housekeeper at the vineyard, of Lorec
“I keep the staff house clean and boil pottage for a yard full of lazy fools. I have my dog Blanche, and that is enough company for any decent woman.”
Things Joan had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Compline
Frantishek tracked mud clear across my clean flags again. I chased him out with the broom. If he spent half the time working the vines that he spends making excuses, we'd have wine enough to drown the King. Blanche got his share of the pottage.
Nota scribaeShe wiped her hands on her apron the entire time she spoke.
the Tuesday after St John before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Brother Christopher came by today, and I gave him a good bowl of broth. It is a relief to speak to a man who does not shout. I asked him if it is a sin to wish a fire would take a certain farmer's house, just the chest by his bed, mind you, not the man himself.
The Lord hears our secret fears, Joan. But do not pray for fires.
What chest are you talking about, woman? You always had a strange head on you.
the second day of Easter week, at Sext
They are arguing in the yard again. Thomas is shouting his head off. Ever since Master Stislav left for Prague, there is no peace in this place. I bolt the door and stay with Blanche. At least dogs do not talk.
Stislav knew how to keep order. Now it's just noise and bad yields.
I wouldn't have to shout if Tuma knew how to tie a vine!
Nota scribaeDictated from behind a half-closed door. The dog barked throughout.
the feast of the Annunciation, at None
I saw the merchant Gilbert Clark riding his fine horse today. The same horse my brother Mikesh was hired to lead, two winters ago. Mikesh bled out in the snow, and that coward rode away to save his own skin. He walks around Lorec as if he has no blood on his boots.
I have told you a hundred times, Joan. There were Cumans everywhere. We had to scatter or all die.
You scattered. He died. May St Peter shut the gate in your face.
Nota scribaeShe chopped a root so hard the knife stuck in the board.
Candlemas, at Prime
The flour is dearer than last year, and the men complain the pottage is thin. I water it down because they do not deserve thick broth, not because the chest is empty. They showed their true mettle in the snow two years ago. Cowards get thin soup.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It was raining, Joan! A man cannot walk on air.
A man could wipe his boots. The dog has better manners.