housekeeper at Malesov stud farm, of Outlying farms
“I wash horse blankets till my knuckles bleed and try to keep my head down. A hard bed is better than none at all.”
Things Edith had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
There was a crack of thunder at None and my oak bucket split right down the middle, spilling water everywhere. Christ almighty, she is losing patience with me. I still do not have the groschen for that half-pound candle. I wipe my hands, but they will not stop sweating.
Nota scribaeShe crossed herself four times while speaking and dropped a wet rag on my boot.
the feast of the Invention of the Cross, at None
My back is near broken from wringing the heavy winter blankets. Margery cannot help much, for her crooked hand is in agony with this damp spring. If only Jitka had not run off to Prague, we would have her willow-bark ointment. Master Martin walked past today and looked too closely.
Do less talking and more washing, girl. I pay you to scrub, not to whine.
I am sorry to leave the heavy wringing to you, Edith. We will manage, God willing, if we stay quiet.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
They say bread is dearer than ever in Kuttenberg, and more hungry folk are on the roads fleeing the Hungarians. It reminds me too much of my own village burning. I'll take hauling water from dawn to dusk over being chased by soldiers any day. The work is hard, but we are safe.
the Tuesday after St Benedict, at Sext
I boiled the morning mash late because the well rope froze stiff in the night. Master Martin cursed me up and down. I thought surely this was the day he'd dismiss us. But the horses ate well enough in the end. My hands are raw from the lye soap.
You did well today. The overseer cares only for the beasts, not if our fingers freeze off in the bucket.
Nota scribaeDictated by the well. Her hands were indeed as red as raw meat.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
A year ago poor Hugh breathed his last in the cot next to mine, taken by the winter fever. I made a holy vow to Saint Barbara then, that if I saw the spring I'd walk barefoot to Sedletz with a beeswax candle. I survived, praise be. But how am I to buy pure wax on my wages?
Hugh was a good lad. He never drank his wages like the others. We miss him sorely here.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Hush now, girl. Master Martin will hear you wailing and send us packing. I will help you patch the bucket.