A Song of Yarn and Fiber - Game of Crones - episode 2

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PURLYBELL

Purlybell put down her work with a sigh of relief. She was done. She glanced at her companions, still bending over their needles and racing against time. The crones' skeletal fingers with their bulbous joints cantered like spider legs over their webs : loop yarn over with the index, push right needle with the middle finger, push left needle with thumb. One two three, one to three, loop push push, on an on it went, a race that led nowhere. Some of them were so blind that they could barely see the yarn, but they said needlewomen saw with their fingers. Once, Old Mary Lambkin had unknowingly knitted a loose lock of her grey hair into a sock, and the lock was so long that she never realized it until her knitting started pulling at her scalp. Or maybe that was just a story they told to pass time.


At night, they would exchange their work for less demanding tasks and easy stitches, garter, stockinet, ribs. During the day, when light was good, the women and girls would toil through the multi-colored patterns of yoked tabbards, with their rounded bands displaying the sigil of the great houses and, in smaller patterns, the sigil of the maker's house. Colors had to be right, obeying the rules of heraldry. The gold of Lannister lions was incompatible with the silver of the Lambrequin lamb's head, so Lambrequins never knitted for Casterly Rock. Rambuctious' golden ram, Ramrod's golden staff, or Ramkin's golden horn were the three sigils using the right metal, so their three houses mostly worked for the Lannisters. Mountain houses, they were, producing thick fleeces and thick, warm yarn that felted well. High range Lords were supposed to reach for the sun, a fact symbolised by the gold in their arms, just as the silver of valley Lords referred to the bright shining waters of rivers and lakes that provided verdant pastures where the thinner, softer yarns came from. The counter ermine of the Downs Lords stood for the black, white-spotted lambs for which the low hills were justly famous. House Hughes, house Hubert, house Utensil used counter ermine on their arms, and the bar sinister of House Utensil made for a pleasant pattern when it was repeated across the chest of a tabard. The counter ermine pattern was the one beginners were started on, for it was a soothing and repetitive one. The isles off the north coast were too small for grazing ; if one sheep wandered off too near the cliffs, the rest of the flock would follow, and end up falling off the edge into the sea, so they bred rabbits whose silky, water proof fiber worked well for baby clothes and millinery. House Hare was famous for its baby blankets and the sexual stamina of its Lords. Old Bunny Hare was said to have fathered scores of sons and daughters so that the name Yarn was a common one across the isles and along the coastline.  

Stupid Nan had lit a few lanterns and put them at intervals on the table. There was one in front of the Lady Worsted, which highlighted the clawmarks of time all over her face and made deep pits of shadow where the light could not reach. Purlybell eased her chair back, taking care not to make any noise or draw attention to herself. This was easy because she always sat at the end of the table, silent and unnoticed. Then she picked a dark garment from her bag and spread it over her lap, caressing it with her fingers under cover of the white Pyke sweater she had just completed, with its rich pattern of cables. The unfinished garment was black as night, black as crows' feathers, though without their lambent glint. She passed a loop of white yarn over her finger, enough to fool a casual glance, and looped another, black one, underneath. No one must know what she was doing. This was her private project, a secret known only to Lambeth Dram, who had figured out the pattern for her. 

Lambeth liked her because she was a good worker, and she never refused to experiment with his new ideas. They made a good team, he with his visions of extraordinary garments, she with her practical mind and expertise. Sometimes she would even suggest an idea to him, and felt a warm glow when he considered it in that dreamy way of his, his head at an angle so that his ear rested against his shoulder, his eyes half shut. Then if he had one of his visions, he would nod his head and disappear for a few days, before coming back with a bundle of drawings full of arrows and signs and figures to consult with her. But if he did not like your ideas, he was quite outspoken about it, no matter how humiliating for you. With a shudder she recalled his expression of revulsion when she had mentioned designing a sweater for Ghost, Lord Snow's direwolf.

”All in white,” she had protested, trying to put into words the radiant vision of the giant wolf in a merino cardigan, ”with a little hood, but with holes for the ears, and I thought a white pompom at the top.”

”Are you insane? A direwolf sporting a pompom?” Then he had seen the tears in her eyes and relented. ”Maybe the Lady Sansa would have liked something like that for her wolf, but not the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch!”

”It must be so cold up there, poor thing.”

”He's a wolf, not a child. If you wanted to please Lord Snow, you ought to knit something for him – no pompoms, mind!”

”Everyone is knitting socks for him. I wanted something different, something that would make him think kindly of me when he saw it.”

”A pair of longjohns,” he had suggested. And when she opened her mouth in protest, he had argued : ”Think about it, Purlybell, a sheer garnment of black wool and silk, knitted with 1.5 needles, worn next to his skin, hugging his whole lower body, his whole body even if you went for a one piece suit with a front and a back flap. What do you think ?” Her legs had wobbled beneath her at the thought.

When the then bastard of Winterfell had been sent to the Wall, his father, bless his soul and rot those who had murdered him, had sent for a team from Worsted to oversee his outfitting. As suppliers for the Night's Watch, they knew exactly what was needed. Purlybell had been part of the team. She loved to leave Worsted on this kind of errand. She was always selected because boys did not seem to bother her like they did other girls, a felicitous state of things which she attributed to her own modest behavior, as opposed to the come-hitherness of some. When she had raised the point with Lambert, however, he had shaken his head. He was not quite as clear as she could have wished in his answer, but it seemed to do with some quality about her which discouraged boys from being forward. Or perhaps which failed to raise in them the idea of being forward.

Well, no matter what it was, she had traveled to Winterfell, and though she had not (much as she would have liked it) taken his measurements, she had come close enough to the Bastard to be hopelessly smitten by his rugged good looks, the dark, melancholy eyes, the full lips, the wavy brown hair with its highlights. Most boys showed their respect by totally ignoring her, which was irksome at times. She would not have minded a few sidelong glances, a blush or two, a faint sigh. But the Bastard had looked straight into her eyes and spoken kindly to her. When she had asked him if he liked his socks with a lined or unlined heel, he had answered :”Whatever is most convenient for you.” Those were the most romantic words anyone had ever spoken to her. When she was certain no one could overhear, she would whisper them to herself, a haunting, erotic lullaby. Behind the pleasant facade, however, she had been able to feel the sadness radiating from him, but was helpless to do anything about it, although she was convinced that she could have made him happy. It was ironic that she should have met him just when he was about to take a vow of celibacy that would put him forever beyond her reach.

”What did you expect him to do? Elope with you and come back to Worsted to design male knitwear?” Lambert had shown no sympathy when she disclosed her sad story to him. He had been brusque and impatient, rather than absent-minded as usual. She had nodded miserably. Of course not. Bastard or not, Jon Snow had been raised to become a knight, and she would go back to Worsted with a broken heart and the knowledge that he would never know it was she who had darned his best pair of socks with such exquisite stitches. Each jab of her needle had seemed to pierce her heart, not to mention that she had pricked her finger and bled all over the heel of his sock.

There was a knock at the door and a draught as it was pushed open, the newcomer never waiting for an answer.

”It's the Maester, m'Lady, he sent me to tell you there had been a raven from the Wall.”

Purlybell's heart jumped and came to knock against the back of her teeth.

”For my ears only?” Lady Worsted demanded. She was rumored to have been a beauty once, for whom men had fought and died. Now she was an old woman who wore black draperies and a black widow veil that hid her hair and part of her face. She was like a dark ghost, moved like one, and people went in fear of her. She did not raise her only visible eye from her work, but all the inmates of the room knew that she was aware of them with a keenness almost supernatural. The needles, for once, were silent.

”No M'Lady. The Maester said it should be public knowledge. The white walkers have waged a battle against the wildlings at Hardhome, and the many killed have now risen again and joined their army.” There was a collective gasp of horror, and the clink of falling needles dropped from suddenly nerveless hands.

”Is that all?” There was no discernible emotion in Lady Worsted's voice.

”No my Lady. The young Lord Commander - ” The boy's voice broke and he had to clear his throat. After a short silence he resumed :”He was killed, M'Lady. Killed by his brothers of the Night's Watch.”

There was a loud crash as Purlybell fell insensate to the ground.