merchant, of Kuttenberg
“I sell pots, pins, and whatever the carters bring through, and Lord save us, it is a heavy burden trying to keep a family fed with things as they are. I do my best to be a dutiful wife and mother, though my hands are never still and my feet are always aching.”
Things Margery Porter had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The toll at the gates is higher again. The carters say they cannot bring as much through, so I have fewer pins and wooden spoons to sell. Jan and Joan were fighting over the last bit of bread this morning. Lord save us, I am doing all I can. Sometimes I look at Alice Gold and think she might have the right idea with the drink, though I'd never do it.
Nota scribaeShe spoke quickly, her hands waving about as if trying to catch a fly.
the second day of Easter week, at None
It has been months now since Lent, and Alice Taylor still has my ink pot. That was bought from a passing scholar! Yes, I ruined a yard of her silk with a bad dye, Lord save us, but I will pay the twenty groschen. Holding my ink pot hostage is just spite, absolute spite.
Spite? That silk cost me dear. You will get your little pot when I see the coin you owe me, and not a day before.
I said I would pay it! But I need the pot to write down what I owe to the carters!
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Sext
I cannot sleep for the dread in my heart. Last winter when the fever was here and Ulrich was so pale, I swore I would walk barefoot to Sedletz on the feast of Saint Agnes if he lived. He lived, praise be, but I missed the day. I could not leave the stall. Lord save us, what if the sickness comes back for my broken word?
I know the weight of a promise left hanging. The monks at Sedletz are forgiving, Margery. Make the walk when you can.
The boy is fine now, Margery. Stop fretting and tend to the customers.
Nota scribaeShe wept a little, but wiped her eyes when a customer approached.
the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, at Prime
So much shouting from the lower markets today! Poor Alice Gold is deep in the cups again because of her Adela and that hired hand Peshek. Lord save us, I try to keep my nose out of such brawls, but it’s hard not to pity her. A mother's lot is never easy, whether they are born of your own belly or not.
Peshek isn't so bad. He's handsome enough. Adela could do worse.
He is a disaster with dice in his pockets! I will lock her in the cellar first!
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
I woke earlier than usual to boil the pottage, but Ulrich had already knocked over the salt, and Jan would not wash his face. Lord save us, these children will be the death of me. I had to drag my wares to the stall with an aching back. Market life is hard enough without fighting your own family before Prime.
The water in the basin had ice on it! I didn't want to freeze my face off.
He pushed me and that's why the salt fell over. It wasn't my fault.
Nota scribaeDictated between sales of wooden pins. She barely stopped to draw breath.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It’s hard all over. My roof is still leaking and Lambert is still in Prague counting his wool money.
The drink dulls the noise of the market and the stupidity of daughters. Don't judge what you haven't tried.