bathhouse maid at Zhelejov, of Zhelejov
“I haul water and scrub mud from tunics. It is heavy labour, but it keeps me fed.”
Things Elizabeth had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Compline
The master was watching the tubs today. I had to wring out three heavy gambesons without wincing. My stomach is sour again, so I am boiling more willow bark tonight. Just for the stomach.
Nota scribaeShe kept her right hand tucked in her apron the entire time she spoke.
the feast of Saint Mark, at Vespers
Matilda is still shaking over some holy vow that loudmouth Ernest gave her. A beeswax candle to Sedletz? She is a fool to walk the roads with wolves and hungry soldiers about. Sweeping rushes must make a girl soft.
God's judgement is no laughing matter! Ernest said the fever would return if I broke my word.
Ernest just wanted a free cup of ale, Matilda. But the roads are bloody dangerous, that much is true.
the Tuesday of Easter week, at None
Washed a mound of muddy braies for the King's levies this morning. Mud, blood, and horse dung. I curse the day these Hungarians came. I hope that brute Adam caught an arrow in his fat throat by now.
Amen to that. That drunken whoreson was trouble from the day he walked into Zhelejov.
Nota scribaeShe spat on the ground when she named the Hungarian.
the feast of Saint Gertrude, at Terce
Avice is weeping over her mother Marushka's lost wooden Saint Barbara. I feel for the girl, but weeping won't chop the firewood. I swung the axe until my arms felt like lead today. The frost makes the logs split easier.
It is all I had left of her! You are as cold as that frost, Elizabeth.
Leave her be, Avice. Elizabeth works harder before Prime than the rest of us do all day.
Candlemas, at Prime
The priest says we must write down our days for the Pope. Very well. Today I hauled twenty buckets from the well, and the cold water made my knuckles swell up like bruised apples. I am too tired for this nonsense.
The Lord will surely forgive us if we skip a day of washing, Elizabeth. Rest your hands.
Nota scribaeDictated at the woodpile. She was remarkably impatient to return to her chopping.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Your stomach is always sour lately, Elizabeth. Eat some proper porridge for once.
Porridge costs groschen, Alice. I will stick to the bark.