maidservant at the tailor's yard, of Troskowitz
“I keep the hearth burning and stop the hired hands from killing each other.”
Things Rose had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Richard Bell sits in the tavern nursing one cup of watered ale again. He is hoarding every groschen for when Lambert the merchant comes back. I told him he will dry up like an autumn leaf before he buys that yew crossbow.
Nota scribaeShe wrung her apron the whole time she spoke. A poor habit.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Christ is risen, but Thomas still has not given Richard back his iron drawknife. They work in the yard like two stray dogs growling over a scrap of gristle. It is a holy season and they are both being bloody fools.
the feast of the Annunciation, at Sext
Hauled ten buckets from the well today, and the coarse ropes have left my hands raw. They say the soldiers on the roads have made grain dearer again. If I must thin the morning pottage any further, we will be drinking warm water.
Aye, the millers are taking us for fools. God will judge their greed.
He had better judge them soon, Margaret, before the men starve.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the kitchen hearth. The steam was foul.
the Wednesday after Ash Wednesday, at None
I have lost my mother's yellowed bone comb somewhere in the dirt of the yard. I have turned my bedding inside out looking for it. It is the only thing Cecily left me before the winter fever took her. May God help me find it.
Candlemas, at Terce
Young Richard has lent his fine iron drawknife to Thomas. A kind thing to do on a holy day, though Thomas barely gave a grunt of thanks. I pray this does not turn sour.
He needed it for the bench. We must help one another.
Nota scribaeShe paused here to wring her coarse linen apron before finishing.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Let me be, Rose. A good yew bow is worth a parched throat.