maidservant at the potter's house, of Kuttenberg
“I am but a simple maid, keeping my eyes to the floor and doing as I am bidden. I pray the Lord sees fit to let me keep my place by the hearth.”
Things Joan had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The bread is dearer this week. We make do with root pottage. I scrubbed the floors until my knees ached, keeping my head bowed so I am not turned out into the street. It is not my place to complain, and I will endure the shouting if I must.
Nota scribaeDictated at the market. She spoke so quietly I had to ask her to repeat herself twice.
the second day of May, at Sext
I sat in the yard chopping carrots and wept into my apron. It is hard to be alone in the world with no kin and no coin. But Master Gilbert is a fair man who does not beat me, so I thank the Lord for my place by the ash.
You are a good worker, Joan. The stew was fine today.
the fourth day of Easter week, at Prime
Young Master John is tearing the house apart looking for his wooden Saint Barbara. It breaks my heart. I know what it is to lose the last earthly thing you hold of someone you loved. I prayed for his late mother Elizabeth today.
My mother gave it to me, Joan. I know Else has hidden it just to spite me.
I have not touched the boy's wooden rubbish. He likely lost it in the alehouse.
Nota scribaeShe asked to speak softer so the mistress of the house would not hear.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at None
A great thunderstorm rattled the house this afternoon. Master Gilbert muttered his prayers and I kept to the kitchen. Mistress Else shouted that Master Peshek should be the one trembling, for that miser leaves us with a roof that weeps rainwater onto the hearth fire.
That Prague miser will see us drown in our own hall before he pays for new thatch.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
Master Gilbert pried up the rotten floorboards today. I dropped my cheap brass ring, the only token of my late husband, down the dark crack. I dared not ask the master to lift the heavy wood again for a maid's trinket. I fear without it I will forget my husband's face.
I did not know you dropped it, Joan. But the floor is nailed fast now.
I know, master. I am sorry to speak of it.
Stop blubbering over a piece of brass and fetch the water, girl.
Nota scribaeShe twisted her apron the whole time she spoke, weeping onto the floor.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Do not let Else work you to the bone, Joan. You do more than your share in this house.
Thank you, young master, but I am glad just to have a roof over my head.