mistress of the estate, of Bylany
“I am the lawful mistress of the largest holding in Bylany, though my hands are raw from scrubbing pots. I do my best to keep the peace when the men start shouting.”
Things Joan had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Still no sign of Drslav's wagons on the road from Kuttenberg. William sold him our wheat last autumn and we were promised silver by Easter. Now Thomas complains in the yard all day about his wages, and I am the one who has to hear it. Holy Mary, send that merchant before my husband bursts a vein.
the Wednesday after St George, at Sext
Beatrice is driving me to an early grave over a tiny piece of metal. I borrowed her iron needle before Lent to mend William's torn shirt, and I put it somewhere safe. Now she threatens to tear my bedroom apart. It is safe in a chest, I simply cannot put my hands on it this very moment.
It was my good iron needle, Joan! You lost it under your filthy linen and will not admit you are careless.
I am not careless! The house is large and my mind is full of greater burdens than your mending.
Nota scribaeShe wrung her apron so hard I feared the cloth would tear in two.
the third day of Easter week, at None
There are so many soldiers on the roads, Hungarians and Cumans. I hear terrible things about burnt holdings. I asked Beatrice to carry a message to the town merchants to send word to my sister Avice, who is wed to a carter a week's ride from here. I cannot write, and I am sick with worry.
I am exhausted, Joan. I cannot walk all the way to Kuttenberg to look for merchants who do not know your sister.
the second Sunday of Lent, at Prime
The shouting in the yard never stops. Matilda broke a wooden churn on a loose paving stone, and William took her bone comb as a pledge to pay for it. Now she screams at him, and he drinks cheap ale in the barn. I begged him to give the comb back just so my ears might have peace.
It was a loose stone! Tell your drunken husband to give me back my comb, or I will stop milking altogether.
You will pay for the churn, you clumsy fool, or the comb gets sold in town.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the wash trough. The mistress spoke very fast.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
My brother-in-law Adam sleeps in the loft and spends all day in the woods, hoarding his coin while our larder empties. He will not even help poor Johanka. Father Geoffrey's clerk says she will be shamed from the pulpit for unpaid burial dues. She shakes with fear scrubbing the swine troughs, and no one will lend her a penny.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A man cannot eat promises, mistress. I have not seen a groschen since Candlemas.
Hold your tongue, Thomas, or you will sleep in the ditch. The silver will come.