maidservant at the west yard, of Outlying farms
“The work here never bloody ends. If you want decent conversation, talk to the dog, because others aren't worth it.”
Things Isabel had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Compline
Alice is still wailing about her bone sewing needle. I told her again I lost it in the straw. She needs it to mend her apron before the master inspects us, but she can bloody well wait. A small tax for leaving a man behind.
Nota scribaeShe crossed her arms and glared at the stable wall the entire time she spoke.
the Monday after St Philip and St James, at Sext
Matilda will not shut up about her terrible stomach ache and that brass ring she lost by the troughs before Lent. Sakra, I have enough pitchforks to carry without her complaints. I slipped Clench half a crust of rye today. That dog appreciates a thing.
My mother Bozhena would weep to see how the young speak to their elders now. The pain in my belly is real.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
The bailiff was asking after the levied gear today. Alice was shaking with fear about Jan's padded gambeson. She gave it to me for the winter frosts, and I pawned it to the ale-wife in Zhelejov. I will not redeem it. Cowardice has a price.
We will both be whipped for this! You owed the ale-wife the silver, not me! Jan is dead and the coat will not bring him back.
Nota scribaeDictated by the well. The word she used for her fellow maidservant was not to be written down.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
My hands are cracked raw from the cold and the constant wet of the buckets. And for what? Mouldy rye bread that leaves a sour taste in my mouth all bloody day. Up in heaven there will be no mucking out stalls, praise be.
If you scrubbed the troughs properly instead of dawdling, the work would be done. Bozhena knew how to scrub a trough.
Ash Wednesday, at None
I dreamt of the camp near Tachov last night. I can still see Jan sweating with the fever. We could have fetched a barber, he was strong enough to fight it. But Alice dragged me away and left him to die. I will never forgive her.
A dead man needs prayers, not company. If we had stayed we would have caught the exact same camp sickness and died there in the mud.
Nota scribaeShe stared at her cracked hands while she spoke and asked if the Lord reads the book on Sundays.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You lying kurva, I know you have it in your pouch! The bailiff will beat me bloody when he sees my apron!
Go cry about it in the mud. Or run away, like you always do.