washer of heavy woollen cloaks, of Kuttenberg
“My hands are eaten raw by lye, but it puts bread in my mouth. I keep to myself.”
Things Christine Cooper had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
Saw young Elsbeth counting her pennies down by the tubs today. Saint Barbara protect her, she is saving hard. It is none of my business if she is trying to get away from that stepmother, but work is hard enough without a sour face waiting at home.
Nota scribaeShe spent a long time finding the words, waving her red hands about the whole while.
the Friday after Easter, at None
Ellen Brook was at me again for her heavy shears. I told her straight, I have one last massive cloak to finish for a fat burgher and she will have them by Sunday. I do not know why she is making such a fuss.
You have said 'by Sunday' since before Lent, Christine. I need my shears.
You will have them when the burgher's cloak is stretched, Ellen, not a day sooner.
the Tuesday of Holy Week, at Terce
I am utterly sick of Avice Thatcher's brass neck. She is crying up the street that Alice Cook has her tools, while she still sits on my best linen hackle! I lent it to her in good faith at Candlemas. I am not speaking to her until it is returned.
I have a tear in my good apron that needs mending first. Have some patience, woman.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was very loud.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Sext
They were hauling silver ore up the cobbles today and my blood ran cold. I dragged Magdalena well back from the road. Nobody forgets that autumn when the cart brake snapped and crushed her poor hand. The Lord spared her life, but I end up wringing her wet wool.
I thank you for the help with the wringing, Christine. My hand aches fierce when the weather turns.
I still dream of the noise that cart made on the stones.
the day after Candlemas, at Prime
The merchants dropped off three dozen heavy cloaks at first light. God's truth, the fleece is terrible since those Cuman soldiers started burning the pastures. Hauling the water and boiling the lye has my hands raw before the sun is even up. At least Ellen lent me her shears.
Use them well, but do not forget I need them back when you are done.
Nota scribaeDictated at the wash-houses. I had to step back to avoid the lye splashes.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your voice down, Christine, I beg you. If Apollonia hears, she will take what little I have.