weaver of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I am a true craftsman, not a girl who just hems, though I suffer fools too quietly.”
Things Isolde Weaver had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
My last groschen went on a padded war-jack to keep Gerta safe from the soldiers on the roads. I thought it a Christian kindness. Now I hear it was pawned straight to the ale-wife to pay a tavern slate. I am left with nothing but shame.
Nota scribaeDictated with much wringing of hands and biting of a chapped lip.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Paid my penny to Widow Clemence to sit in the yard's daylight. Milena Vorsucher is weeping over that wooden dove again. Edward was a decent lad, but the deep mines are a death trap. Better to weep now than be a widow at eighteen, I say.
You have a stone for a heart, Isolde. He smelled of sulphur but his hands were gentle.
the eve of St George, at Prime
The cloth masters squeeze us for every penny, and the baker downstairs says flour is dearer again because of the soldiers. I throw the shuttle until my shoulders scream, just to afford a stale loaf in my cold room.
Come walk to Sedletz with me, the monks give alms to the poor.
I have no time for walking, Avice, only working. A weaver does not beg.
Nota scribaeShe bit her lip so hard it bled while speaking.
the Wednesday after St Gregory, at Sext
It has been weeks. Cecily Miller still has my best Nuremberg shears in her basket. She claims she needs them for a batch of shirts. They cost me a month of savings, and I must sit here picking at my sleeves while she uses my livelihood.
Hold your tongue, Isolde. I just have three more hems to finish and you shall have them back.
Candlemas, at Terce
Cecily asked to borrow my Nuremberg shears for a single afternoon. I am a fool to trust anyone, but I handed them over to keep the peace in the yard. Good tools are needed for good work, and I pray she treats them with care.
You will never see those again, mark my words.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I needed the ale more than the padding, Isolde. The Cumans are not in the lower town yet.