maidservant at the farm, of Suchdol
“I break my back churning milk for a master who parts with nothing, while the church demands silver.”
Things Margery had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The fat priest says he will read our names out on Sunday. Joan is weeping in the loft again. Christ almighty, how are we to pay for masses when Master Jan gives us barely a penny a season? We have nothing but the clothes on our backs.
Nota scribaeShe spat on the floor when mentioning the priest. I struck that from the record.
the feast of St Pancras, at Sext
Saw Cecily slipping by the dovecote again today. The master's daughter plays at being a Kuttenberg burgher, hiding her copper pennies to buy some vain trinket from Bynyek, while the rest of us face the pillory for trying to save our souls. I ought to tell her father.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
I scrubbed my hands at the yard pump until they were raw, but the sour stench of turning milk never leaves my skin. Up before dawn, churning until my shoulders burn, and for what? Thin cabbage and a straw pallet. God grant me patience.
the Monday after St Gregory, at None
If old Clemence were still alive, I would ask her to brew some willow-bark and put a hex on the priest's tongue. Robert says she could cure a toothache with a single curse. I only need one for a man who demands silver from girls with empty purses.
My mother was a good Christian woman, Margery. But aye, she knew the woods and she knew how to silence a fool.
Nota scribaeI told her I would not write of hexes and curses, but she insisted.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
There are more soldiers on the road, and bread is dearer than ever. Master Jan has locked the grain store tight. Joan and Edith are fretting about the holy vow we made to that preacher last Michaelmas. A foolish promise. We should never have listened to his shouting.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
He will shame us before the whole village, Margery! I cannot bear it.
Stop your wailing, Joan. I will go to the church and speak to him in the morning.