boot patcher of the camp, of Nomad camp
“I patch boots for soldiers in the mud and try not to freeze. The older women order me about, and everything was better when Rosa was here.”
Things Susanna had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the feast of St Pancras, at Prime
The wet spring will never end. I refuse to help Anna drag the heavy canvas for the wagon covers anymore. Let her do it herself if she hates me so much. If Saint Jude is merciful, the sun will dry out these hides today so my needles stop breaking.
the Tuesday after Laetare Sunday, at Sext
I cannot sleep. Every time the Cuman soldiers walk past my spot by the fire, I think they know what I saw at the creek. The one who just stood there watching Prokop drown. I bite my lip until it bleeds. I just want to go back to a proper town.
Hush, Susanna. You will get us all killed talking like that. Just keep your head down and stitch.
You talk too much, girl. Better to look at the fire.
Nota scribaeDictated in a fearful whisper behind a wagon.
the second day of Lent, at None
The camp is going mad without Prokop's wage. Now Elizabeth is fighting with Martha over a tin pitcher lent on Ash Wednesday, and Mary comes back from the village looking ready to murder someone. I just want to sit by the embers and stay out of it.
the eve of St Matthias, at Vespers
Prokop is dead in the freezing creek at Semine. Anna tied a loose knot on the rope, I swear by Saint Jude it wasn't my fault it slipped! Now the bitter widow tells everyone I dropped it out of cowardice. The heavy boots dragged him down.
You dropped your end of the rope! You let him drown because you were afraid of a little cold water!
The knot slipped from the trunk! Don't put your bad luck on me.
Nota scribaeShe looked over her shoulder towards the mercenary tents three times while dictating.
the week after Candlemas, at Terce
The mud here in Trosky is wicked. My hands are cracked from the cold, and I have to beg Sarah and the others for lamp oil just to finish stitching these cursed mercenary boots. I miss Prague. I miss Rosa settling things fairly.
Aye, when Rosa was here nobody stole my copper pennies. Now we are just left to rot in this mud.
Nota scribaeShe bit her lip the whole time she spoke.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If my Denis were alive, God rest his soul, he would not let a coward like you sit idle by the fire while I break my back.
Then go dig him up and have him drag the canvas!