merchant's wife of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I am a respectable merchant's wife, and I thank God we do not beg for credit like half this miserable street.”
Things Berchta Weiss had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Sext
The Hungarians are making everything ruinously dear. A loaf of bread costs what a whole goose used to. Lord preserve us, the mint workers' wives are weeping in the market, but Lamprecht's coin will see us through. God rewards the diligent.
Nota scribaeDictated at the cloth stall. She stood with her arms folded the entire time.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
It is no wonder the silver wages are late and sickness takes the street. Mabel Eldris has still not fulfilled her plague vow from ninety-nine! She is dragging us all toward hell with her delay. The Lord does not forget a broken promise.
I have not forgotten, Berchta. The Lord knows my heart and my purse are both empty right now.
The Lord knows you are bringing a curse down on us all, Mabel.
the feast of St Gertrude, at None
Lord preserve us, the young women today have no sense. Margery Mercer weeping over that wandering carpenter Richard, and Vendula pining for a penniless soldier like Jan! I told Rosa she is right to forbid it. A respectable, propertied match is the only shield against squalor.
Jan is a brave man in the royal levy, not a wastrel!
You have a stone where your heart should be, Berchta.
Nota scribaeShe spoke very rapidly and asked me to underline the word propertied.
the Monday after St Matthias, at Prime
Betty Weaver is an absolute fool. I saw her lending her good bone weaving die to Sibyl Bauer. Lending tools to a desperate spinster is throwing good groschen into the mud. I said as much to Christina, but nobody listens until the thing is broken.
Sibyl is an honest worker and needed the die. Charity costs nothing, Berchta.
I returned it whole and clean, as I swore I would.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
I am still waiting for the widow Anna to apologise. She left a pot of fiercely expensive imported dye in a draughty, foolish place on her floor, and when I stumbled on it, she had the gall to demand restitution! I shall not cross her threshold until she repents.
I am bedridden with the shaking ague, Berchta, and you ruined my livelihood. The fault was your clumsy feet.
God punishes the careless, Anna. Leave your pots in the dark and the Lord will send a boot.
Nota scribaeThe woman refused to admit she was looking the wrong way when she walked.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Aye, Hermann says the tolls are worse every day. Thank the Lord for our good cellar.