baker for the inner pavilion, of Sigismund's camp
“I bake bread from bad flour so the army can eat, and my crusts are the only comfort.”
Things Edith Black had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Ascension, at None
Alice Wright asked me again to walk three weeks north to tell her mother Ellen she is well. I am a camp cook, not a royal messenger. I will not leave my warm ovens to be murdered on the road.
Nota scribaeShe wiped flour on my ink horn while dictating this.
the third day of May, at Prime
I tried to rid myself of Alice's errand. I caught Standa by the supply wagons before he rode for Prague and asked him to carry the word. The greedy little whoreson demanded three whole groschen just to speak a few words.
A horse eats oats, baker. Silver buys oats. You want a favor from me, you pay the coin.
Three groschen is a week's hauling for me. The boy is mad to ask it.
the second day of Easter week, at Terce
The sutlers brought another sack of sour grain today. I swear they sweep the mill floor and sell us the dust. But I worked the dough hard, baked the bad taste out, and gave Francis the warmest loaf from the morning.
A fine crust, Edith. The Lord sees your good work, and so do I.
Francis eats warm bread while we freeze in the bathhouse under a torn roof. God's nails.
the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, at None
If Alice's dog Whitefoot comes near my dough boards again, I will swat its nose with my spoon. Amiable and Lemon I can abide, for they chase the rats from my flour, but Whitefoot keeps sniffing at the yeast.
He is just hungry, Edith. The camp is lean for us all right now.
Nota scribaeShe waved a wooden spoon at me menacingly to emphasize her point.
the first Tuesday in Lent, at Compline
The wind off the plain is cutting right through the tents tonight, and men are shivering in the mud. I banked the coals high and swept my spot by the stones. The heat of the ovens is a blessing from God.
My hands are numb from hauling bath water. You have the luck of the saints, Edith.
Poor Klara died of the coughing sickness in such weather. Stay warm by your fires, lass.
Nota scribaeDictated just before she lay down on the floor to sleep.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You have an uncle up that way! It is not so far, Edith, and my mother worries terribly.
I have not seen that man since I was a child. He can rot, and so can the road.