baker's daughter, of Kuttenberg
“I am wasting my youth scrubbing ash and breathing flour while my true love is kept from me.”
Things Margery Mercer had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at None
The heat from the ovens is unbearable today. I sweat like a common digger and my pale skin will be ruined. If I am to be an old maid like the widow Anna, scrubbing peels until my hands bleed, I might as well die now. Utterly unfair.
Nota scribaeThe girl sighed heavily four times while speaking.
the feast of St Pancras, at Vespers
I looked down the street today and remembered Richard walking by the market. Mother chased him to Kolin with a broom and her foul curses, calling him a penniless chancer. She has no heart. True love requires suffering, but I never thought my own mother would be the tyrant.
My heart breaks for you, Margery. They do not understand men like Richard and my Jan.
He was a vagabond who wanted your father's silver, child. Listen to your mother.
Nota scribaeShe twisted her apron strings so hard I thought they would snap.
the Monday of Easter week, at Prime
Father says grain is dearer because of the King's brother and his soldiers on the roads. It means we bake more loaves of rye than white bread, and the dark flour gets under my nails worse than the white. Everything in this town is just dust and misery.
It is hard for everyone, child. We must pray for better days and cheaper flour.
the Wednesday after Laetare Sunday, at Sext
I stood by the wash-tubs with Vendula until Mother's shrieking called me back. Mabel Eldris was wailing again about the Lord's punishment on sinners. As if her complaints are more important than a broken heart! I would rather listen to the mill wheel turn all day.
The Lord hears the vain and the proud, Margery Mercer! The soldiers are a scourge on us all.
Let her preach. We know what truly matters in this life.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
My life is over. The only man who ever looked at me with true feeling has been driven from the street. Mother claims I am saving the family inheritance, but what good is bread and coin if I must spend my days a prisoner to yeast? I shall never stop weeping.
You will thank me when you have a husband who actually works for his groschen.
Nota scribaeDictated while sobbing into a floury rag.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Stop your whining and fetch the flour from the storeroom, you lazy girl.
I am coming, mother. There is no need to shout for the whole street to hear.