IT IS DIFFICULT TO WRITE IN THIS TENT.
At Holt, almost no one came into my room, and I could leave my parchment on the window ledge. And at Caldicot, I could sit in my window seat with my ink-perch at my elbow.
I had beetles and spiders for company there, and sometimes a slug or a squirm—that’s what my foster sister Sian used to call them. But here there are hordes of flies, whining and buzzing, and they bite the back of my neck, and the backs of my knees, and my knuckles.
There’s no table here and no window ledge. So sometimes I prop myself up against my saddlebag and stuff a cushion between my knees and use that as a table; and sometimes I stretch right out, and kick up my heels, and write lying on my stomach. But each time, I have to pack my parchment away again as soon as the ink is dry and I’ve polished the page. I know I’m meant to use a boar’s tooth, but before I left, Winnie gave me one of her teeth and that works almost as well.
I’ve brought plenty of oak-apples, and acacia sap, and green vitriol in a glazed bottle, but it’s not easy to make ink here because there’s no fresh rainwater and also, if I’m not careful, grains of sand get into the mixture.
On the way here, most of my quills were wrecked. Turold bent them in half when he jammed his hammer into my saddlebag. When I went to the scriptorium at Wenlock, Brother Austin told me the outer pinions of geese and swans make the best quills, but the only feathers here are those of herring gulls. Their insides are furry, but at least they’re strong and shave easily.
Lord Stephen and I had so much to do before leaving that, although I’ve often looked into my stone and stepped into Camelot, I haven’t been able to write anything at all for months. There wasn’t even time to write about my betrothal to Winnie. But I do want to write down everything now.
When we embark on our galley, and sail south, slicing through the water, my pen will hover, then swoop, and mew, and scream.