Although textile remains from the early Anglo-Saxon period are quite rare, painstaking analysis by textile archaeologists including Elizabeth Grace Crowfoot, Sonia Chadwick Hawkes, and Penelope Walton Rogers reveal tantalising glimpses of the surprisingly colourful world of Anglo-Saxon and Viking Age textiles.
Having explored and experimented with plant-dyes for a number of years, we present here two projects to produce garments of the very brightest colours we could achieve with home grown plant dyes.
A wide range of shades, from white through creams to greys and browns, and even black were achievable simply by means of sorting sheep fleece before spinning, or by different retting techniques and sun-bleaching of plant fibres like flax, hemp and nettle-fibre.
In the Anglo-Saxon period there seems to have been an increase in access to purer white wools, and with it came expansion of potential for bright colours from dyeing using techniques which first began to be practised in North Europe in the late Iron Age.
Many native plants can be used for dyeing yet relatively few specific plant dyes appear in the archaeology; most famously, indigo blue from woad (Isatis tinctoria), luteolin yellow from weld (Reseda luteola) or dyers greenweed (Genista tinctoria) and others, and reddish colours (alazarin) from the roots of various bedstraws including most famously, dyers madder (Rubia tinctorum). The latter, though popular among the Romans, is peculiarly all but absent from early Anglo-Saxon archaeology, returning tentatively in the 7th century, usually in expensive trim. Other dyes (tannins, lilacs and purples from lichen varieties, and others) were in use, but many secondary colours are possible simply by overdyeing these three principle plant dyes, but also through modification using alternative mordants and additives.
Wool yarns dyed by Æd Thompson in 2017 using woad, weld, madder, and combinations thereof.
Plant-dyed cloth has a particular quality in terms of look and lustre that is hard to simulate or even adequately describe, and there is therefore more than just an intangible payoff for living historians pursuing truly plant-dyed costumes. It is further, false to assume that "plant dyed" means "dull", "soft" or "pastel" tones, as the results of successful plant-dyeing can be blindingly bright, though often fading with time. The affinity of light, natural de-greased wool for dyes is quite staggering, and only enhanced by mordants. Plant fibres, on the other hand, do not have a strong affinity for dyes, and at best, plant dyes produce softer hues on them. To what extent the Anglo-Saxons used plant dyes on the likes of linen is a matter of debate; there is next to no evidence of dyed linen in the archaeology, though it could be argued this is an artefact of preservation, with pigments more likely to be retained (to be detected by scientific analysis) in wool, over 1000 years in the earth, compared to linen.
Over a number of years, our team (members Lindsey and Æd in particular) have been exploring plant-dyeing, experimenting on various scales, with various dyes and recipes, drawing on the advise of a number of more experienced experts. We are particularly indebted to the Mulberry Dyer, Deb Bamford, for her guidance and expertise. Plant dyeing has a satisfying "alchemical" quality, often involving mysterious colour changes, odd ingredients, and not uncomplicated recipes.
One of the most ancient, and most famous dye plants, with evocative "magical" associations, woad - a relative of cabbage - works totally differently to other dyes, as the dye chemical from the plant is wholly insoluble.
Freshly harvested home-grown woad (Isatis tinctoria) leaves
Crushing and simmering of the leaves will simply release the blue powder from the leaves, which will collect in the pan (and can, patiently, be dried, if desired, to be mixed with binding agents to form a paint! Such a paint was used, among other places, in the detailing on the cover of the Stonyhurst / Cuthbert Gospel). The challenge with woad, therefore, is to find a way to dissolve it so that it can soak into the fabric, and here, to the rescue, comes some surprisingly advanced chemistry.
What is required is a reducing agent; a chemical which will strip the oxygen from the dye molecules. Through this, the indigotin (insoluble) is converted to indoxyl, which is soluble and can soak into the fabric, although this will rapidly turn back to insoluble indigotin on contact with air. Through this process, temporarily soluble dye can enter the network of fibres which comprise the cloth or yarn, but afterwards transform to insoluble powder within its matrix and, for the most part, cannot wash back out. But what reducing agent? As with so many ancient and medieval crafts and industries, the answer was urine. Specifically the ammonia which is produced by its fermentation. This foul business is the reason dye industries tended, along with tanning, to be banished to the outskirts of medieval and later settlements.
Though not knowing the actual chemistry underpinning the process, generations of experimentation and the sharing of expertise would have led to an intuitive understanding of how to achieve good results, and it is interesting to speculate how the process by which these particular leafy greens and stale urine, when associated, can be used for dyeing. Traditional herbalism holds that woad leaves can be used as wound-dressings, and as one of the most ancient "cleaning agents" stale urine may have been used by ancient people to clean wounds. If both were applied together, ancient people may have found that their skin magically turned blue as the dressing was taken off, and through this, would have become aware of this mechanism of dyeing.
In practice, at least on a small (bucket with lid) scale, our experience of woad-dyeing with urine was frustrating as well as foul. The fabric would come out of the green vat vaguely pale green, and turn pale blue on contact with air, but weak activity of the reducing agent often meant that it would be wholly used-up reacting with air introduced along with the cloth or yarn, and take a day or two to regenerate.
What is required is a reducing agent; a chemical which will strip the oxygen from the dye molecules. Through this, the indigotin (insoluble) is converted to indoxyl, which is soluble and can soak into the fabric, although this will rapidly turn back to insoluble indigotin on contact with air. Through this process, temporarily soluble dye can enter the network of fibres which comprise the cloth or yarn, but afterwards transform to insoluble powder within its matrix and, for the most part, cannot wash back out. But what reducing agent? As with so many ancient and medieval crafts and industries, the answer was urine. Specifically the ammonia which is produced by its fermentation. This foul business is the reason dye industries tended, along with tanning, to be banished to the outskirts of medieval and later settlements.
Though not knowing the actual chemistry underpinning the process, generations of experimentation and the sharing of expertise would have led to an intuitive understanding of how to achieve good results, and it is interesting to speculate how the process by which these particular leafy greens and stale urine, when associated, can be used for dyeing. Traditional herbalism holds that woad leaves can be used as wound-dressings, and as one of the most ancient "cleaning agents" stale urine may have been used by ancient people to clean wounds. If both were applied together, ancient people may have found that their skin magically turned blue as the dressing was taken off, and through this, would have become aware of this mechanism of dyeing.
In practice, at least on a small (bucket with lid) scale, our experience of woad-dyeing with urine was frustrating as well as foul. The fabric would come out of the green vat vaguely pale green, and turn pale blue on contact with air, but weak activity of the reducing agent often meant that it would be wholly used-up reacting with air introduced along with the cloth or yarn, and take a day or two to regenerate.
Jar containing pure indigo from home-grown woad. This was achieved by simmering the chopped leaves before seiving them out, continually whisking the water, allowing the "blue dust" to settle, syphoning off the water at the top, adding water to wash away other pigments, and repeating.
It is not a simple case of leaving the fabric in, either, for the ammonia will as readily reduce the dye already in the fabric and allow it to leach out. After days of trying we managed to get pale and patchy blues on some cloth samples; proof of concept if nothing else. We're confident, or at least are prepared to trust, that a larger, more well fed, and more "mature" vat could easily and reliably produce better colours and on a larger scale, but we are happy to leave this to other intrepid dyers with stronger stomachs.
It should be noted that while the foulness of this business can be washed from the fabric, after the dye has fully oxidised in the air, it may reek again if it gets wet. Not keen on this prospect at living history events, and wishing to demonstrate the full potential of woad-dyeing, for our exemplar costume item we made a small concession to modern chemistry and used a modern reducing agent (spectralite) to fully reduce the dye, allowing it to dissolve.
A bolt of fine diamond-twill wool, of a kind frequently preserved on the back of early Anglo-Saxon brooches, was the starting point for a 6th century Anglo-Saxon dress, which was then dipped multiple times into an active woad vat; entering white, absorbing the yellow to green dye, and then spectacularly converting to brilliant blue on contact with air. Additional, shorter dips (long enough to allow more dye to soak in, but not so long that the dye already locked in would be attacked by the reducing agent) allowed the colour to be made deeper and stronger, and to even out some patchiness. Pale and dark patches occur as the vat typically will have "blooms" of concentrated dye near the surface, while, additionally, in any one dip, it may be difficult to ensure the whole bolt of fabric is fully submerged without trapping bubbles. Dyeing "in the yarn", however, would mean any variation in shade would even out once it was woven, and it may be that this approach predominated.
We finished the dress with brightly coloured 6th century Snartemo-V-style tabletweave in madder red, weld yellow, and woad-weld green.
It should be noted that while the foulness of this business can be washed from the fabric, after the dye has fully oxidised in the air, it may reek again if it gets wet. Not keen on this prospect at living history events, and wishing to demonstrate the full potential of woad-dyeing, for our exemplar costume item we made a small concession to modern chemistry and used a modern reducing agent (spectralite) to fully reduce the dye, allowing it to dissolve.
A bolt of fine diamond-twill wool, of a kind frequently preserved on the back of early Anglo-Saxon brooches, was the starting point for a 6th century Anglo-Saxon dress, which was then dipped multiple times into an active woad vat; entering white, absorbing the yellow to green dye, and then spectacularly converting to brilliant blue on contact with air. Additional, shorter dips (long enough to allow more dye to soak in, but not so long that the dye already locked in would be attacked by the reducing agent) allowed the colour to be made deeper and stronger, and to even out some patchiness. Pale and dark patches occur as the vat typically will have "blooms" of concentrated dye near the surface, while, additionally, in any one dip, it may be difficult to ensure the whole bolt of fabric is fully submerged without trapping bubbles. Dyeing "in the yarn", however, would mean any variation in shade would even out once it was woven, and it may be that this approach predominated.
We finished the dress with brightly coloured 6th century Snartemo-V-style tabletweave in madder red, weld yellow, and woad-weld green.
We were keen to produce another garment that displayed the full potential of madder. The dye in madder (alazarin), like most other plant dyes (but not like woad!) is soluble; steeping the chopped madder roots will release the dye into solution, rather like making tea, and this "tea" will easily soak in (and wash out!) of the fabric. What is required, then, is another chemical to help trap the dye; a mordant. Much is made of the etymology of mordants (related to the French mordere- to bite) but this is unhelpful, for, unless something has gone very wrong, no chemical should "bite" into the fibres. Rather, mordants are soluble (and polar) chemicals which will easily soak into fabric, but have a tendency to "clump" together with dye molecules when they are mixed. The resulting clumps, chains and blobs ("dye complexes") of linked dye and mordant molecules, if formed while inside the network of fibres which make up the yarn or cloth, will be entangled, too big to easily wash out. Thus the dye will stay in place. Because they sit linked up with the dyes, some mordants can modify the resulting colour.
As previously noted madder-dye is rare in the early Anglo-Saxon archaeological record, and is gradually re-introduced during the 7th century. Its scarcity may at least partly be accounted for by the fact that madder dyeing (more-so than the extremely strong yellow dyes) is particularly reliant on expensive mordants and as the pigment's colour changes with pH, acidic mordants such as natural tannins are not a good choice.
At least as far back as the medieval period the mordant of choice was potash alum (potassium aluminium sulfate). This mainly Mediterranean-sourced mineral would have been difficult to access in the early Anglo-Saxon period, and it has been suggested locally sourced clubmoss could have been used instead, though this cannot have been sufficient to sustain the late Anglo-Saxon dye industry, which may have returned to the gold standard of mordants; alum.
Using a large non-reactive vat, a means of maintaining a temperature of roughly 45'C, and a fairly enormous amount of chopped madder root, we dyed a bolt of the very same diamond twill fabric mentioned above.
As previously noted madder-dye is rare in the early Anglo-Saxon archaeological record, and is gradually re-introduced during the 7th century. Its scarcity may at least partly be accounted for by the fact that madder dyeing (more-so than the extremely strong yellow dyes) is particularly reliant on expensive mordants and as the pigment's colour changes with pH, acidic mordants such as natural tannins are not a good choice.
At least as far back as the medieval period the mordant of choice was potash alum (potassium aluminium sulfate). This mainly Mediterranean-sourced mineral would have been difficult to access in the early Anglo-Saxon period, and it has been suggested locally sourced clubmoss could have been used instead, though this cannot have been sufficient to sustain the late Anglo-Saxon dye industry, which may have returned to the gold standard of mordants; alum.
Using a large non-reactive vat, a means of maintaining a temperature of roughly 45'C, and a fairly enormous amount of chopped madder root, we dyed a bolt of the very same diamond twill fabric mentioned above.
 20/2 worsted yarns in a madder dye bath; previously woad-dyed wool (left) and previously undyed wool (right). |  Bolt of diamond twill wool in the bath of madder. The fabric is loosely concertinaed to fit yet allow the dye to circulate fully around all areas. It was also regularly mixed. |
This was first stripped of any grease, soaked in a concentrated mordant vat, and then introduced to the hot dye-bath, where it soaked for 5 days. This duration was not necessary but contributed to the depth of colour. Importantly, because of the slow and gentle "soaking" nature of non-substantive dyes, the fabric took up the colour evenly. The fabric was removed, dried, washed thoroughly, and dried again. It had shrunk somewhat in the process, possibly due to the heat and duration of the dye process. If repeating, we would likely try a slightly cooler dyebath.
Intended as a cloak, this bolt of wool had its warp ends tied into tassels, while the edges were enhanced with our own woven Snartemo-II tablet-weave, woven with yarns we had previously dyed with woad and weld.
Wary of piercing this fine fabric, tiny loops in the tablet-weave were integrated as it was stitched on, which provide attachment points for a brooch without pushing a pin through the weave.
Both garments demonstrate the vivid colours available to our ancestors. Having been dyed "in the cloth" the colour is uniform rather than alternating, with the weave pattern only visible as texture. Though it is likely the majority of dyeing was done "in the wool/yarn", colour-patterning so often seen on Anglo-Saxon living historians' costumes is actually rare in the Anglo-Saxon archaeological record. The look of this wool, with its subtle diamond pattern but single colour, is therefore arguably more representative of a majority of finds.
Intended as a cloak, this bolt of wool had its warp ends tied into tassels, while the edges were enhanced with our own woven Snartemo-II tablet-weave, woven with yarns we had previously dyed with woad and weld.
Wary of piercing this fine fabric, tiny loops in the tablet-weave were integrated as it was stitched on, which provide attachment points for a brooch without pushing a pin through the weave.
Both garments demonstrate the vivid colours available to our ancestors. Having been dyed "in the cloth" the colour is uniform rather than alternating, with the weave pattern only visible as texture. Though it is likely the majority of dyeing was done "in the wool/yarn", colour-patterning so often seen on Anglo-Saxon living historians' costumes is actually rare in the Anglo-Saxon archaeological record. The look of this wool, with its subtle diamond pattern but single colour, is therefore arguably more representative of a majority of finds.
Checked 09/03/2024
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