housemaid and cook's daughter, of Kuttenberg
“I keep house and scrub pots. God spared my life, but I am burdened by an unkept vow.”
Things Ellen Grey had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The spring is almost gone and I have still not walked to Sedletz. The Hungarians are on the roads and my father William forbids it. I know it is a sin to break a vow made in fever, but I am terrified. May Christ have mercy on our house.
Nota scribaeShe whispered this to the floorboards and wept when I asked her to speak up.
the feast of St Stanislaus, at None
I prayed today for Anna Herzog and Isabel Hill. They are both consumed by quarrels with their own kin over land and coin. Earthly things are but dust. I pray they turn their eyes to heaven before anger tears their families apart. God grant them peace.
Save your prayers, Ellen. My brother Claus is a thief and heaven won't get my silver back.
It is easy to preach when you own nothing but a river-sand scrub brush.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
My father was at the tavern again last night with Walter Clark. Walter is dreadful fearful of the levy, and I pity him, but the tavern is full of foul-mouthed guardsmen talking of skirmishes and dead men. It chills my blood to hear of it. Christ preserve us from the sword.
I only went to ask William to take a gift of cloth to Juliana at the bailiff's house. I am a peaceful man.
We wouldn't have to talk about dead men if Simon hadn't left poor Bartholomew to take a pike in the guts.
Bloody hell, Oswald, we fell back because the line was broken! Leave Bartholomew to God.
the third Sunday in Lent, at Sext
I carried bread and small beer to Ernest and Geoffrey at their work today. The wind was bitter, and it reminded me of the January frost when I lay burning with the fever. I promised the Lord a candle at the abbey. My brothers tell me the roads are too dangerous. God forgive me.
The highway is thick with stragglers, Ellen. God knows you meant well, but He doesn't want you dead in a ditch.
Aye. Stay by the hearth and pray for us there. The Lord hears you just fine from Kuttenberg.
Nota scribaeDictated at the church door. She crossed herself three times before speaking.
Candlemas, at Terce
I am newly risen from my sickbed. The rattle in my chest is gone, praise be to Christ. As I lay sweating, I swore that if I lived to see the snow melt, I would walk barefoot to Sedletz and offer a candle. The snow is thawing now. God keep me, I must find the courage.
You will do no such thing, you foolish girl. I'll not have you carried off by mercenaries.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is for your own good, girl. The roads are no place for a maid with all these whoreson soldiers about.
I know, father, but I fear God's wrath more than the Hungarians. God keep you.