The Hygiene Revolution
Sarka, a maid in the Prague Royal Palace, opened her eyes in the blue darkness of dawn.
"Ugh..."
The sensation against her back was not the familiar, coarse cotton she was used to, but silk—so smooth it made her skin crawl.
She tried to spring up out of habit, but stumbled and sank back down into the soft, engulfing embrace of a down mattress.
Mornings in the Prague palace were worlds apart from those at Sternberg.
If mornings at Sternberg began energetically with the crowing of roosters, the rhythmic clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer, and the savory scent of baking bread, mornings in Prague began with silence, a biting chill, and an overwhelming sense of intimidation.
"Ugh..."
Sarka stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. The plaster was perfectly clean, without a speck of soot, and adorned with ornate, gold-leaf molding. Even the sunlight filtering through the window seemed afraid to illuminate the dust in this place.
This magnificent room was her own.
For a maid who had spent her entire life sleeping in snatches beside a kitchen hearth or in a cramped attic, His Majesty Ulrich had granted her a luxurious room fit for a noblewoman.
But to Sarka, this room was no sanctuary. It was more like a bed of thorns.
She climbed out of bed and looked down at her hands.
Hands that were thick-knuckled and calloused. Skin that was red, chapped, and cracked from constant immersion in cold water.
Resting against the silk sheets, those hands looked horribly out of place, like a duck’s webbed feet in a flock of swans.
"I have to get up. The young master... no, it’s time for His Majesty to wake."
She hurried to change her clothes. Laced sleeves, a corset to cinch her waist, a skirt that flared out in abundance—the clothes provided by the head maid were lavish to the point of being undeserved. Yet, Sarka insisted on tying a worn apron over them. She felt uneasy without it; it was like a soldier heading to the battlefield without armor.
Stepping out of her room, a hallway so long and wide that its end was invisible stretched out before her. Her footsteps echoed loudly against the marble floor, which was as smooth as a mirror. Servants passing by bowed their heads at the sight of her.
"Good morning, Lady Sarka."
"Eek!"
They addressed her with honorifics—a courtesy shown to the King’s closest aide, a vassal who had served him since the days of Sternberg. But Sarka, flustered by the greeting, bowed her waist in a frantic hurry.
"Oh, yes! Good morning! Thank you for your hard work!"
The servants watched her with strange expressions. Noble-born maids never bowed their heads; they merely offered a glance or a slight nod of the chin. Thus, in Prague, Sarka’s humility was synonymous with "lacking dignity."
She hurried through the hallway as if fleeing, heading toward the laundry room attached to the King’s bedchamber. Originally, the King’s laundry was managed by a dedicated laundress, but Sarka didn't trust them.
'The young master has sensitive skin. If it’s not rinsed properly, he scratches his back because it itches, and these stuck-up palace people wouldn't know that.'
She rolled up her sleeves. She drew water into a basin and took out the lye soap she had brought with her—a dark, murky bar made from pig fat and wood ash from Sternberg.
Scrub, scrub, rub-rub-
Sarka scrubbed Ulrich’s undergarments and tunics with all her might. Coarse soap bubbles rose, accompanied by a distinct, acrid, fishy smell. But to Sarka, this scent brought relief. It was the smell of clothes becoming truly clean.
She was sweating, beads of perspiration forming on her forehead from her labor, when a voice came from behind her, causing her shoulders to stiffen.
"My, what is that smell?"
She turned slowly to find Katerina von Wartenberg and her entourage standing there. Katerina, a daughter of a prominent Bohemian noble family who had entered the palace as a lady-in-waiting in the absence of a Queen, and her followers were as colorful as a transplanted flower garden. Pearl ornaments in their hair, gemstone necklaces, and dresses of the finest silk. But above all, they were enveloped in fragrance. Rose, lavender, musk... the scent of all sorts of expensive oils and top-tier Castile soap pierced Sarka’s nostrils.
Katerina pinched her nose with a fan and wrinkled her brow.
"Good heavens, Sarka. Are you doing laundry here again?"
"Ah... greetings, Lady Katerina."
Sarka wiped her wet hands on her apron and bowed her head. "I was... washing His Majesty’s undergarments."
"Undergarments?"
Katerina’s eyes narrowed. Her gaze swept over Sarka’s chapped hands and the murky lye soap she held.
"There are dozens of laundresses in the palace. Yet you, who hold the title of lady-in-waiting, insist on scrubbing the King’s clothes with such a base object. Truly... a tear-jerking display of loyalty. Have you still not managed to shed your maid-like ways?"
Her voice was soft, but the thorns within were sharp. Another young noblewoman nearby giggled.
"Is it loyalty? Or perhaps there’s another intention? To be so satisfied only when touching the King’s undergarments with your own hands..."
They exchanged meaningful glances. Sarka’s face flushed bright red. She had never entertained such profane thoughts; she only wanted the young master to be comfortable.
"Th-that’s not it! It’s just that His Majesty has sensitive skin...!"
"And you use that harsh lye on someone with sensitive skin?"
Katerina took a step closer. As she approached, the smell of the lye vanished, instantly overwhelmed by the thick perfume. "Sarka, I know you served the King for a long time in his rural estate. I suppose His Majesty brought you here to acknowledge that service."
Katerina looked down at Sarka with a gaze that was pitying, yet clearly condescending. "But this is Prague. His Majesty is no longer a mere lord; he is the King of a nation. Should the clothes touching the King’s royal body smell of pig fat?"
"..."
Sarka couldn't say a word. The soap in her hand suddenly felt incredibly pathetic and dirty. Everyone lived like this in Sternberg, but here, this was contamination.
"And you... you smell quite... intense yourself." Katerina mimicked holding her nose. "His Majesty keeps you by his side out of old sentiment, but he has a nose, too. Who knows? He might be holding his breath every time you approach."
Thump.
Sarka’s heart felt as if it had dropped to the floor. The young master? He holds his breath when I approach? No. That’s not true. The young master isn't like that. But...
She sniffed her own body. The smell of sweat. The smell of lye. The smell of the kitchen. A cycle of labor that wouldn't wash away no matter how much she scrubbed. In contrast, Katerina smelled of noble flowers. It wasn't just a pleasant scent; it was money, power, and proof of a status different from birth.
"Oh my, were we too blunt? Don't be hurt. It’s all advice for your own good."
Katerina patted Sarka’s shoulder. The touch was light, as if she were brushing off something filthy. "When the Italian merchants arrive, buy yourself some scented soap. Ah, though, that might be difficult on your wages, wouldn't it?"
They laughed and exited the laundry room. Sarka was left alone in the wake of the fragrant storm. She stared blankly at the lye soap in her hand. The lump of soap, softened and mushy from the water, felt like her own situation. Traces of a lowly origin that couldn't be erased no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she scrubbed.
The young master had become the sun high in the sky, while she felt like a worm still trapped in the mud.
"Young master..."
Sarka was ashamed. Not because she was poor, but because she felt she had become a stain on the young master’s honor. She felt that the smell coming from her was lowering the dignity of the noble King.
She gripped the soap tightly. Dark, murky bubbles flowed between her fingers like tears.
Just then, a shadow flickered in the corner of the laundry room.
"..."
The shadow was Janos. Usually, he wouldn't have bothered with the petty squabbles of women. But if the target was Sarka, it was a different story. She was the one who had stayed by her lord’s side when he was at his lowest, when everyone else had fled.
"Tsk."
Janos slipped out like a shadow, heading straight for the King’s office.
* * *
"...That is what happened."
The moment Janos’s report ended, I quietly set the quill I was holding into the inkwell.
"Hmm."
The saliva I swallowed felt as gritty as sand in my throat.
Sarka.
When I first opened my eyes under this unfamiliar 15th-century ceiling, she was the first face I saw. According to the memories in my head, she was born and raised in the Sternberg estate and had been by my side since I was an immature young master. Even just counting the years, it had been at least ten.
Although she had no presence as a mere maid, she never left my side, not when the Hussite rebels stormed in, nor when the Emperor’s crusaders surrounded the castle walls. If we measured by the depth of time spent together, she was no less than the vassals like Janos, Sir Kuno, or Konrad.
'Was I too indifferent?'
In the process of moving the base from Sternberg to the Prague palace, I lacked reliable manpower. So, I drafted people from the estate, including Konrad, and Sarka naturally joined in that process. But since then, I had been buried in state affairs and hadn't been able to pay attention. While I was wrestling with piles of documents, Sarka had been suffering such humiliation behind my back.
I leaned back deeply into my chair.
"Janos."
"Yes, my lord."
"Do I look like the kind of person who cares about mere smells?"
Janos chuckled. "Of course not. You’re the one who personally boils stable horse manure to make gunpowder. My lord, you are a man who cares about efficiency, not smells."
He was right. Those foolish noblewomen seemed to think of Sarka as a parachute hire who had rolled in from the countryside, but the ones who lacked self-awareness were not Sarka, but them. To me, Sarka was more than a maid. She was a ten-year veteran who knew my sleep patterns, eating habits, and even my trivial quirks. Even if someone brought me a truckload of a hundred newly recruited noble maids, I wouldn't trade Sarka for them.
And yet, such a talent was feeling discouraged over mere soap.
This was a clear failure in personnel management and a dereliction of duty as King.
Janos made a gesture of slitting his throat and whispered secretly. "What shall I do? Shall I pull out the tongues of those insolent girls? Or shall I make them kneel and beg before Sarka? If you give the order, I will take care of it by tonight."
A cold, murderous intent flashed in Janos’s eyes. But I shook my head.
"No, that’s a poor strategy."
Violence is easy. But it cannot be a fundamental solution. Even if I forced them to kneel, would the contempt for Sarka embedded in their minds disappear? They would only hide in darker places. They would badmouth her even more severely behind my back, claiming that a lowly woman was throwing her weight around, trusting in the King’s favor. Furthermore, replacing people wouldn't solve the problem. This was a structural issue.
The core of the problem was soap. More accurately, the scarcity of high-quality soap. In this era, fragrant and effective soap was a symbol of wealth and power. Because it was so expensive and rare, the power for those who possessed it to despise those who didn't was born.
Then the answer was simple. I just had to shatter that scarcity.
"If this happened because soap is rare, I just have to make it as common as pebbles on the roadside."
A blueprint began to take shape in my mind. A masterstroke that would restore Sarka’s honor, secure massive funds, and solve the poor hygiene of the Middle Ages—all in one go.