beggar of Bylany, of Bylany
“I wait by the road for Christian charity, good sir. The Lord tests me, but I keep my peace.”
Things Bald Ellen had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Terce
A kind carter gave me two whole pennies today. I placed them in my pouch. It is slow, gentle master, but soon I will have enough for the convent door. I will not die on this road.
Nota scribaeShe touched her head covering three times while dictating this.
the fourth day of Easter week, at None
The mud is deep on the road to the silver mines, and the tradesmen are in a foul temper. I sit with my hands folded, but they only swear and splash my blanket. Christ keep them, for the war makes everyone cruel.
The roads are a disgrace to the Crown. My boots were ruined just walking to the tavern.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at Vespers
Father Dominic stopped on the road today and asked of Kuttenberg. I told him plainly I will never return there. The man who had me driven out like a stray dog remains. I am better here in the cold dirt.
You wrong him, child. The widow Klara spoke for herself, not for her son.
I do not know what my mother told you, Ellen, but I never asked you to leave.
Good sir, do not mock a poor beggar woman. I heard what I heard.
Nota scribaeShe looked as though she might weep, but I wrote only what she spoke.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Prime
They say the Cuman soldiers cut the ears off the dead for trophies. I pull my scarf tight over my head so they will not see my baldness and think me diseased. The Lord protects, but I stay near the barn.
They won't bother us, Ellen. We have nothing in our pockets worth a drawn sword.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
It is bitterly cold. I sat by the square with Droopy Andreas, and we shared a crust of hard bread. I dreamed last night of the days when my father had standing, and I had hair. It is a sin to look backward.
Nota scribaeDictated while shivering violently. The woman smells of damp earth.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A penny is a fine thing, Ellen. Better than the rotten turnip a passing soldier threw at me yesterday.