.

Rue contains compounds that can be toxic in sufficient quantities and can cause serious reactions. The fresh plant may also cause skin irritation or photosensitivity, particularly when the skin is exposed to sunlight. It is not considered safe for use during pregnancy and should not be treated as a casual home remedy.

The fact that a plant was used medicinally in the Middle Ages does not mean that it is safe to use in the same way today.

This is an important distinction when exploring historical herbalism.

Our ancestors possessed an extraordinary amount of botanical knowledge.

They also lacked modern pharmacology, toxicology, and clinical testing.

The old herbals are valuable records of history and human ingenuity—but they should be approached with curiosity and respect rather than as instruction manuals for self-treatment.

Why Rue Still Fascinates Me

What draws me to rue is not simply its place in medieval medicine.

It is the way the plant sits at the crossroads of so many worlds.

Classical medicine.

Anglo-Saxon healing.

Monastic gardens.

Old English manuscripts.

Folk traditions.

Protective magic.

The history of women who gathered plants and transformed them into remedies.

The Old English Herbal, the Lacnunga, and the Peri Didaxeon remind us that medieval medicine was not a single tradition. It was a tapestry woven from many threads—classical learning, Christian belief, local knowledge, inherited folklore, and the practical experience of generations.

Rue is one of those threads.

Bitter.

Pungent.

Beautiful.

And enduring.

From the Pages of The Midsummer Women

These are the details that find their way into my writing.

When I imagine a healer standing beside her garden, I don't see a collection of anonymous green plants.

I see history.

I see the generations of women who learned their properties.

I see the hands that gathered them.

I see the old books where their uses were recorded in ink.

And I see the knowledge that traveled from manuscript to garden, from garden to basket, and from one generation to the next.

That is the world that inspires The Midsummer Women.

A world where the past is never entirely gone.

It waits in the pages of an ancient herbal.

In the scent of a crushed leaf.

In the shadow of a hedgerow.

And sometimes, if we are quiet enough, in the bitter green leaves of rue.

Until Next Time

"The old herbals do not merely tell us what plants could heal. They tell us what our ancestors feared, what they hoped for, and what they believed might protect them when the world grew dark."

Perhaps that is the true magic of the old medicine.

Not that every remedy worked.

But that someone, somewhere, was always searching for a way to help.

And that knowledge—like the herbs themselves—was carried forward.