craftsman's wife and housekeeper, of Kuttenberg
“I thought marrying a craftsman meant a quiet respectable life. Instead I mend shirts and scrape porridge bowls for three loud men from dawn to dusk.”
Things Bridget Lang had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at None
The price of grain is a punishment. I went to the lower parish ovens today and a groschen buys half the loaf it did before the king was taken. The baker cheats the weight, but I dare not raise my voice like Ursel does. Hermann expects a full table, and I am weary of haggling.
Nota scribaeThe woman sighed heavily between every word and wrung her apron strings into a knot.
the feast of Saint Mark, at Terce
I have lost a small carved bone comb that belonged to my grandmother. I fear it fell from my pocket near the communal well. It is of no value to anyone but me, yet I dare not tell Hermann it is gone. If anyone has found it, I beg they return it quietly.
A bone comb, you say? I have not seen such a thing in the dirt. You must be more careful with your trinkets.
Thank you, Rosa. I only ask because I know you have a sharp eye for lost things.
Rosa probably has it tucked in the gambeson she keeps from Gerta. May God grant you patience, Bridget.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Kuttenberg makes people so harsh. I was at the market and saw Bozhena screaming at old Benesh over spilled slops. The man cannot even walk properly with his rotting leg. It is deeply shameful to air such grievances in the street for all to hear. Honest Christian folk should keep their quarrels indoors.
The sour old bastard ruined my best skirt! He deserved every word I gave him.
Well said, Bridget. We should have peace, just as my late aunt Isabel always kept.
Nota scribaeShe kept staring at the toes of her shoes while speaking.
the Friday after Saint Gregory, at Prime
Eberhard has dragged half the mud in Kuttenberg across my freshly swept floor again. My hands are raw from scrubbing wooden bowls, and the men treat the house like a common tavern. I say nothing, of course, for it is not my place, but God knows I am tired before the sun is fully up.
It is only a bit of dirt, woman. Stop your sighing and fetch my boots, I need to be at work.
Men are a heavy cross to bear. You must save your strength, Bridget.
Candlemas, at Matins
The winter wind howls through our upper room, but it is nothing compared to the snoring of Udo and Eberhard below. I crept down to blow life into the hearth embers, shivering in the dark. I prayed for a quiet house when I wed, but the Lord saw fit to give me three noisy men instead.
I do not snore! It is Eberhard who sounds like a dying bear.
Come back to bed, wife, the pottage can wait until Prime.
Nota scribaeDictated at the church door. She rubbed her knuckles raw while waiting her turn.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You do well enough, Bridget. Just serve the pottage hot tonight.
You should scream at that cheating whoreson baker! My late mother Matilda would have tipped his flour out.