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Away -- Wistan's farm - Dunstede
‘Who is it dear?’ Cwen’s muffled voice called out. She’d misplaced her little shears and was snipping the length of blue yarn off with her teeth. The woven tapestry she was working on was that of Wistan’s return from that ‘awful war’ as she called it. She’d gotten the top border done and was just switching from the triumphant blue of the sky to begin to weave in the top of her dear husband’s head. His helm, she had decided would be off, held in the crook of his right arm. For a moment her fingers lingered over the grey grizzled yarn and then as quickly moved on to the rich, chestnut brown. ‘I’ll put a few grey in . . . later,’ she said to herself, conceding that it wouldn’t do to have him looking as young as his sons are at present for this bit of family history. ‘Still,’ she sighed, her hand resting on the shuttle of brown worsted, ‘’tis how I see him, even now.’
She got up from her stool, as no one had yet answered her. ‘Rose? Rose!’ she called out. ‘Now where is that girl?’ She knotted the brown to the blue and laid the shuttled on the little work table she had near the loom. Wistan and the boys were out in the western field, finishing the ploughing there. Brita and Lynet, she recalled, were taking the goats to the north pasture for the day. And Ardith was busy planting in the garden along with Mayda and the children.
‘Coming!’ she called out to the visitor. She knew it was not someone from one of the neighboring farms. They would have called out as they knocked and stepped inside to see who was in. Perhaps it was the man from the village market, come to claim the yearling pig he’d traded for. Goodman Aidan, that was the name Wistan had mentioned. Yes, that must be it.
Her hips were aching fiercely as she walked the length of the hall. And she scolded herself for not picking up her cane to lean on a bit. She was a little startled to see an unfamiliar figure standing on the step. The bright light of a fair spring day was behind him, throwing his face into shadow.
‘Welcome, sir,’ she said, stepping out of the doorway, forcing him to move back a pace. She fussed with the skirt of her long apron, smoothing it down a bit. ‘I suppose you’ve come for the yearling, then?’ she began, stepping off onto the dirt to the side of the little porch. ‘He’s fattened up nicely for us. I think you’ll approve . . . Goodman Aidan. Step along carefully now; mind the muddy places. The piggery’s just there, near the barn . . .’
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