refugee washing linens, of Old Kutna
“I wash dirty linens at the trough until my hands bleed and wait for word from my brother.”
Things Cecily had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
Mary walked right past me again today. I know she is going towards Prague, no matter what she says. Lord above, how hard is it to carry one small word to Peter? He is a clever lad, he would reward her. But people are too cruel to help.
Nota scribaeShe pulled at her shawl so fiercely while speaking I feared she would tear it.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
Christine asked me again to take a message to her kin in the next valley. Lord above, the girl is losing her wits. Why does she plague me? I am not going anywhere but the wash-trough and my corner of straw. I have my own troubles.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at Sext
My hands are so raw from the freezing water I dropped a good linen shirt in the mud. The merchant's wife Alice Miller saw me do it. She winced, but I think it was her own secret pain, not the mud. I washed it again. The water never gets warmer.
Just see that you wash it clean next time, refugee. Mud stains are the devil to get out.
Nota scribaeDictated at the wash-trough. The splashing made it hard to hear.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Prime
Lucy is muttering again about walking barefoot to Sedletz to pray for her late mother Bozhena. I told her to worry about her belly instead of her soul. Bozhena is out of the cold, but we still have to eat. Give me a crust over an empty vow any day.
A vow is a vow. My mother died on the road while we fled. The Lord will provide the crusts.
If the Lord is providing crusts, tell Him to send a few groschen so I can pay off Amice the widow.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
Three winters since the Cumans burned our roofs. I dream of the orange sky every night. But Peter is in Prague, and he is a capable man. I only hope he is not worrying himself sick over me. If only I could send word that I am still drawing breath.
We all lost things to the soldiers, Cecily. We must look to today, not three winters past.
Nota scribaeThe woman wept a little, then wiped her nose on her sleeve and asked for a copper.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
For the last time, Cecily, I am not going to Prague. The roads are full of soldiers. Leave me be.
You could try if you had a Christian heart in your chest.