housekeeper at Trosky castle, of Trosky
“I keep the flagstones clean and my head down. It is a good place my late mother found for me, and I mean to keep it.”
Things Margery had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
The spring damp has settled deep in my bones. I told the herbalist in the lower bailey it was a passing chill, and bought willow bark with my last pennies. I must grip the broom tighter tomorrow so the steward does not see me wince when I sweep the steps.
Nota scribaeShe spoke so softly I had to ask her to repeat it thrice.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Robert and Ralph tracked thick mud across the main hall before the flagstones were even dry. I spent the whole morning on my knees scrubbing them clean. The soldiers are loud and bring nothing but dirt and shouting. I pressed myself against the wall until they passed.
We have heavy boots and there is mud in the bailey. The floors are there to be walked on.
They do the same in the upper hall. It is a wonder we ever finish.
the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, at Terce
The thick handle of the large water bucket snapped in my grip this morning. I took it to John Taylor in the yard. He mended the ash wood straight away and did not ask how I managed to break it. He is a decent lad.
Ash is brittle when it dries out. Bring it back if the pins come loose.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
It is five years today since the bloody flux took my mother Agnes. She taught me how to haul the copper pots and keep the steward pleased. I lit a candle for her in the chapel. I miss her terribly, but her good name still shields me here.
Agnes was a fine woman. She showed me how to fold the linens properly when I first came.
Nota scribaeShe wept a little, though she tried to hide her face from me.
the day after Candlemas, at Compline
The cellar stairs are treacherous in the dark. I slipped on a wet stone and nearly fell again. It brought back the memory of the great tumble years ago. My back aches with a gnawing torment tonight, but I must rise before dawn to draw the water.
Take a rushlight next time. The steward will not miss a drop of tallow.
Nota scribaeDictated in a rush, looking over her shoulder.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Drink it hot, Margery. You have looked pale these three days sitting by the ovens.
It is just the draft from the cellar, Manyeta. I am perfectly well.