maidservant and seamstress, of Kuttenberg
“I am a decent seamstress forced to dwell among drunkards. I keep my dress neat and my head high.”
Things Ursel had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday after the Invention of the Cross, at Vespers
Mandelina fell down our rotting cellar steps in her drink yesterday and burns with fever. I tried to wipe her brow like a proper Christian, but she pushed me away. I leave her to Ottilie now. Her cheap ale will put her in the ground beside her late mother soon enough.
Nota scribaeShe crossed her arms and sighed heavily after speaking.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Lidka Wood keeps badgering me to carry word to her kin on the roads. I have no errand in the direction she wants. It is hard enough hauling baskets from the river here in Kuttenberg without walking into the jaws of the soldiers.
You are a selfish creature. I only asked a small favour of you.
the eve of Saint George, at Prime
Lene is tearing the cellar apart again today, muttering that someone took her carved wooden bird. She dropped the silly trinket in the mud of the street, I am sure of it. We have enough misery down here without her glaring at us like thieves.
It was on my bedroll and now it is gone. One of you took it.
the Tuesday after Saint Gregory, at Sext
I only asked Lida Clark to carry a message to my home parish to say I was not dead in the fires. She refused me flatly. She is a selfish cow and I will not speak to her again.
I have my own troubles without dragging your wailing across Bohemia, Ursel.
Nota scribaeDictated near the Italian Court. She wiped a smudge of dust from her sleeve.
the week before Lent, at Compline
Before Lent I lent my bone sewing needle to Clemence. Now she uses it to pin a dirty canvas over her bed to stop the leaking roof, and will not give it back. She says I owe her for knocking over her boiled beans in the dark. Without my needle I cannot work.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Have some pity, Ursel. Her mother Margaret died of the sweating sickness and the girl is broken-hearted.
Pity does not mend a split head or dry the damp. Let Kunz fix the stairs before we all perish.