washer and maidservant, of Kuttenberg
“I am a washer of linens and a sharp dealer for the guard's mending, though right now I am staring ruin in the face through no fault of my own.”
Things Emma had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
The eve of St Philip and St James, at Compline
Lord's wounds, the spring muster is nearly upon us and I am a dead woman. Anna pawned a guardsman's gambeson for meal instead of mending it. If Ulrich the quartermaster finds it missing, he will have me whipped. Anna must buy it back from the broker before I am ruined for her weak stomach!
Nota scribaeShe wrung her raw hands the entire time she spoke, bleeding onto my table.
The third day of Easter week, at None
Down at the stream today, Margery was weeping again about her iron shears that Christine kept, and the hardwood bat Elsbeth took. I told her straight: lending your livelihood away around Candlemas is begging for starvation. You keep your tools in your own grip.
The Monday after St Benedict, at Vespers
Some girls are begging travellers to take word to the burned parishes again. Edith ignores them, and Ottilie told them flatly she will not risk the roads. I stand with Ottilie. There is no sense walking into a Cuman camp just for sentiment. The dead are dead, and bread costs enough here.
Amen. Let the soldiers deal with the Cumans. I am staying behind the walls.
I am too tired to even listen to their weeping anymore.
Nota scribaeDictated near the bakehouse. The woman smells strongly of lye and wet wool.
The second week of Lent, at Terce
Poor widow Agnes died of the coughing sickness yesterday. She was a fair landlady, giving us cellar space for a single groschen a week. Now the new landlord has thrown us out into the cold. Up in heaven she will have no new landlords troubling her, but I must find a corner by the ovens tonight.
I brought her water at the end. She was a good soul.
A terrible shame. Keep close to the ovens, the frost is bitter tonight.
The morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
Got a fine contract from Ulrich for the town guard's torn padded gear. I will farm the needlework out to the other girls so I can stay at the washing troughs. I am sharp enough to manage the dealing, and it will keep the silver flowing in these hard times. Lord's wounds, my hands need the coin.
Give me some of the mending, Emma. I am clever with a needle.
Mind Ulrich's temper. He treats those kettle hat linings like holy relics.
Nota scribaeShe spoke with great pride, though her dress is little better than a sack.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I was starving, Emma! You keep the silver and give me the scraps, what was I to do?
You were to stitch the lining, not sell guard property to a broker!
I know the fear of missing kit. May the saints preserve your hide.