Brother Ernest

the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers

The rain comes right through the roof now. I pushed my pallet to the very middle of the dirt floor, but the damp still finds my bones. I woke with a tickle in my throat. I prayed to Saint Blaise, for if the chest fever takes me, I will have washed my own shroud.

Nota scribaeHe rubbed his knees constantly while dictating this.

the Tuesday of Easter week, at None

Stood by the village green all morning with my wooden bowl. Only a sliver of hard cheese to show for it. The Hungarian soldiers on the roads make everyone hoard their flour. The Lord provides, but a few groschen for a thatcher would be a greater miracle.

the feast of Saint Benedict, at Terce

I found another rotting patch on the eastern wall. It smells just like the chill that settled into poor Edmund before he died. Fifteen groschen is all it would take to hire a local thatcher. Osbert buys his spiritual grace with rotting timber and leaves me to freeze.

• 
  Osbert

  I endowed that shrine for my father's soul, not to line your pockets with groschen while the King's brother burns the realm.

Nota scribaeThe brother asked if Osbert's name could be written in dung. I declined.

the second Sunday of Lent, at Sext

Cleared the weeds from the shrine's base today. My knuckles ache so fiercely I can barely hold my brass crucifix. I offered blessings to a merchant heading north, but he did not leave a single penny. It seems piety is as scarce as dry thatch.

• 
  Brother Ernest

  And my bowl was nearly stepped on by his horse.

the day after Candlemas, at Prime

Osbert has packed his household and fled to Jicin to hide from the levies. He ignored my three letters and now leaves me completely stranded under a failing beam. May his conscience sag as heavily as my roof.

• 
  Osbert

  The Cumans are on the march, monk. Pray harder and you will not feel the cold.

Nota scribaeHe dictated this while clutching a small brass crucifix.