washerwoman of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I wash the merchants' dirt from their fine linens. Honest sweat keeps a body from going mad, God knows.”
Things Martha had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Hannah thinks she can ask for her brass oil lamp back. She lent it for my failing eyes, but last month she broke my best washing tub and just laughed. The lamp stays with me until she pays for the tub. Let her mend seams in the dark.
Nota scribaeShe spat on the floor when she said the other woman's name.
the Wednesday after Easter, at None
Hauling wet wool up the hill is harder this spring. The merchants feast for Easter and leave us the grease. I have hidden a few good copper pots away. I earned them scrubbing soldiers' filth last summer, and I will not share them with the young girls in the cellar.
Maundy Thursday, at Prime
Bread is dearer than ever, and Lida's boy comes for the rent every Saturday whether we eat or not. I ache in my bones, but I thank Christ I am still strong enough to scrub. If you stop working, you start thinking, and that is a dangerous thing.
Amen to that. Idle hands just reach for grief. I still think of my brother Bynyek every day.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Terce
A troop of the king's men marched past the stream today. I watched them pass, looking at every face. I look for James in every soldier's shadow, but I know in my heart he is rotting in a ditch somewhere. And I know exactly whose fault it is.
It was not my doing! The boy was sixteen, he chose to follow the sutlers. Leave me be.
You sent him for your cheap ale into the middle of the rout. May the devil take you.
Nota scribaeShe stared into the middle distance for a long time before speaking the last sentence.
Candlemas, at Sext
The ice on the stream is thick enough to crack a skull. I spend the morning breaking it just to wash the linens. It is freezing work, but the water washes away the dirt and dulls the mind. I lit a candle for James this morning. God rest his soul.
The cold is a bitter trial this year. Come sit by the hearth tonight if Lida allows it.
Nota scribaeDictated shivering, with hands wrapped in rags.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You blind old bat, the tub was rotting away anyway. Give me back my lamp before I tell the bailiff what you keep in your corner.
You open your mouth and I will close it for you. You owe me more than a tub.