Ah, but I was getting ahead of myself. I would have to wait and see if any of these crops were fast growing enough to make my tactic viable.
"How long do you suppose it will be before you can harvest?" I asked. "Given that planting was only… hmm, a little more than a moon ago?"
"Two more moons, per'aps," the farmer replied, casting a critical gaze at the fields. "'Cept the wheat, o'course."
"But the other crops will mature faster than the wheat?"
"Aye, they will."
"Good, good," I murmured, nodding along. Doing some rough calculations in my head, I asked, "Given the shorter growing cycle, do you think there will be enough time to grow a second crop of the other grains before the summer snows?"
Yan chewed his lip for a moment, then began counting on his fingers. After a moment, he looked up and said, "Might be possible. We'd be cutting it close; mayhap if we'd planted a few sennights earlier…"
"I'm hoping that will be the case," I said, my voice low. "Getting a second harvest in, that is."
"Might be difficult, getting the labor together in time," he cautioned.
Absently, I smoothed out my dress. For propriety's sake, I was wearing an ankle-length dress, though for practicality, I had elected to wear a pair of trousers underneath them, given that I'd traveled by horseback. I had no intention of riding sidesaddle, nor of giving the smallfolk a glimpse of my bare legs.
I wanted to reassure Yan that I would take care of the labor issue, but… well, I wasn't as well versed in the mechanics of reaping machines, reaper-binders, threshing machines, or combine harvesters. I could probably sketch out a rough idea of a reaping machine, but I'd have to rely on a local blacksmith to figure out the parts I wasn't so clear on, and I wasn't at all confident in the Westerosi (in)ability to innovate.
The best I could do would be some variety of a Gallic reaper; a small cart with a metal comb at the front, positioned at just below the height that the ears of wheat grew. As it was pushed through a field, the comb would strip the grain off the stalk and deposit it in a basin. Unfortunately, it wasn't 100% accurate, sometimes missing whole ears or spilling some of the grain on the ground, and it left the stalks in the field. I supposed that a farmer could rush to harvest the grain, then come back later at his leisure to reap the stalks…
'I'll give it some thought,' I promised myself. 'It would save at least some labor during harvest time. And who knows, maybe I could figure out a seed drill while I'm at it? Han dynasty China had a simple seed drill; maybe I could recreate that?'
"Well, we have time to figure that part out," I belatedly replied to Yan. "Right now, I'm more concerned over whether or not we can squeeze in two harvests per year."
"I 'spose we'll find out, milady," Yan answered.
"I'll be sure to check in with you in a moon's time," I told him. "Until then, please keep sending your reports to Maester Luwin each sennight."
"Aye, milady."
After coming back to the castle, I'd elected to check on my workshop before washing up for dinner. After a quick check in at the increasingly crowded main hall -I would have to start expanding my operations into the rooms on the next floor up soon- I made my way to the former kitchens, and the large ovens and fireplaces there in.
"How is it coming along, Adrya?" I asked the woman. She was energetically working a wooden whisk through a thick liquid in a medium-sized cauldron. The cauldron was sitting atop another cauldron that was full of boiling water, in a makeshift double boiler setup.
"This batch is coming along nicely, milady," the middle-aged herbalist answered. "We'll start portioning it into the jars shortly."
"Excellent," I replied with a pleased smile. Leaning over, I wafted the vapors from the concoction towards my face, breathing in the lovely scent of meadow flowers and forest herbs.
The grease from a sheep's fleece was called lanolin, and some time ago I'd remembered that it had been used as a skin cream in the previous century in my old life. It was supposed to help with dry, rough, and cracked skin, among other benefits. In the first half of the 20th century, it had been used to fight wrinkles, for example, though perhaps its strangest use had been as a nipple cream for nursing mothers; it helped soothe irritation caused by breastfeeding, and when made with edible oils, was completely safe for both mother and child.
So, since I was already washing the grease out of the fleece, rather than throw it away I elected to make something from it. After the first wash, which would have been contaminated with dirt and debris, the second wash (more of a long soak in warm water, really) drew the majority of the grease out of the wool, leaving behind just enough to keep the fibers flexible and soft, but no so much that it refused to stick together when spun.
It was a relatively simple matter of boiling away the water in a large but shallow pan, then pouring the liquid grease into a jar for safekeeping. I didn't get very much of it from each cauldron, but it added up over time. To make the skin cream, it was a simple matter to melt the grease together with some beeswax, add in any herbal oils we wanted for scent, and then add water to the mixture a little bit at a time while whisking it until it was smooth and creamy; since both lanolin and beeswax were both mild emulsifiers, the grease and water in the cream wouldn't separate. A little bit of sea salt was added at the very end, used as a preservative to keep the lanolin from rotting. Once the concoction was ready, using a makeshift piping bag made from a simple wooden nozzle affixed to a thoroughly washed wineskin, it was relatively easy to squeeze it into small clay jars.
I had used a bit of the first proof-of-concept batches myself, and it worked wonders, especially since my lips and hands were rough and dry from the cold of the North. I hoped that I could export it as a luxury cosmetic and earn a significant profit, compared to the price of the materials and labor. I'd sent a jar to several of the noble ladies of the North, to my sister Lysa, who was residing in the Vale, and to a few other ladies in the Riverlands that I was familiar with; with any luck, they would tell their friends, and word would get around, generating demand for this product.
Adrya was already trying to make rose water from some of the blue winter roses that grew in Winterfell's glasshouses; should it prove successful, that particular scent would be the most expensive, and branded with the Stark direwolf, to denote its quality. The blue winter roses had a strong rose scent, but with subtle floral undertones that more conventional roses lacked; to my inexperienced nose, it was reminiscent of faint hints of lavender and honeysuckle. It was that uniqueness that I hoped to market; by making it a more exclusive product, I could demand a higher price for it.
"It seems to be coming along nicely," I complimented the woman. Adrya was a wood's witch, an herbalist in truth, that had been living in the Wolfswood for many years. Her knowledge of herbs, flowers, and essential oils was exactly what I'd needed for this product, and I had promised her an attractive salary for her expertise. "You've done an excellent job."
"It was your idea, milady," she modestly replied.
"Perhaps, but it was your knowledge of herbs that made it better," I pressed. "The smell of lanolin isn't… well, it isn't very pleasant, is it? Without your herbs and oils, I doubt many noble ladies would be eager to use it!"
"I… thank you, milady," the woman replied, her aging face flushed with embarrassment.
"You're quite welcome," I said with a smile and a gentle touch on her shoulder. "I have other matters to attend to, so if you will excuse me…"
"Of course, milady," Adrya replied, turning her focus back to whipping the concoction in the cauldron.
Aside from the skin cream, the kitchens had become my makeshift dyeworks. Using Rickard the merchant's knowledge of locally produced dyes, I had taken to dying a portion of the cloth and thread before selling it off. Dyed thread and cloth brought in a better price than its undyed counterparts, and the most experienced weaver in the workshop was experimenting with using multicolored thread to weave colorful, complex patterns into his cloth. I expected it to bring a high price.
"Harri," I greeted the man in charge of my dyeworks. He had been a tanner by trade, and was familiar with dying leather; that experience had translated over quite well to dying cloth. "How goes the dyeworks?"
"Very well, milady," he answered, looking up from a sample of cloth he had been examining. "Some of the new dyes we were trying aren't working out; they run when wet, you see?"