grower of cabbages, of Kuttenberg
“I am holding onto my land and waiting for Bohuta to return and marry me properly.”
Things Bohushka Cross had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
Whitsunday, at Compline
Denise just sat there sweeping ashes while Mikesh and I shouted over the wooden bowls again. He says I am a spinster and the cabbage land is his. By Saint Barbara, I will not yield an inch to him or my father. I will wait for Bohuta until I rot.
Nota scribaeShe yelled this so loudly the baker's dogs began to bark.
The Thursday before Whitsun, at Terce
There are more soldiers on the roads now and bread is getting dearer every week. Everyone is weeping about the king, but what does the king care about the price of a loaf? I just watch the men marching by, hoping to see Bohuta's face among them.
God protect us all. The troops are taking everything from the villages.
Nota scribaeThe dictating took long because she kept stopping to watch a column of armed men pass.
The eve of St George, at None
The ground is finally soft enough to pull the deep weeds. I was out past the walls since dawn, ripping them out by the roots. Katherine Wald walked by and looked at my dirt-stained hands like I was a leper. Haughty busybody. Better honest dirt than sitting on a cushion.
A woman of the town should have some dignity. You looked like a wild beast thrashing in the mud.
I was frightened you were going to throw the mud at us, Bohushka.
The Monday of Easter week, at Prime
My father Gilbert says I must forget Bohuta and find a proper husband. The old coward just cares what the priests think! Bohuta marched off with the mercenaries, but he will come back with a purse of silver and marry me properly. I spit on any man he chooses for me.
He was a lazy vagrant who owed the baker a fortune. See sense, daughter, before you bring us all to ruin.
He has twice the courage you do, you old fool.
The Wednesday of the second week of Lent, at Vespers
That lazy whoreson Mikesh tried to sell my cabbages for ale money again. My mother Dorothy promised that strip to me on her deathbed, God rest her soul. If he sets foot on it tomorrow, I will break his jaw with a heavy rock.
You are mad as a March hare, Bohushka. As the eldest son, the land is mine by right.
Touch my cabbages and I will bury you under them.
Nota scribaeDictated at a shout outside the church. She spat on the ground when naming her brother.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I just want to eat my supper in peace without the bowls flying across the room.
You are a stubborn mule and your vagrant is likely dead in a ditch somewhere.
Kurva! Say that to my face tomorrow and you will lose your teeth.