mender of soldiers' linens, of Kuttenberg
“I mend heavy coats and wash the soldiers' filth from dawn till dusk. It is an honest living, Sakra, and keeps my family fed.”
Things Svatava Vejmola had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the second day of May, at Vespers
It is my little Elishka's name day soon and the soldiers have eaten every bird in the town. Sakra, a good mother provides a feast. I will pay thirteen groschen to any soul who brings me four eggs. I cannot leave my bench to scour the outer farms.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Sunday again, and again I must pray for justice at my mother Ursula's grave. My sister works that river strip like she owns it, but it was promised to me on her deathbed. I fear Francis will tear up Betty's cabbages by the roots if the bailiff does not settle this.
Mother gave it to me the winter before she passed, Svatava. Keep Francis and his temper away from my cabbages or I will call the watch.
Nota scribaeShe wept when speaking of her mother, though she wiped her face with a soapy wrist.
the Tuesday after Saint Gregory, at Sext
My knuckles are frozen stiff and the yard smells of stale sweat and wet horses. Gerta and Cunne are fighting over a dye pot again instead of doing real work. Fools. If the German masters from the mint see this idleness, they will dock our pay.
She took my pot first, Svatava! I only wanted to finish the blue wool before the light failed.
I do not care who took what. Just wash the tunics before dusk and stop your yapping.
the feast of Saint Matthias, at Terce
Clemence Stone sits waiting for that sell-sword of hers to return from the war. I wash their linens all day, girl. I know what soldiers are like. He is not coming back rich, and if he does, the alehouse will have his silver before you see a single penny.
Kunz is different from the others. He swore on the cross he would take me to Prague.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard over a tub of freezing water. The woman paused constantly to sigh.
Candlemas, at None
Another basket of torn shirts from the levy, Sakra. I told Francis we must put a petition to the magistrate about the land by the river. My sister is a liar who took advantage of an old woman's failing mind, and I will not let it stand.
Call me a thief again in front of the whole parish and you will wear that dirty wash water, sister.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Thirteen groschen? Have you lost your wits, woman? The bailiff will take my boots if we cannot pay the rent.
I saw an old hen near the monastery, but a guardsman wrung its neck before None.