merchant's wife of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I keep my husband's house and try to teach my boy his letters, though the days are long.”
Things Doubravka Walker had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Godfrey's trade is thinner than weak ale. With the soldiers camping on the roads, no goods come into town, and the tolls take every groschen. We have no new tools to buy, which is why the women fight like dogs over an old paddle. May the Lord keep Havel and Richard from the levy.
Nota scribaeDictated while she mended a shirt. She sighed heavily between each word.
the feast of St Mark, at None
A miserable morning at the trough. Marushka refuses to yield Kvyetoslava's sieve, and the shrieking gave me an ache behind the eyes. I miss old Yarka. She is dead, God rest her, but she kept order. I still say Sovka has a black mark on her soul for cursing her at the end.
The old bat owed me a groschen, dead or not. The Lord understands debts.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
I went to mass with bare knuckles. Kvyetoslava tells me the Lord hears prayers without beads, but my conscience is stained. Dropping my late mother's painted bead in that foul washing yard... God rest her soul. It feels a terrible betrayal to lose the only thing she gave me at the end.
He does hear them, Doubravka. Your apron is clean, let your conscience be clean too.
Nota scribaeThe woman crossed herself three times while speaking.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Terce
Poor Ursel is weeping again for her mother Bohushka, who ran to Prague last autumn. She wants Lida to send a letter. Lida is right to refuse. The roads are no place for honest men now, let alone a solitary messenger. I gave the poor girl a piece of bread and told her to pray.
If a man just walked fast, he would miss the soldiers. I know it.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
A black day. I dropped the painted wooden bead from my mother's rosary by the lower courtyard trough. Kvyetoslava helped me search, but I crawled in the filthy muck until my skirts were ruined, and it is gone. That filth swallowed it whole. I am sick with the guilt of it.
If Uncle Maresh were back from the wagons, he would have drained the trough for you.
Nota scribaeShe asked for the word muck to be struck out and then put back.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If the pedlars came through, I would buy my own sieve and we would have peace!
Mind the boy's letters, stepmother, and I will mind the levy. We are fine.