washerwoman to the miners, of Kuttenberg
“I wash the dirt out of the miners' tunics until my hands crack, and pay Albrecht his rent. It is a miserable life, but I do not pretend it is anything else.”
Things Elsbeth had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
Avice has the fever and the others are cowering from it. Fools, the lot of them. You do not catch a fever by looking at it, you catch it from the damp. I keep my hands in my apron and stay by the tubs. At least the lye burns the sickness away.
the Tuesday after St Pancras, at Sext
Lucy Baker was at me again today to carry a message to her family. How many times must I say it? I am not walking to whichever God-forsaken village she comes from. I haul wet linen to the drying lines, I do not travel the roads. Find a passing carter and leave me be.
I only asked because you are out in the town. My kin have heard nothing since the snows.
And they will hear nothing from me. Pay a messenger with your own groschen.
Nota scribaeShe was scrubbing a tunic with such force I feared it would tear.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at None
Sibyl took a blow to the jaw from a drunk miner last night. She is weeping over it today. If you argue with a drunkard in the alleys, you will get hit. Have we learned nothing from poor Kunigunde? Keep your mouth shut, take the coin, and pay Albrecht his rent on Sunday.
He said he had two groschen, but he lied. It hurts to chew my bread.
Listen to Elsbeth, child. A broken jaw heals. A broken back leaves you in the damp forever, as Dietrich left me.
Nota scribaeShe spoke plainly, showing no pity.
the Feast of St Gregory, at Prime
The wind off the mountain is bitter, and the water in my tub has a crust of ice. The soldiers are marching past, wrapped in wool, and I have nothing but this thin shawl. My heavy coat would keep this chill from my bones, if a certain thieving bitch had not laid hands on it.
Candlemas, at Vespers
I spent every penny I had saved to buy a thick mercenary's coat. The cellar is freezing, and Albrecht gives us nothing but a leaking roof for his rent. I left it on my pallet while I went to empty the tubs. I came back, and it was gone. Matilda, if you took it, God help you.
A good coat is worth its weight in silver these days. The frost is deep in the graveyard.
Nota scribaeShe dictated this while holding her hands tightly beneath her apron.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
She is burning up, Elsbeth. We have no tin plate to fetch water for her.
Use the wooden bucket, Berchta. And keep away from me.