pot-boiler for the camp, of Nomad camp
“I stretch roots and flour into soup for mercenaries. It is hard work to keep men fed in the mud, and I expect my things back when I lend them.”
Things Elizabeth had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
This flour Vlasta sells us is half sawdust. I stir it and it sinks like wet sand. If old Rosa were here, she would have marched to Troskowitz and wrung the ale-wife's neck for cheating us. Now we just squabble and eat dirt.
Nota scribaeDictated by the fire. She spoke so quietly I had to lean into the smoke to hear her.
the feast of St John before the Latin Gate, at Sext
I am drinking water from my cupped hands like a wild woman because some people have no shame. Two pennies for a winter wagon spoke, she says! A lie to steal my tin pitcher. I cross my arms and look at the dirt rather than look at her thief's face.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
King Sigismund's riders rode past the Semine road today. We hid the good pots. I have a few roots wrapped tight in my blanket, but I dread the day the sack is truly empty. You cannot feed hungry mercenaries with boiled water and prayers.
We will have to pawn the last of the wool to Vlasta soon.
Ash Wednesday, at None
Lent has begun. Martha came begging to fetch water, whining about her thirst. I let her take my good tin pitcher. I am a careful woman, and I expect it back by Vespers, washed clean.
You should not lend things out in this mud, Elizabeth. People forget.
Nota scribaeDictated while washing wooden bowls.
the eve of St Matthias, at Compline
Lord have mercy on Prokop. He fell into the flooded creek at Semine today. The water was freezing and the mud pulled him down. We threw a rope, but Martha started shouting and confused the men. Now we have lost our best driver and his steady wage.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Rosa always made sure the bread was fair. God keep her in Prague.