mender of linen, of Kuttenberg
“I mend shirts for the burgesses and keep my eyes on my own work.”
Things Barbara Braun had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
Humphrey asked for another groschen for the plot today. He says the yard is full. I know he spends it on ale in the undercroft, but what can I do? If I complain, I'll be in the plague pit with the rest. I must mend ten more shirts.
Nota scribaeDictated very quietly. She made me check the door thrice to ensure no one was listening.
the Monday after Easter, at None
The light in the alley was so poor today I nearly lost my good needle. I keep them wrapped in oiled cloth. If I cannot see the stitches, I cannot work, and then there will be no coin for the clay pot under my floor. Praise God I found it.
You should sit by the courtyard well, Barbara. The light is better, even if the girls are loud.
I would rather go blind than listen to that shouting all day.
the eve of Palm Sunday, at Prime
Marion and Elsbeth are shrieking over pawned cloth again. It costs nothing to be quiet. They risk their souls over rags, while I am just thankful I do not live under Kubyenka's rotting roof like poor Christine. The Lord judges us by our peace.
It was good padded cloth, Barbara, and she knows she promised it to me!
My roof may leak, but at least I am not saving for my own grave like a ghoul.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Terce
Matilda Fuller made a vow to Saint Barbara during the sweating sickness two winters ago and has not kept it. I cross myself every time I pass her. You do not cheat the saints and expect a decent end. I pray for her soul, but from a distance.
Mind your own stitches, Barbara. The saint knows my heart.
Nota scribaeShe crossed herself four times while speaking this.
the day after Candlemas, at Sext
The priest says the Pope in Rome wants our days written down. I have nothing to say, save that bread is dearer this year and the soldiers on the roads make the burgesses tight with their coin. I just want my plot by the church wall.
Aye, the bakers take half our purse for a heel of crust.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The earth doesn't dig itself, Barbara. And good soil is dear these days.