cook in Suchdol, of Suchdol
“I keep the garrison fed so they do not tear the village apart with their hunger.”
Things Alice Tanner had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Roger asked again for his padded gambeson for the muster. I smiled and told him it is safe in the cedar chest away from the mice, by Saint Lawrence. My stomach is in knots. If my summer wages do not come soon to redeem the thing, I am a dead woman.
Nota scribaeShe wiped her hands on her apron the entire time she spoke, leaving a grease stain on my ledger.
the second day of May, at Sext
Curses upon Eleanor in Kuttenberg. The bloodsucker wants twenty-five groschen now. Five groschen of interest on a simple pledge! Where is a poor cook to find five extra groschen when the garrison drinks on tally and the firewood is too damp to burn hot?
You should have come to me, Alice. Eleanor is a Kuttenberg leech. I know how to manage a village debt.
I would rather boil my own left shoe than let you hold my purse strings, Edith.
the third day of Easter week, at Compline
A fine mess. The pork I was meant to roast was foul, reeking to high heaven. I had to throw it to the yard dogs. The bailiff will flay me if he finds the larder empty. I had to borrow something left on a bench to make the butcher's price.
We all rot in the end, Alice. Even the bailiff's fine pork. Come have a quiet ale with me and forget the stink of it.
Nota scribaeDictated in a rush. She refused to name the thing she borrowed or the man who left it.
the Tuesday after Saint Gregory, at Prime
That young maidservant Alice is weeping in my kitchen again. She begs passing carters to walk three days to the Nebakov rocks to find her brother Vitek. It is pure madness. The roads are full of soldiers, and the boy is likely dead anyway. I gave her a heel of bread to quiet her.
She is just a girl who lost her home to the Cumans. Have a little pity in your soot-black heart.
I have pity enough, Zuzana, but salt tears do not boil the cabbage.
Candlemas, at Terce
I was up before dawn hauling damp wood. The hearth smokes like a charcoal kiln and my feet ache from serving supper to these loudmouthed soldiers. At least they bring coin to the village, but by Saint Lawrence, I wish they would wipe the mud from their boots before they sit.
The earth is muddy, Alice, and we shall all return to the dirt soon enough. Best get used to it.
Nota scribaeShe complained until the bells rang for the hour.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I need it by Sunday, Alice. The captain will have my hide if I stand in the line in my bare shirt.
You shall have it, lad. Just let me find the heavy iron key to the chest.