Chasing Rose

II- Dyed Wool

It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.

- 1 Corinthians 15:43

The summer sun beat through the spotty clouds, a strange but welcome feeling. It poured onto the June roses and streamed through the doorway of our cottage.

Mother and I lived alone in the little hut, we slept and wove there. There wasn't any need for anyone else (nor was there room) and so it was just us. No father, no siblings. I didn't have either, not legitimately anyways. 

She was sitting in the sunlight, winding the wool into coiling, draping skeins. It was dyeing day, which meant that we didn't do much differently. We just waited and used up our meagre supplies of whatever colours we had left, which was never much. I should know- I was trying to turn it into acceptable cloth.

The dyer Theda lived next door. An ancient and knobbly woman, nearly forty-five, she came to our hut this sunny morning, come to deliver today's wool. It would be our only visitor for a long, long time. We only ever saw others at Mass and when they delivered something to us. Mother didn't like people. They had wronged her before, she believed they would do so again, so we avoided them as much as we could.

"I hope that you don't run wild with the purple this time," Theda threatens with a single lifted eyebrow. "I don't think I can get much more dye from the Lord."

My cheeks bloom. The last tapestry, which did involve a substantial amount of purple wool, had been swept away in a windstorm from my loom, being poorly hung. I had almost forgotten about it, and now it was back to haunt me...!

I take the basket, filled with fat skeins of the rough-spun yarn. Theda's bony hands still clutch it. "Promise you'll be careful."

I lean back, grasping the basket and pulling moderately hard. "I promise."

She lets the basket go, sending me stumbling backwards, and walks away. Mother laughs as I close the flimsy door, balancing the wool on my hip.

*****

Another knock takes me from my weaving. With a sigh and a confused look shared between Mother and I, I rise to open it, hoping that it is a good enough reason to break me from my trance.

Two men stand there, both young, both clearly servants in the manor. One holds a roll of parchment. He thrusts it at me, it rolling open and the ink-marks come tumbling down with it.

"Can you read?" asks he, haughtily. 

"No," I respond. Why would he think I could? I am a woman, to begin, and a poor one besides. Reading is reserved for those with time not spent working.

"Of course not." He snaps up the scroll again. "However, if you could, you would know that this is a note saying that the daughter of Ediva the Weaver is to come to the manor immediately."

Why boasting to me about his literacy is necessary, I have no idea, yet perhaps he just needs to find something good about his pitiful self.

"Is the reason for the summoning written, sir?"

"Lord Mannering would not disclose it save to the intended recipient. I take it you are she."

I look back at Mother, who has a stony, terrified stare on her face and emptiness in her eyes. She remembers something that she cannot bear to.

"He is impatient," adds the other man, the one who has been silent until now. "We must not tarry here. It seems very urgent business, whatever it be."

"Please," whispers my mother, taking my arm. I had not noticed her come to me. "Spare her- she is but fifteen."

"Mother-" I begin, "Mother, I must go." We cannot defy his wishes, not as his vassals only, but as his blood.

I step away from her. My father is summoning me, and so I must go, regardless of my own wishes and regardless of the half- done tapestry on my loom.

*****

I had not ever met him before, but I hated Lord Mannering with every part of my soul- even though Father Matthew tells us not to hate. I have not mentioned it in the confessional for pride. 

I hate Lord Mannering because he's never around. I hate how he sits, cold and aloof in his strong, tall manor while we freeze and while we starve; I hate how he left my mother with me and I hate that he's never recognized me until now. I do not wish to know the purpose with which he acts now.

The halls to the castle let in no wind, nor summer heat- it is refreshingly cool, but large enough to hold all of the demons in hell. Larger than it seemed from outside.

He stands with his back to me in the great hall, the fine-spun linen tunic on his back a stark contrast to the roughness of my kirtle. The doors close behind me and he turns. I face him with my back straight and the plainness of my dress emphasized.

"You want to know why I have called you." His voice is high, clear; something I never would have thought based on the squareness of his face and his regal ashy curls. 

"Yes, my lord."

He clasps his hands behind his back and begins pacing. "You have never left the manor, so you know not of our neighbors. I, however, do. Lord Bennet of Leicester has four sons and one small manor. The three elder sons are married. The youngest is not- and that, daughter, is where you come in. Remind me of your name."

"Ida." Why am I speaking to him? The man who, sixteen years ago, carried on a romance with a servant girl- my mother- and left for crusade, leaving her with a stained reputation and a child.

"Ida, he is so desperate to marry his youngest son that I told him I had an illegitimate daughter and he demanded you. Think," he continues, stepping closer. I lean away but my feet stay firmly planted in the rushes. "I do not have to pay a dowry, and if by chance the elder three die before inheriting- heaven forbid- then I can take control upon the youngest's death."

I say nothing, unsure if what I heard was real. "I am a serf, my lord. What could I have to offer as a nobleman's wife? Why not send him into the church?" Is that not the accepted path for a younger son?

"You will do as I tell you, daughter," he replies, spitting out the word. "You will leave this castle tonight to become a ward in Lord Bennet's household. Uphold my name and you will have no need to be punished."

I pause and stand there as he walks back to a window.

"Send my regards to your mother. And your stepfather and siblings."

"I have none."

"Ediva was a charming girl, why not?"

"No one wanted her after you had taken her as a maid."

He waves a hand dismissively. As if staged, the doors open and I am pulled out and shown a room to wait in. The servant tells me that I will travel to Lord Bennet as soon as the horses are ready. 

I was never told I'd amount to anything. Now, as I sit in the empty stone room, I wonder if it was true. Am I actually going to do any good here, in this castle, or will I have just been a pawn for some purpose of which I know naught? Everything happens for a reason, and this must be so. I've always wanted the splendor my parentage should have afforded me, and now it is here, but what to I do with it? 

Yet at the same time, I am sitting with my rough wool kirtle upon a fine linen couch, and I think I may have come to more than I or Mother ever though I would. It's too different to enjoy, though. Everything is too fine, too rich, and I miss home. I miss the little cottage, I miss my mother and I miss my loom. 

So.. the song at the top. It's one of my very favorite songs from an opera ever, and this version was recorded by a now- ex- member of Celtic Woman. It's a nice song, and it fits with the story a bit, so I decided to put it on here.

Also, I wove a small tapestry in a similar method to what Ida would have done and a) I could do it forever, it's so relaxing and b) I have no idea why she enjoys it so much. My fingers hurt so badly.

~Megan