washerwoman, of Kuttenberg
“I am a washerwoman, up to my knees in the stream below the Italian Court scrubbing the filth off miners and mint masters alike. The lye burns the skin right off my knuckles, but it pays for my ale, and I am still standing.”
Things Matilda had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday after Saint George, at Vespers
By Saint Barbara, Elsbeth caught me by the baker's stall again. I shouted her down, but she is like a dog with a bone about that bloody iron hat. The muster is called and she expects iron out of thin air. The living need bread more than a soldier needs iron, that is the truth of it.
Nota scribaeShe waved her hands so wildly during the dictation that she knocked over my ink.
the Friday before Saint George, at Terce
Anna is a fool. Skipping her midday bread to save forty groschen for a silver cross for her dead mother Gerda. Starving yourself for a corpse is a rich man's luxury, and we are not rich. I told her so, and she just wept.
the third day of Easter week, at None
My back is broken and my hands are raw meat. I tried to buy a decent loaf today and the baker's boy demanded a king's ransom for stale crusts. The masters in this town squeeze us dry. God's arse, the town owes me a living for the skin I leave on those washing boards.
The prices are the same for all of us. The soldiers on the roads take the toll, and the bakers pass it on.
My sister Katherine always said Kuttenberg bakers were thieves. If she were here from Prague, she'd give them an earful.
Nota scribaeDictated at the washing boards. The profanity was copious.
the feast of Saint Matthias, at Compline
Eve Wright cried for two days over a lost bone comb in the muck. Saint Barbara give me strength. I helped her look for the bloody thing just to stop her wailing. A comb won't fill your belly. She is too soft for this town.
It was my grandmother's comb. I thanked you for helping, you didn't have to be so cruel about it.
Ash Wednesday, at Sext
Rose is still whining about that padded gambeson her brother Stephen never got to wear. Ottilie pawned it, and Rose won't shut up about it. Just punch Ottilie in the mouth and have done with it! This endless complaining is worse than the cold water.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I left that kettle hat with you for safekeeping! It is not yours to pawn. The levy is called and I need my gear.
And I was starving in November! Bread costs a whoreson ransom. What good is a hat if the belly under it is empty?