Anna

the eve of Whitsun, at Compline

The ewes are sheared, praise be. My hands are cracked to the bone and my back feels broken in three places. Bartholomew rode past and didn't shout, so I reckon we met his tally. Getting my portion of bread now and not moving till the bells ring tomorrow.

Nota scribaeShe fell asleep against the wall before I could read it back to her.

the second Tuesday in May, at Vespers

Christ almighty, the rain ain't stopped for three days. The rutted ground is like to swallow my boots whole. The well yoke slips on my shoulders cause the wood is wet through. Just dragging water to troughs that are already full of rain. Ain't no sense to it.

• 
  Bartholomew

  The sheep still need fresh water, rain or no. Stop grumbling to the scribe and fetch the yoke.

• 
  Anna

  Aye, steward. I'm fetching it now.

the third day of Easter week, at None

Saw smoke over the trees towards Troskowitz. They say it's them Hungarian soldiers burning a croft. I'm terrified they'll come down the road here. We ain't got nothing worth taking, just coarse bread and sheep, but I reckon soldiers take what they want anyway.

Nota scribaeThe other hands agreed loudly with this sentiment.

the Wednesday before Lent, at Sext

They won't let it lie. The other hands keep asking if I'm looking for splinters in the mud. Heh. It was just a pale ash comb my mother carved me, but it was mine. I lost it near the north paddock around St Agnes's day. I just want the teasing to stop.

• 
  Anna

  If anyone finds it, I'll do their mucking out for a week. That's a promise.

Nota scribaeShe wiped her hands on her apron three times while speaking.

the Monday after Candlemas, at Vespers

Four winters now since the sweating fever took my mother Martha. I still measure how I handle a kicking ewe by how she taught me. It's quiet without her, but better she ain't here to see the mud and the soldiers on the road.