housekeeper at the parish church, of Suchdol
“I keep the parish church fit for the Lord and suffer the cold stones and my aching bones without complaint, mostly.”
Things Alice had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
The Friday before Whitsun, at None
That young Alice at the merchant's yard has a mouth like a town crier. Hauling turnips does not give a girl the right to shriek so loud it echoes in the nave. My hand is stiff from polishing the candlesticks, but the Lord's house will shine properly for the feast, no matter what.
Nota scribaeShe spent a long time rubbing her right wrist while she spoke, though she tried to hide it in her shawl.
The Tuesday after St George, at Vespers
Still no sign of Father Otto. Hiding in the cloister at Sedletz from a plague that isn't even here. Joan and I are left to keep the holy house from falling to ruin on stale crusts and watered communion wine. The Lord watches the shepherds who abandon their flock.
At least he isn't here shouting at us. But I wish he had left us some groschen for ale. Anne won't even open her door to me.
The third day of Easter week, at Prime
I cannot mend the good linen for the altar because a certain woman in this parish has forgotten the commandment against stealing. I lent Johanka my fine bone sewing needle out of pure Christian charity, and she keeps it like a magpie. Give it back, you stubborn mule.
You lent it to me because I scrubbed the floors for a week when you were too weak to hold the brush. The needle is my pay.
I was only weary from the damp! You are a thief.
Nota scribaeShe asked me to write 'thieving bitch' but I told her this book is for the Lord to read.
The feast of St Gregory, at Terce
The damp in the stones is wicked today. It settles right into the bones. Four years since that cursed tithe chest pinned us to the under-croft wall, and the apothecary's rags did nothing. My hand throbs like a struck bell. I had to rest twice just sweeping the steps.
My back still aches from the stone wall. If Maurice would fix the roof of the shed, I might stay dry enough to sleep.
Candlemas, at Sext
The winter has been cruel, but the church must be kept. I let Johanka use my good bone needle today to fix the everyday cloths. My hand was a bit weary, that is all. A righteous woman helps her neighbours, even if they have no gratitude.
Your hand wasn't weary, it was crippled up like a claw. I washed the floors so Father Otto wouldn't cast you out.
Nota scribaeDictated at the church door. Her hand was shaking badly.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If you had to work for Maurice on stale bread all week, you would shout too, old woman.