bathhouse maid at the camp, of Sigismund's camp
“I haul boiling water to wash Hungarians, and my hands are raw. I just want my wages.”
Things Isabel had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Vespers
These Hungarian bastards expect me to smile while I scrub the trench mud off their backs. I told one of them I haul more water in a morning than he drinks in a month. He just laughed of course. God willing he catches a fever before the week is out.
Nota scribaeShe spat on the floor of the tent when speaking of the soldiers.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Alice Wright and Edith Black are complaining about the smoke from the roasting spits again. They have good tents and meat fat to dip their bread in, while Alice and I freeze by the wash tubs. I would trade the lye soap for their spits any day of the year.
If you hate the water so much, perhaps you should have learned to cook.
My mother Ellen always said idle hands breed a bitter tongue.
the Monday after Palm Sunday, at Prime
My shoulders are aching worse than ever today. The only good thing in this camp is Richard. He slipped me three hot stones from the kitchen fires last night. At least my toes did not go numb. I know he is still looking for that comb.
the feast of St Gregory, at Terce
Alice is weeping again about walking barefoot to Sedletz to pay some vow. She is an absolute fool. The roads are full of drunk mercenaries with drawn swords, and she is worried about lightning striking her. I told her to stay by the tubs and keep her boots on.
The Lord hears an unpaid vow. It weighs on my soul.
Listen to Isabel. The dead cannot pay vows anyway.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
I went to Francis at the command pavilion today to ask for a scrap of canvas or some timber. My roof has three great tears in it and the snow blows right through. He told me he wastes no king's stores on a bath maid. I curse his name to hell.
The canvas is for the king's men, not for every scullion and washer who complains of a draft.
If I die of the ague, you will have to scrub your own filthy soldiers.
Nota scribaeDictated in the freezing mud. The woman was shivering so violently I could barely make out the words.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You will get us all beaten if you keep talking to them like that.
Let them try. The lye soap hurts worse.