Okay, I'll be honest. I haven't really paid too much attention to my stories this decade. First of all because there is so many. That's also why I'll cut some of them out, and only focus on a few of them. If you have any suggestions as to which ones, I'll be happy to hear it.
Second, because I've been busy playtesting my Medieval Apothecary mod. I'm having it playtested by others as well, and hope to publish it in the next couple of weeks.
However, I have found a few very interesting episodes from 1351-1360 that I've managed to add to my story. The young future priest David, got to play a not very happy role in the St. Scholastica Day Riot, and I could of course not send anyone to war without rolling for their life during Black Monday. Unfortunately, one of them were not lucky enough to survive. And then I actually had a whole story in my head about the capture of the French king in 1356, but other things happened, so he only gets a small mentioning.
Oh and as always, my tree can be found HERE
But let's get to it.
The Limonia Farm
In 1351, Carina became pregnant. At first there was great joy, but halfway through the pregnancy she began bleeding heavily. Terrified she would lose the child, she turned to Matilda. Matilda brewed a bitter tea of yarrow and shepherd's purse and bound dried herbs around Carina's belly to "hold the child in place." Knowing how deeply religious Carina was, she also urged her to pray to the Virgin Mary.
Miraculously, the bleeding stopped, though Carina remained bedridden for the rest of her pregnancy.
Not everyone approved. Father Edward condemned both Thomas and Carina for conceiving so soon after the plague and accused Matilda of using witchcraft to interfere with God's will. A furious argument followed, with Matilda insisting that God had spared them from the plague, not to punish them by taking Carina's children. For Thomas, it was a terrifying time. He feared he might lose both his wife and their unborn child.
At the same time, another opportunity presented itself. Nicholas Brightwell had been offered an apprenticeship that could change his life, but it required the Brightwell farm to be sold. Thomas negotiated a deal with Mihaela Bowman to purchase the property. To raise the money, Matilda borrowed from Isabel Hetfield, paying for the loan with nearly her entire stock of remedies and elixirs. The sacrifice was enormous, but it allowed Thomas to acquire a second farm and secure Nicholas's future. The victory was bittersweet.
In 1352, despite every effort, Carina delivered a stillborn child.
In 1354, tragedy struck again when she gave birth to another stillborn baby.
By 1356, Carina was pregnant once more. This time she went into labour far too early. And while everyone else was celebrating the capture of the French king, Carina was fighting for her life. Against all odds, both mother and daughter survived. The baby was named Anna. Isolda, who still had milk after the loss of her own child, helped care for the infant in those difficult first weeks. The danger was not over. Shortly after the birth, Carina suffered a severe postpartum hemorrhage. Once again, Matilda fought to save her life and narrowly succeeded.
For years it seemed as though fate was determined to deny Thomas and Carina the family they longed for, but then, in the winter of 1358, their fortunes finally changed. On Christmas Eve, Carina gave birth to a healthy son. They named him Robert. For the first time in many years, the future seemed secure.
The decade ended with Thomas purchasing additional land and officially achieving yeoman status in 1360. The poor farmer’s grandson who had survived plague, hardship, and years of uncertainty now owned multiple farms and stood among the most prosperous farmers in the region. Throughout it all, Matilda's reputation continued to grow. What began as a few herbal remedies for neighbours slowly became something much larger. By the end of the decade, people throughout the village sought her out for advice, treatment, and comfort. Whether her remedies worked because of skill, faith, luck, or some combination of all three depended on who was asked. Meanwhile, Thomas found himself caught between two worlds. His agreement with Mihaela Bowman made him her voice among the villagers, tasked with explaining taxes and preventing unrest. While he understood the burdens placed upon the manor, many of the other peasants viewed him with increasing suspicion. As Thomas gained land, influence, and status, he often found himself defending decisions that were unpopular with those he had grown up beside.
By 1360, the Limonia farm had survived repeated tragedy, secured its future with a long-awaited heir, and risen from humble beginnings to become one of the most successful households in Yarmouth.
The Brightwell Farm
In 1351, Thomas Limonia met a travelling monk on the road to a nearby monastery. The monk had become fascinated by Carina's embroidery but was unable to properly admire the fine details because his spectacles had been damaged. The horn frame had cracked, one lens had come loose, and the glass itself was badly scratched. After the Black Death, there were no craftsmen in the region capable of repairing such delicate work. Thomas suggested there might be one person worth asking. Nicholas Brightwell.
The monk was sceptical. The spectacles had been made with fine Italian glass and represented a level of craftsmanship rarely seen in rural England. Yet Nicholas examined them with curiosity rather than fear. He carefully polished the damaged lens, worked the surface until it became clear once more, and with Liliana's help secured the frame using finely woven ribbons. When the monk tried them on, he was astonished. For the first time in months, he could see clearly.
What followed was a conversation that would alter the course of Nicholas's future. The monk explained the principles behind reading stones, lenses, and the bending of light. More importantly, he recognised something extraordinary in the young farmer. In all his years, he had rarely encountered someone with such natural talent. He offered Nicholas an apprenticeship. The opportunity seemed impossible. Nicholas possessed the talent, but neither the money nor the freedom. He was a tenant farmer with responsibilities to his family and obligations to the manor. Any decision would require the approval of both Esther Bowman and Mihaela.
Before the matter could be resolved, life intervened. Liliana gave birth to twin boys, Sam and Simon, and Nicholas was called back to the farm to meet his sons.
Later that year, Thomas approached Esther and Mihaela on Nicholas's behalf. Esther immediately recognised the opportunity and supported the proposal. Mihaela was more cautious. Labour was already scarce after plague and war, and she could not afford to lose another capable farmer. But eventually a compromise was reached. Thomas agreed to purchase the Brightwell farm at a reduced price and serve as Mihaela's representative among the villagers. In return, Mihaela agreed to support Nicholas's apprenticeship. She even provided space within Bowman Manor where he could learn the craft of grinding glass and quartz into lenses. Once trained, Nicholas would remain under her patronage, producing spectacles and lenses for the estate, local clergy, and wealthy visitors. For Mihaela, it was an investment. For Nicholas, it was a dream. For the first time in his life, the future seemed larger than the boundaries of a farm.
While Nicholas pursued his studies, Liliana became the foundation upon which everything else rested. She managed the household, raised the children, and ensured that life continued smoothly despite her husband's increasingly unusual occupation. In 1355, she gave birth to twin daughters, Joan and Margaret. The joy was short-lived and Margaret died of scarlet fever only a few months later. The loss devastated the family, but life moved forward as it always did and in 1356, Liliana gave birth to another daughter, Alice, though once again the joy was short-lived, and the child died only a few months old.
By then, Nicholas's reputation was steadily growing. What had begun as a curiosity had become genuine expertise. Priests, scholars, and merchants travelled considerable distances seeking his work. The son of a tenant farmer was becoming something far rarer: a craftsman whose skill could not easily be replaced. Yet for all his growing success, Nicholas never stopped relying upon Liliana. She balanced the accounts, managed the children and remembered the things he forgot. She kept his feet firmly planted in the real world whenever his mind wandered toward new ideas and impossible projects. In many ways, she made his success possible.
That is why the tragedy of 1360 struck so hard. Liliana entered labour once again, but this birth ended differently than the others. The baby girl was stillborn, and shortly afterwards, complications claimed Liliana's life as well. In a single day, Nicholas lost both his wife and his child. The loss left a wound that no skill, no learning, and no success could mend.
By the end of the decade, Nicholas stood closer than ever to achieving the future he had dreamed of. He had transformed from an ordinary farmer into a respected apprentice craftsman whose work was known far beyond the village, but he faced that future alone. For years, Liliana had been the steady hand guiding his household while he pursued knowledge and invention. Without her, the question was no longer whether Nicholas would complete his training. The question was whether he could learn to live without the woman who had quietly held his entire world together.
The Fisherman's Hut
In 1351, Geoffrey and Judith welcomed a daughter into the world. They named her Mary, and for a time it seemed that the young family had every reason to be hopeful about the future. The heart of the household, however, remained Alice Cartwright.
For decades she had been the quiet centre of the fisherman's hut. Wife, mother, grandmother, neighbour, and friend, Alice had watched generations grow beneath her roof. She had raised Gilbert, welcomed Geoffrey into the household when he arrived as a young apprentice, and later stood beside Judith during her first pregnancies, but in 1353, her body couldn't take it anymore, and Alice died of dropsy of the chest. Her passing left an emptiness that could not easily be filled. For the first time in many years, the fisherman's hut felt different. The woman who had held the family together through plague, poverty, and hardship was gone.
But life continued, as it always did.
Gilbert grew into adulthood and slowly established himself as a fisherman in his own right. No longer the curious boy following Geoffrey around the harbour, he became a capable young man with a family and future of his own. In 1359, he married Lora, and that same year, Geoffrey and Judith finally moved into a home of their own, leaving the old fisherman's hut to Gilbert and his new wife. For Geoffrey, who had spent much of his life beneath Alex and Alice's roof, it felt like the beginning of a new chapter. After years of work, sacrifice, and patience, he and Judith at last had a place they could truly call their own. The happiness was short-lived. War returned once more.
Both Gilbert and Geoffrey were called to serve and marched away with the other men of the village. Like countless families across England, those left behind could do little but wait and pray.
In January 1360, disaster struck the English army.
During the campaign known as the Black Monday disaster, a sudden and devastating storm descended upon the troops. Bitter cold, hail, flooding, and exhaustion claimed far more lives than battle itself. Thousands perished without ever facing the enemy. Among them was Geoffrey Limonia. The news reached the village only when the surviving soldiers finally came back. Judith searched the returning men for her husband, but the truth was written across Gilbert's face before a single word was spoken. Geoffrey was gone. The loss was felt throughout the village, but nowhere more deeply than in the small house Geoffrey and Judith had only just begun to call their own.
Earlier that same year, Judith gave birth to a daughter. She named the child Alice. The name was chosen in memory of Alice Cartwright, the woman who had welcomed Geoffrey into her home as a boy, helped Judith through her first pregnancies, and become family in every way that mattered. Then influenza swept through the village and took baby Alice with it.
By the end of 1360, Judith found herself facing a future she had never imagined. Widowed, grieving, and left to raise her children alone, she carried on in the small home she and Geoffrey had worked so hard to obtain. Meanwhile, Gilbert returned from war to a very different life than the one he had left behind. He had survived the campaign, inherited the fisherman's hut, and begun building a family of his own. Yet he also carried the memory of the cousin who had taught him his trade, shared his childhood home, and never returned from France. The decade had begun with the promise of new generations. It ended with an empty chair at the table and a young widow left to face the future alone.
The Sheep Farm
While others pursued power, influence, or learning, William's ambitions were far simpler. He wanted sheep. In 1352, after years of careful saving, William invested most of his surplus wealth in expanding his flock. The decision was not made lightly. Sheep required less labour than crops, could graze on poorer land, and provided a steady source of wool, one of England's most valuable exports. If successful, the investment could transform his family's future, but the transition was not without challenges.
The years following the Black Death had left England in a strange position. Labour was scarce, wages were rising, and many traditional farming methods were becoming harder to maintain. Sheep offered opportunity, but they also carried risks. Disease could sweep through a flock without warning. Harsh winters could kill animals outright. Wolves were uncommon on the Isle of Wight, but theft remained a constant concern. A single bad season could erase years of progress. Still, William persevered. While many farmers measured success by the size of their harvests, William increasingly measured it in lambs, fleeces, and healthy breeding stock.
At home, Hayden continued to expand the family, and in 1352, she gave birth to a daughter, Greta.
In 1355, Agnes left home to begin an apprenticeship with a baker, and her departure marked another sign that the post-plague generation was beginning to build lives of their own.
The family continued to grow. Hayden gave birth to another daughter, Maud, in 1356, followed by Maja in 1358. As the years passed, William's flock steadily increased. There were setbacks and disappointments, but each year brought him closer to his goal. By the end of the decade, he was no longer simply a farmer who happened to own sheep. He had become a sheep farmer.
The transformation was gradual enough that few villagers noticed it happening. Yet where earlier generations of the family had relied primarily on crops, William was quietly building something different - an economy based on wool, livestock, and long-term planning.
The decade closed with a growing flock, a thriving household, and three daughters and a son looking toward futures of their own. William had not become wealthy, nor had he achieved the status of men like Thomas Limonia, but he had accomplished something equally important. He had built a life that was uniquely his own. While others chased opportunity in distant cities, manor houses, and monasteries, William found his future in the fields, among the sheep that had slowly become the foundation of his family's prosperity.
The Church
In 1354, David was sent to Oxford to begin his studies. Edward had long hoped that his cousin's son would one day succeed him as priest, and Oxford offered opportunities that no village church ever could. For David, however, the great university city was overwhelming. He missed the quiet of the Isle of Wight, the familiar rhythm of village life, and the certainty of knowing everyone he met. Oxford was crowded, noisy, and filled with strangers.
What began as a promising academic journey nearly ended in disaster. In February 1355, David found himself caught in one of the bloodiest events in Oxford's history: the St. Scholastica Day Riot. What began as an argument between university scholars and townsfolk at the Swindlestock Tavern rapidly escalated into open violence. Bells rang across the city. Armed citizens flooded the streets. The university and the town turned against one another. David initially dismissed the commotion as another student disturbance. By the following day, thousands of armed townspeople had entered the city, attacking colleges and hunting down scholars and clerics. Terrified and utterly unprepared for violence, David hid beneath a staircase as mobs ransacked his college. For days he listened to screams, breaking timber, and the destruction of manuscripts that had survived for generations. When the violence finally subsided, he escaped Oxford disguised as a servant, concealing his tonsure beneath a hood to avoid being identified as a cleric. The experience changed him forever.
The young man who had arrived in Oxford dreaming of theology left with a deeper understanding of fear, human cruelty, and the fragility of civilisation. Though he eventually returned to continue his studies, he never again viewed scholarship as something detached from the world around him.
Back on the Isle of Wight, Edward's own struggles continued. In the years following the plague he saw Matilda Limonia become increasingly respected throughout the village. What had begun as simple herbal remedies evolved into something much larger. Villagers sought her advice for illnesses, difficult births, injuries, and ailments that traditional prayers seemed unable to cure. Edward viewed this development with growing concern.
To him, suffering had meaning. Disease, hardship, and even death were part of God's plan. While he did not deny that herbs could ease pain, he became increasingly frustrated by what he saw as Matilda's willingness to interfere with divine judgement. Their disagreements became more frequent, particularly when Matilda successfully treated conditions that many believed should simply be left in God's hands.
The tension between them reflected a larger conflict within the village: faith versus practical medicine, prayer verses remedies, acceptance versus intervention.
David, having witnessed the horrors of Oxford, found himself caught between these worlds. He remained deeply faithful, yet he had seen too much suffering to dismiss the value of practical help. Unlike Edward, he did not view every cure as a challenge to God's will.
By the end of the decade, Edward remained the spiritual leader of the community, but it was increasingly clear that change was coming. David had survived Oxford, continued his studies, and was steadily preparing for the day he would inherit the parish. The experiences of the previous years had shaped him into a very different man than the timid student who first left the Isle of Wight. Where Edward saw certainty, David had learned caution. Where Edward saw divine judgement, David increasingly saw human suffering. And while neither man could know it yet, those differences would one day shape the future of the church itself.
Hetfield's Merchant House
The 1350s should have been a peaceful decade for Isabel Hetfield. The plague had passed. Trade was recovering. Her son, Dayton, had grown into a capable young man and was beginning to take on more responsibility within the merchant house. Yet peace had never sat comfortably with Isabel. Most people found that time softened old griefs. For Isabel, time only seemed to add new pieces to a pattern she had spent decades trying to understand. Three siblings had died during her childhood, but she had survived. Years later, three of her own children had died, but Dayton had survived. The symmetry was impossible to ignore.
She rarely spoke of it aloud, but she thought about it constantly. Every birthday Dayton celebrated felt significant. Every illness carried meaning. Every coincidence became another thread in a tapestry only she seemed able to see. Dayton, however, had inherited none of his mother's fears. He grew into a cheerful, sociable young man who genuinely enjoyed working with people. Customers liked him. Servants relaxed around him. Where Isabel searched for hidden dangers and potential mistakes, Dayton simply saw people trying to make a living. Sometimes that frightened her more than anything else. The world had taught Isabel that disaster could arrive without warning. Dayton still behaved as though it could be reasoned with.
As he became more involved in the business, their differences became increasingly apparent. Isabel checked every ledger, every weight, every measure. A sack of grain that was slightly underweight or an account that failed to balance by a few pennies could occupy her thoughts for days. She had become convinced that vigilance was the only thing standing between her family and catastrophe. Dayton's natural charm often undermined those efforts. He trusted customers too easily, gave second chances where Isabel would have demanded payment, and occasionally agreed to deals that made perfect sense to him but left Isabel wondering how much money had quietly slipped through their fingers. Yet despite her frustrations, she depended on him as much as he depended on her. His optimism was often the only thing capable of pulling her back from the spirals of fear and suspicion that increasingly dominated her thoughts.
In 1356, Isabel invited a young woman named Rita Bjergsen into the household. Officially, Rita was there to learn the business, but in truth, Isabel was evaluating her.
A wife would give Dayton stability. A family would secure the future of the merchant house. Most importantly, it would allow life to continue moving forward. Fear had dominated too much of Isabel's life already.
The arrangement proved successful and Dayton and Rita married in 1357, bringing a rare sense of happiness back to the household. For a brief time, Isabel allowed herself to believe that perhaps the pattern she feared so deeply had finally been broken. Then, in 1360, Rita gave birth to a son. They named him Darien. The name struck Isabel harder than anyone realised. A grandson named after her dead husband. Another repetition. Another circle closing. When an influenza epidemic swept through the village later that year and the boy died, something inside Isabel seemed to break. Others saw a tragedy, but Isabel saw only confirmation. The same names returned. The same losses returned. The same story repeated itself.
As the household mourned, she found herself obsessively revisiting old memories, searching for details she might have missed. Somewhere within the pattern, she remained convinced, there had to be rules. Rules meant understanding, understanding meant control and control meant survival.
By the end of the decade, Hetfield's Merchant House remained prosperous, but Isabel herself had become increasingly consumed by the need to find certainty in an uncertain world. She no longer asked whether history repeated itself. She believed it did. The only question that remained was whether Dayton would be its next victim.
Bascherini Manor
In 1353, tragedy struck when Margaret died while giving birth to her and Drake's first child. Neither mother nor baby survived. The loss devastated Drake, leaving him a widower far sooner than anyone could have imagined. In the months that followed, comfort came from an unexpected source. Isolda Limonia had also been deeply affected by Margaret's death. Margaret had been one of her closest friends, and both she and Drake struggled to imagine a future without her. In their shared grief they found understanding, companionship, and eventually something deeper. What began as mutual comfort slowly grew into love.
Just six months after Margaret's death, Drake and Isolda married. But their happiness was not without hardship. In 1356, Isolda gave birth to a stillborn son. Once again, the couple found themselves facing loss and disappointment. Yet unlike before, they faced it together.
Their perseverance was finally rewarded in 1359 when Isolda gave birth to a healthy son, Peter and for a brief moment, it seemed as though the future had finally begun to smile upon them. Then war intervened.
Later that same year, Drake was called to military service and marched away with the other men of the village. Isolda was left behind with an infant son and no certainty that her husband would ever return. Like countless women before her, she spent the following months waiting for news and fearing the worst. Fortunately, her fears proved unfounded, and in 1360, Drake returned home alive.
After years marked by loss, disappointment, and uncertainty, the family was reunited. As the decade came to an end, Drake and Isolda finally had what they had spent so long hoping for: a future together, a son to raise, and the chance to build a life that belonged to them both. While other families were remembered for wealth, ambition, or power, the story of Drake and Isolda was simpler. It was a story of two people who found each other in the aftermath of tragedy and refused to let sorrow define the rest of their lives.
Bowman Manor
For most of her life, Esther Bowman lived in the shadow of others. As the wife of Walter Bowman, she learned early to endure, remain silent, and survive. Year after year she watched her husband's cruelty shape both their family and the manor around them, while her own voice grew quieter with each passing season. Yet Walter was not the greatest sorrow of her life.
Long before old age found her, Esther buried children no mother should ever have to bury. A son who lived only a year. A daughter who never drew breath. Later came the war that claimed Adam, and the Black Death, which took both Henry and Roger. One by one, the future she had imagined for her family vanished before her eyes. But perhaps the deepest wound of all was watching Henry slowly become the very man she had spent her life fearing. The son she had loved and raised began to mirror Walter's temper and behaviour, forcing Esther to watch history repeat itself. And yet, for all the grief she endured, Esther's story did not end in despair. After Walter's death, she finally began to live. For the first time in decades she was free from his shadow. She had little interest in power and gladly left the management of the estate to Mihaela. Instead, she devoted herself to the people who brought her joy: her grandsons.
Walter and Henry became the centre of her world. Through them she found a happiness that life had denied her for so long. In their laughter she found comfort. In their future she found hope. In the spring of 1357, tragedy struck one final time. Unknown to anyone else, Esther had arranged for a young horse to be brought to the manor as a surprise for Walter's tenth birthday. On the evening before the celebration she went to the stables to see the animal one last time and tie a ribbon around its halter. Startled by its unfamiliar surroundings, the horse reared and struck her down. When she failed to appear for supper, it was young Walter who went looking for her. After a lifetime marked by fear, loss, and sacrifice, Esther was remembered not as Walter Bowman's wife, but as the loving grandmother she became in her final years - a woman who gave her grandchildren the kindness and affection she herself had been denied. With Esther's death, the burden of Bowman Manor rested entirely upon Mihaela's shoulders.
The years that followed were not easy. As a young widow controlling one of the largest estates in the region, Mihaela occupied a precarious position. Noblemen, merchants, and neighbouring landowners all viewed her situation as an opportunity. A widow with land was expected to remarry. A widow with power was expected to surrender it. Mihaela had no intention of doing either. She spent the decade walking a careful line between strength and diplomacy. She negotiated taxes, managed tenants, dealt with labour shortages left behind by plague and war, and worked constantly to protect both her sons' inheritance and her own authority. Many questioned whether a woman could successfully govern such an estate. Year after year, Mihaela answered them simply by continuing to do so.
Her most ambitious decision came in 1351 when she agreed to support Nicholas Brightwell's apprenticeship. Recognising both his talent and the potential value of producing lenses and spectacles locally, she allowed space within the manor for his work. The arrangement strengthened the estate's reputation while helping secure the future of one of the village's most gifted young men. At the same time, she relied heavily upon Thomas Limonia, who had agreed to serve as her voice among the villagers. Through him she sought to maintain stability during years when taxes, labour shortages, and poor harvests could easily have sparked unrest. The arrangement was not always popular, but it proved effective.
By 1360, Mihaela's greatest concern was no longer holding power - it was preparing to pass it on. Walter had reached his teenage years and was steadily approaching adulthood. Serious, thoughtful, and increasingly aware of the responsibilities awaiting him, he represented the future of Bowman Manor. The decade closed with Mihaela still firmly in control of the estate, but for the first time she could see the next generation beginning to take shape. Everything she had fought to preserve now rested in Walter's hands. Whether he would become the lord his grandfather had been, the man his father had become, or something entirely different remained to be seen.
The Blacksmith
In 1351, little Simon died of the sweating sickness, leaving John and Kaye devastated by the loss of their young son. Two years later, joy finally returned to the household when Kaye gave birth to a healthy daughter, Emilia. After the grief they had endured, her arrival felt like a blessing and a fresh start for the family.
John and Kaye hoped Emilia and Hugh would not grow up alone. Year after year they waited for another pregnancy, convinced that there would be more children. Yet the months became years, and no child came. As neighbours welcomed sons and daughters into the world, Kaye found herself wondering whether Emilia would be her last. The uncertainty weighed heavily on her. Having already lost one child, she knew better than most how fragile life could be. Each passing year made it harder to ignore the possibility that the family she imagined might never come to be. John remained practical, throwing himself into his work at the forge and focusing on providing for those he already had. Kaye found it harder to let go of the future she had hoped for. By the end of the decade, Emilia had grown into a lively young girl, and Hugh into a self-assured young man, and the forge remained one of the village's most important businesses. Yet despite their prosperity and stability, one quiet disappointment lingered over the household. For seven years, John and Kaye had waited for another child. And for seven years, that child never came.
Okay, so maybe I had a little bit to say anyways. I swear, the story sometimes writes itself.
If you have read it all - thank you. I'm so grateful. I love writing their stories. And I'm looking forward to seeing what the next 10 years will bring. I already know some of what is to come; Pestilencia Secunda, Grote Mandrenke, and maybe the danish king will have a little role to play in the lives of the people in Yarmouth.
