maidservant at the yard, of Troskowitz
“I wash the tunics, carry the slops, and mend the shirts here in Master Hugh's yard. I just try to keep my head down and stay out of the men's way when they're angry.”
Things Anna had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
I put a clean seam in Walter's torn shirt today. My hands are cracked red from the washing troughs, but the stitching holds fast. I just wish the men would stop shouting in the yard over lost spades. It makes me flinch, poor things.
the Thursday after Easter, at None
Master Hugh took another penny from my wages for Andrew's dead capons. The men are furious and bartering their tools for ale since Marion went away. I just gave Colle a crust from my apron. He was only hungry when he chased those birds, poor thing. I pray the master does not put him down.
Bragge is a good dog too. That fat neighbor Andrew prices his birds like they were the King's own swans!
I am paying for a feast I never ate, and my bone die is still missing. Bloody hell.
Nota scribaeShe wrung her apron the entire time she spoke.
the Monday after the Annunciation, at Prime
There was terrible shouting this morning. Andrew came demanding heavy silver because Colle and Bragge got under the fence into his poultry enclosure. Master Hugh has locked his strongbox and says we all must pay for the dozen capons. John and Walter were furious. I stared at the dirt and hurried past.
The master has coin enough to buy us a roof that doesn't leak, let alone pay for his own dogs' mischief.
St Gregory's day, at Sext
Robert says he cannot start his walk to the monastery at Sedletz yet, because his stomach needs beer first. He swore a solemn vow to Saint Barbara in the winter to go. I wish he would just go before the saint sends an illness upon him, poor thing.
My stomach is a misery, Anna. A man cannot walk the roads without a jug to settle his humours.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the well, while pulling up a heavy bucket.
the week after Candlemas, at Compline
The roof of our shed gave way to the sky again in the night. I gave half my blanket to Alice, though we were both shivering. She curses the master for not buying new thatch, but I just pray the rain stops before the morning slops need carrying.
I will curse him until the day I die of a chill in this wet straw, poor thing or no.
Nota scribaeShe spoke so softly I had to ask her to repeat it thrice.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The seam is well enough, but I'd be shouting less if I could find the whoreson who took my axe.