maidservant at the mill, of Podseminsko
“I mend torn sacks and feed the dogs, the only decent souls around here. I keep a long memory.”
Things Joan had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Saturday before Whitsun, at Compline
Agnes gives out the wages tomorrow. I pray the Lord she gives me enough for new boots, because my toes are touching the mud. And if a certain bastard would just dig up what he promised us from the baggage train, I wouldn't have to freeze half to death going to fetch water.
Nota scribaeShe pointed a finger aggressively at the inkwell while saying this.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Seven sacks ripped at the seam today. Seven! You men drag them across the stones like they weigh nothing, and my hands bleed pushing the needle through this rough canvas. Sakra, it's endless. If you picked them up, I might finish before dark and the dogs wouldn't have to wait for their scraps.
A full sack is heavy, lass. If you want to haul them yourself, go ahead. Otherwise, patch the canvas.
At least you aren't hiding in the woods like some cowards I know.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard. The needle was indeed bloodied.
the Monday after St George, at Sext
Lemon and Sturdy ate half a burnt loaf from the kitchen, and it’s the best thing that’s happened all week. Dogs don't lie, they don't hide silver, and they don't send boys into the dark to get their heads bashed in. Wish I could talk to the dogs instead of the whoresons around here.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Bread costs another penny this week. Half the mill's talking about the soldiers taking provisions from the villages up the valley. Reminds me of the freezing streams and washing their bloody linen two autumns ago. At least we didn't all die on that wagon, though some of us should have.
Aye, the troops are stripping the land bare. We'll be eating grass by summer if King Wenceslas doesn't return.
Nota scribaeShe spat on the ground when mentioning the soldiers.
Ash Wednesday, at None
Fasting today, which isn't hard when Agnes locks the pantry. Margery and me are freezing in the bakehouse. I miss Benesh. He used to carry the heavy water buckets from the stream for me. Now I haul them myself, and every time I see Andrew, I want to take a bucket to his head.
Benesh was a good lad. God rest his soul.
Stay close to the oven, Joan. We'll make it through the cold.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your voice down, kurva. The bailiff's men were on the road to Troskowitz just yesterday. Do you want us all on the gallows?
We need the silver, William. Joan's feet are blue, and the dogs have better bedding than we do.