alehouse maid in Zhelejov, of Zhelejov
“I pour the ale, scrub the tables, and keep the drunks from grabbing at us.”
Things Avice Brown had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Matilda is weeping again over that bloody vow she made to the preacher Ernest. She thinks God will strike her down if she does not walk to Sedletz with a candle. I told her God has better things to do, and the roads are crawling with Hungarians. I will not let her go.
the feast of St Pancras, at Sext
Saw Elizabeth hauling buckets across the muddy yard today. Her arm is ruined from when that whoreson Adam snapped it three winters back, and she thinks nobody knows she boils willow bark for the pain. She is too proud to ask for help, and my own back is breaking just keeping this taproom clean.
Mind your own business, Avice. The bathmaster pays me to work, not to complain, and my arm does well enough.
Nota scribaeDictated while she wrung out a filthy rag. Her language was coarser than written.
the Friday after Easter, at None
Sakra. I have sifted through every bit of dirt and filthy rushes in this taproom, and it is gone. A little wooden carving of Saint Barbara, black with age. It belonged to my mother Marushka. If one of you thieving drunkards picked it up last week, put it back by the well. It is worth no groschen to you.
I told the sweepers to keep an eye out for it, Avice. But you know what the men are like after three jugs.
I am so sorry, Avice. We can search the yard again tomorrow before the sun is up.
the eve of Palm Sunday, at Compline
Another night chasing soldiers out with a broom. A sword at a man's hip always means trouble. They drink until they are blind, grab at our skirts, and then expect to pay on credit because they fight for the king. I told the big one to pay his groschen or I would empty the slop bucket over his head.
You have a sharp tongue, girl. Be careful. We need their coin, even if they are brutes.
Nota scribaeShe looked as though she wished to empty the bucket over me as well.
the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at Prime
The cold in this loft is enough to freeze the blood in your veins. Matilda and I woke shivering on our straw before the sun was even up. I had to break the ice in the well just to scrub last night's spilled ale off the long tables. God grant us an early spring, or we will both die of the shakes.
You let me take the warm side of the pallet, Avice. You are too good to me.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
But I promised him, Avice! I promised the Lord when the marsh fever had me. What if the sickness comes back?
Then I will boil you willow bark and you will sweat it out again. You are not walking into a Hungarian camp for a candle.