maidservant at the yard, of Grunta
“I keep the young master's yard fed and mended, though the men give no thanks for it.”
Things Isabel had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Compline
The pawnbroker in Kuttenberg says he will sell my mother's silver pin to a silversmith by next month if I do not bring the coin. Ten years I have hidden pennies under the floorboards, and I am still short. God's wounds, my blistered hands mean nothing.
Nota scribaeDictated as she banked the fire. She rubbed her hands on her apron repeatedly.
the eve of St George, at Vespers
Saint Barbara preserve me, these fools test my patience. Thomas snapped the front axle of the timber cart on a rut, and Frantishek blames his driving. Now Thomas keeps Frantishek's wheel grease out of spite. I am clicking my tongue dry at them.
The rut was deep as a grave! Frantishek's grease wouldn't have saved the axle. And I still lack the coin for Father Peshek's penance debt.
And you will not get a single groschen from me to pay it, Thomas. You broke the master's cart.
Nota scribaeShe stood with arms crossed, looking fiercely toward the yard.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
John is jumping at his own shadow again. He thinks Tuma the clerk has written his name on the bailiff's list for the Hungarian war. Tuma is just another corrupt townsman, and John is a coward for letting a clerk's ink ruin his wits.
You do not know Tuma! His pen signs men away to die in the mud. I saw him looking at me in Kuttenberg.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at None
Poor William was wandering the yard at dusk again, looking for the wooden dove his late wife Klara carved for him. Klara was a kind soul who taught me to bake good bread. I will keep a sharp eye out while I sweep the dirt.
God bless you, Isabel. It is only a small thing of wood, but it is all I have of her hands.
Candlemas, at Prime
The frost is thick on the thatch today. By midday my hands were raw from scrubbing the men's coarse tunics in the cold water. Without my mending, this yard would fall to pieces in a week, but they just snore in the loft until the pottage is ready.
See that the hearth fire does not go out, Isabel. The groats must be soft.
Nota scribaeThe maidservant spoke sharply and would not let me leave until I wrote the last part.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You always give me the better cut of meat, Isabel. I have a few pennies saved from the logging. You can have them.
Keep your coin, Frantishek. I take no charity, though I thank you for the thought.