Feastday of Saint Sigebert in the Eighth Year of the Reign of King Richard
And so the summer passes with narry a whimper. But springs, summers, and autumns are much like another these days with the air so cold. It seems that summer has passed over us. I heard tales of hot summers from old men before the Plague years, but I have seen no such summers myself. Some say it is the lingering misery from the Plague that took so many into the bosom of God. Some say it is some other curse upon the land.
All I know is that crops are scarce, which makes what food there is expensive. No rich table for us on the Shambles. I weary of turnips as much as Jack wearies of perparing them.
I feel the chill today and I notice the leaves clattering upon their boughs, as if they had already surrendered to the inevitable. Autumn should be a joyful time. Indeed, for the tillers of soil it is still rich in good humor. The harvest is almost done, what little of it there is. I can remember much rejoincing on my estates in Sheen when the corn was brought in. The bonfires would light the skies and how the tillers would dance and carouse! The same atmosphere can be seen on the streets of London, for the alehouses groan with the many who come in from the fields.
The long days shorten again and I can see stretched shadows encroaching, darkening the thick alleyways and bringing on dread thoughts of winter.
As for me, the angle of the sun seems to bring more business my way. It is almost as if the wicked would complete their crimes before winter sets in, before blood on the snow can give them away. And so I reap a harvest of a different kind. How can I begrudge myself? I must take a scythe to the wicked and lay them low. Death takes his payment by the collection of souls, but I must be more pragmatic. Sixpence a day is more to my liking.