The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing - Chapter 53

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Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 53: The Hygiene Revolution

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Šárka, a maid at the Prague royal palace, opened her eyes in the bluish darkness before dawn.

"Ugh..."

The fabric against her back was not the familiar rough cotton, but silk so smooth it sent chills down her spine.

Out of habit, she tried to spring to her feet, only to stagger at the feel of the duck-feather bed swallowing her up and sink back down.

Mornings at Prague's royal palace were completely different from those at Sternberg.

At Sternberg, the day began with the lively crowing of roosters, the hammering of the blacksmith's forge, and the rich scent of baking bread.

Here in Prague, mornings began with silence, cold, and an overwhelming, oppressive presence.

"Ugh..."

Šárka looked up at the unfamiliar ceiling.

The spotless plaster ceiling was ringed with ornate moldings decorated in gold leaf. Even the sunlight streaming through the windows seemed too timid to reveal a speck of dust.

This dazzling room was hers.

For a maid who had spent her entire life dozing beside the kitchen hearth or in an attic, His Majesty had given her a room fit for a noble young lady.

Yet this room was no peaceful refuge for Šárka. It felt more like a bed of thorns.

She climbed out of bed and looked down at her hands.

They were rough, thick-knuckled hands covered in calluses.

Her skin was red, cracked, and chapped from being soaked in cold water day after day.

Resting on the silk blanket, those hands looked as out of place as duck feet among a flock of swans.

"I need to get up. Young Master... no, it is time for His Majesty to wake."

She hurriedly changed clothes.

Lace-trimmed sleeves, a corset that cinched her waist, and a full skirt that spread wide. The clothes issued by the head maid were far more splendid than she deserved.

Still, Šárka deliberately tied her old apron over them.

Without it, she felt uneasy.

It was like a soldier going into battle without armor.

When she left her room, a long, broad corridor stretched before her, so vast that she could not see its end. Her footsteps echoed loudly across the marble floor, smooth as a mirror.

The passing attendants bowed when they saw her.

"Good morning, Lady Šárka."

"Eek!"

People spoke respectfully to Šárka.

It was the courtesy owed to one of the King's closest attendants, someone who had served him since his days at Sternberg.

But Šárka only panicked at the greeting and hurriedly bowed at the waist.

"Ah, yes! Good morning! Keep up the good work!"

The attendants watched her with strange expressions.

Maidservants of noble birth never bowed. At most, they gave a glance or a slight tilt of the chin.

That was why, here in Prague, Šárka's humility was seen as a lack of dignity.

She fled down the corridor to the laundry room attached to the King's bedchamber.

The King's clothing was normally handled by dedicated laundresses. But Šárka could not trust them.

'Young Master has sensitive skin. If his clothes aren't rinsed properly, his back gets itchy and he scratches it. Those fussy palace people couldn't possibly know that.'

She rolled up her sleeves.

After filling a basin with water, she took out the lye soap she had brought with her.

It was a dark, grimy-looking soap made from lard and lye, brought from Sternberg.

Scrub, scrub.

Šárka vigorously washed Ulrich's underclothes and tunic.

Rough soap suds rose as its distinct acrid, rank smell filled the room.

Yet that scent reassured Šárka.

To her, it was the smell of clothes becoming clean.

She had become so absorbed in her work that beads of sweat had formed on her brow when she heard a voice behind her.

"Oh my, what is that smell?"

Šárka's shoulders stiffened.

When she slowly turned around, Katerina von Vartemberk and her group were standing there.

Katerina was the daughter of a powerful Bohemian noble family and had entered the palace as a lady-in-waiting in the absence of a queen, along with her followers.

They were as splendid as if an entire flower garden had been moved indoors.

Pearl ornaments in their hair, jeweled necklaces around their necks, and dresses of the finest silk.

More than anything, though, they were surrounded by fragrance.

Rose, lavender, musk... the scents of every costly perfume and the finest Castile soap flooded Šárka's nose.

Katerina lightly covered her nose with her fan and frowned.

"Goodness, Šárka. Are you doing laundry in here again?"

"Ah... greetings, Lady Katerina."

Šárka wiped her wet hands on her apron and bowed.

"I was... washing His Majesty's underclothes."

"Underclothes?"

Katerina narrowed her eyes.

Her gaze swept over Šárka's red, chapped hands and the grimy lye soap she held.

"There are dozens of laundresses in the palace. Yet you, who bear the title of lady-in-waiting, insist on scrubbing His Majesty's clothes with such a lowly thing. What... moving loyalty. Or have you simply failed to shake off your maid's habits?"

Her voice was gentle, but the barbs beneath it were sharp.

Another young noblewoman beside her giggled.

"Is it loyalty? Or perhaps she has another motive? Maybe she simply cannot bear the thought of anyone else touching His Majesty's underclothes..."

They exchanged meaningful looks.

Šárka's face instantly turned red.

She had never once entertained such irreverent thoughts. She only wanted Young Master to be comfortable.

"Th-that's not it! His Majesty has sensitive skin, so..."

"You use such harsh lye on someone with sensitive skin?"

Katerina stepped closer.

As she approached, the smell of lye was instantly overwhelmed by the heavy fragrance of perfume.

"Šárka. I know you served His Majesty for a long time in that rural estate. His Majesty must have brought you here in recognition of your efforts."

Katerina looked down at Šárka with a gaze that seemed sympathetic but was plainly condescending.

"But this is Prague. His Majesty is no longer a mere lord of an estate. He is the King of a nation. Should clothes that touch the royal body smell of gamy pork?"

"..."

Šárka could not say a word.

The soap in her hand suddenly felt terribly shabby and dirty.

At Sternberg, everyone lived this way.

But here, it was filth.

"And you have quite a strong smell too..."

Katerina pretended to cover her nose.

"His Majesty may keep you near out of fondness for the old days, but he has a nose as well. Who knows? Perhaps he holds his breath whenever you approach."

Thump.

Šárka felt as if her heart had dropped to the floor.

Young Master?

He held his breath whenever I came near?

No. That cannot be. Young Master is not that kind of person.

But...

She smelled herself.

The scent of sweat. The scent of lye. The scent of the kitchen.

The inescapable smell of labor, no matter how much she washed.

Katerina, in contrast, smelled of noble flowers.

It was not simply a pleasant scent. It was money, power, and proof of a status granted from birth.

"Oh my, were we too honest? Do not be hurt. We are only giving you this advice for your own good."

Katerina lightly patted Šárka's shoulder.

Her touch was as light as if she were brushing away something dirty.

"When an Italian merchant arrives, buy yourself some scented soap. Ah, though perhaps your wages will not be enough?"

They laughed brightly as they left the laundry room.

After the fragrant storm had passed, Šárka was left alone.

She stared blankly at the lye soap in her hand.

The water-softened lump of soap seemed to mirror her own plight.

No matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she scrubbed and cleaned, she could never wash away the traces of her low birth.

Young Master had become the sun high in the sky, while she was still nothing but a worm in the mud.

"Young Master..."

Šárka felt ashamed.

Not because she was poor, but because she felt like someone who stained Young Master's honor.

As though the smell coming from her lowered the dignity of His Majesty, the noble King.

She clenched the soap tightly.

Dark soap suds ran between her fingers like tears.

At that moment, the shadow in the corner of the laundry room rippled.

"..."

The shadow was János Hunyadi.

Normally, he would not have spared a glance for petty squabbles between women.

But this involved Šárka.

When Ulrich had suffered the most, when everyone else fled, she had remained at her lord's side.

"Tch."

János Hunyadi immediately slipped away like a shadow toward the King's office.

* * *

"...That is what happened."

The moment János Hunyadi finished his report, I quietly set the quill in my hand into the inkwell.

"Hmm."

My throat felt scraped by sand as I swallowed.

Šárka.

When I first opened my eyes beneath an unfamiliar ceiling in this fifteenth-century world, she was the first face I saw.

According to the memories in my head, she had been born and raised on the Sternberg estate, remaining at Ulrich's side since he was a childish young master. By the count of years alone, it had been at least a full decade.

Though she had been a mere maid with little presence, she never left my side when Hussite rebels stormed in or when the Emperor's crusaders surrounded the castle walls.

Considering how long we had been together, she deserved to stand alongside retainers like János Hunyadi, Sir Kuno, and Konrad.

'Have I been too thoughtless?'

There had not been enough trustworthy personnel while relocating our base from Sternberg to Prague's royal palace.

So I brought in people from the estate, including Konrad, and Šárka had naturally joined them.

After that, though, I had been buried in state affairs and failed to pay attention.

While I wrestled with mountains of documents, Šárka had endured that kind of humiliation behind my back.

I leaned back deeply in my chair.

"János Hunyadi."

"Yes, my lord."

"Do I look like someone who cares about a mere smell?"

János Hunyadi snorted.

"Of course not. You personally boil horse manure from the stables to make Gunpowder. You care about efficiency, not smells."

Exactly.

Those foolish noble ladies seemed to think Šárka was some country bumpkin who had landed a position through connections, but they were the ones who did not understand their place, not Šárka.

To me, Šárka was more than a simple maid.

She was a ten-year veteran who knew my sleeping habits, eating habits, and even my smallest quirks inside and out.

Even if someone brought me a truckload of one hundred newly selected noble-born ladies-in-waiting, I would not trade Šárka for all of them.

And such a valuable person was feeling discouraged over soap.

This was a clear failure of personnel management, and a dereliction of duty as King.

János Hunyadi made a slicing motion across his throat with one finger and whispered.

"What should we do? Shall I tear out those arrogant bitches' tongues? Or make them kneel and beg before Šárka? Give the order, and it will be handled by tonight."

A chilling murderous glint flashed in János Hunyadi's eyes.

But I shook my head.

"No. That is the worst option."

Violence was easy.

But it could not be a fundamental solution.

Even if I forced them to kneel, would their contempt for Šárka disappear from their minds?

It would only retreat into darker places.

They would badmouth her even more viciously behind her back, saying that a lowborn woman was throwing her weight around because of the King's favor.

Besides, replacing people would not solve anything.

This was a structural problem.

The heart of the problem was soap.

More precisely, it was the scarcity of high-quality soap.