maidservant at richard's farm, of Malesov
“I am a tired woman who tends the hearth and the bees. The world took my boy.”
Things Bozhena had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Someone has been at the skeps again. The woven straw was pushed aside. They think I do not know who takes it by night, but I know it is him, taking what is mine to settle a foolish wager. My beeswax burns cleaner than tallow, and thieves know it well.
the Monday after Easter, at None
Joseph of Rabstein sent another man to look in on me, claiming I am sick with grief and too much ale. I am not sick. He only wants to count my hives to see what he can tax. I stare at the scullery wall and try to remember my boy's face.
It is the duty of the estate to ensure the health of those who work the land. And to keep accurate tallies.
Nota scribaeShe paused for a long time before the last sentence, looking at her hands.
the eve of St Tiburtius, at Prime
Richard complains his morning porridge is cold. It is not cold, he is just slow to rise. I struck the flint before the birds were awake. I do my work in silence now. Some people in this yard I have not spoken a word to since Shrovetide, and never will.
The porridge was stiff as clay this morning, Bozhena, but I will not argue with you while your heart is heavy.
the second Tuesday of Lent, at Terce
Three threescore groschen. That is what Maurice had under the floorboards. The bailiff tore up the planks and took it all, saying a serf dying without heir forfeits his coin to the estate. It was my son's money. He earned it in the dirt.
The law of escheat is clear. The vagrant who stabbed the lad is gone, but the law remains.
Nota scribaeDictated at the edge of the orchard. The woman gave a heavy sigh that blew the ink on the page.
the Friday before Shrove Tuesday, at Compline
My Maurice is gone. He went to the alehouse with William and was brought back in the dark with a knife in his belly. The bailiff calls it a wandering beggar's doing, a drunken accident over a footrace. It was no accident. It was murder, and the murderer sleeps in our yard.
It was a dark road, Bozhena. We were set upon. He owed me coin, aye, but I would never spill his blood for it.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I have not touched your bees, woman. If I wanted honey I would buy it. A badger must have got at them.