maidservant at the parsonage, of Kuttenberg
“I keep Father Vincent's hearth, scrub his pots and mend his hose. He calls it charity, but my cracked hands say otherwise.”
Things Constance had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
Isolde is still walking around Kuttenberg in my late brother Otto's gambeson. I lent it to her for a few pennies, and she told me she pawned it. Now I see her wearing it to fetch ale. Hand it over before the muster, or I will peel it off you.
Nota scribaeThe woman was beating a rug while she spoke and hit me with the dust.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Father Vincent rode to Kolin again today on one of those spavined nags he bought. I gave him two hundred and thirty groschen of my own silver to replace our stolen draught horses, and he comes back smelling of rosewater. That widow Juliana is wearing my life savings.
Your gift was freely given to God's church, Constance. We must bear our worldly trials with grace.
Nota scribaeI advised her not to speak so of a priest. She told me to write.
the eve of St George, at Prime
The damp in this kitchen is worse than last year. My bones pop like green wood on the fire. Ever since the chest fever took me five winters ago, sweeping the stone floors feels like carrying stones. I cut another tally mark in my bedpost today. Ten groschen a year, he owes.
Rub goose fat on your chest, Constance. It helps with the rattle.
the second Tuesday in Lent, at Terce
Soldiers on the road mean dearer bread in the market. I had to pay an extra penny for a loaf today, and half of it was sawdust. Meanwhile the master sits by the fire worrying over how to send a letter to his father Bartholomew down near Budweis.
The bakers are mixing in dirt, I swear it. We will all starve before harvest.
Candlemas, at Compline
The priest says the Pope wants our days written down so the Lord has less to judge. The Lord can look at my raw hands from his lye soap if He wants to know my days. It is dark, I have drawn two buckets from the well, and I am tired.
Amen to that. The men write the books and we scrub the floors.
Nota scribaeDictated in the kitchen. She refused to stop scrubbing an iron pot while she spoke.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is cold at the wash-house. I will give it back when the weather turns, Constance.
It is nearly summer. Bring it to the parsonage tomorrow.