wool carder and weaver, of Kuttenberg
“I do my own work, keep my own counsel, and stay out of the bailiff's way. I owe no one a single groschen.”
Things Eleanor Weaver had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
The eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
The town council and their levy can go to the devil, but I have my iron cap and padded jack locked in my chest, bought with honest sweat. The fools in my street who tangled with pawnbrokers will soon be wearing offal in the pillory. I check my hasp twice a day.
Nota scribaeShe checked the hasp on her chest twice while dictating this, staring at the wall.
The third day of Easter week, at None
Walpurg Schmidt was asking after those carding combs again. I say a dishonest woman who pawns her muster gear does not deserve good tools. I am keeping them safe for her. I will use them until the teeth fall out, for that is simply the way of the world.
You lent them weeks ago! Give me back my combs, you thief, or I will bring the town guard to your door.
Call the guard if you like. They will be very interested to hear where your padded jack has gone.
The Monday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
Saw Zlata Weaver pacing the mud today like a lost sheep. Anyone with eyes can tell she did something foolish with the silver Eve Field gave her. I have not a drop of pity for her. A woman who cannot keep her own purse closed deserves what she gets.
My late mother Hedvika always said you were a hard woman, Eleanor. Zlata is our neighbour.
The second Friday of Lent, at Terce
Adleta Miller is still weeping over her best flax-breaker that Cunne Friedrich took at Candlemas. Christ almighty, the woman is entirely too soft. She should just march into his house and take the wooden board back. It is darkly amusing that she cries over a board while ignoring her own faults.
It is easy for you to say, safely locked in your room. He is a large man.
Nota scribaeShe spoke painfully slow, weighing every word, and refused to look me in the eye.
The morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
The tallow candle burned down before I finished my piece. My eyes are watering, my hands are raw with lanolin, and the German masters still expect you to kiss their boots for a pittance. But it is honest labour, it keeps a roof over my head, and I owe no man anything.
Praise be to those who work with their own hands. The large halls will ruin us all.
Nota scribaeDictated staring at the mud, with her arms crossed the entire time.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
There is no need to look so smug, Eleanor. Some of us had to send our gear out for repairs.
Repairs. Ay. And I suppose that pawnbroker Vitek is a tailor now.