maidservant at the wash-house, of Kuttenberg
“I scrub the heavy blood out of Hungarian cloaks for Adelheid and take my rightful wages in peace. The Lord knows I carry the lazy girls on my back.”
Things Margery had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Joan has missed another week of scrubbing to bat her eyes at the garrison guards. I took the heaviest padded jacks again today. My hands are like saddle leather and my back aches, but I will see my coin from Adelheid.
the feast of Saint Philip and Saint James, at None
Marion Mailer is bleating about that padded gambeson again. I took it to Mathes the pawnbroker because my throat was dry and the ale-wife needed paying. A working woman must eat and drink. Marion can wait until the soldiers pay us.
That was my coin that bought it, you thief! Fetch it back from Mathes!
Go fetch it yourself. It is keeping the cellar mice warm.
Nota scribaeShe spat on the floor when she named the pawnbroker.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Christina is weeping again because she says she heard Clara's ghost in the wash-house. I told her the dead have better things to do than haul buckets. Clara left me her good boots when the fever took her, and they fit perfectly.
the third Sunday in Lent, at Terce
Grete has the gall to ask for her copper jug back. She says it was a loan to brew tea. But she feigned a bad back all last month and left me to scrub a mountain of Hungarian cloaks alone. The jug is mine now.
It is my best jug! I was bedridden, Christ almighty, give it back!
Bedridden when the work was hard. The jug is payment for my sweat.
Nota scribaeDictated at the ale-house. She kept tapping a large dent in the jug's spout as she spoke.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
The cold is biting hard enough to snap a bone. Adelheid sent down a cartload of blood-stiffened doublets from the Hungarian camp. Not one of the younger girls will touch the heavy pieces. I scrubbed from first light till dusk, my knuckles raw from lye.
The lye burns too much. You have the hands for it, Margery, not me.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I was sick with an ague, Margery, as well you know!
An ague that only strikes when there is wool to be wrung out. A miracle.