seamstress of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I am a seamstress with a quick needle and a sore back. I make my own way, though God knows it is hard.”
Things Ellen Brook had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Compline
The candle is gone, and so are my eyes. I squint at the linen, and still the stitches wander. If the merchant docks my pay tomorrow, I will have nothing for bread. I would give a groschen just to hear my sister Lucy's voice.
Nota scribaeShe rubbed her eyes the whole time she spoke.
the eve of St George, at None
I see Grete making a fool of herself over that penniless Francis again. He ran off to Kolin because he had nothing, and she thinks he will come back a lord. She should look at my hands if she wants to know what a hard life looks like.
Mind your own stitches, Ellen. You know nothing about Francis.
I know he is in Kolin, which is more than I can say for my messages.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
It has been two months since Candlemas. Two months! Christine Cooper swore she needed my heavy broadcloth shears for one final garment. Easter is gone, and my shears are still in her house. I cannot cut straight with these little snips, and it is costing me coin.
I told you, I am nearly finished. It is a very large cloak. You shall have them before the feast.
She has my linen hackle, too! And a cough will not pay the rent.
I do not care about your hackle, Avice, I want my shears.
Nota scribaeDictated with much tapping of the foot.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Sext
Mandelina Albrecht's father takes his wagon to Kolin every other week. Is it so hard to carry five words? 'Ellen is well and sends her love.' That is all I ask her to tell my sister Lucy. She will not do it. God preserve me from stubborn girls.
I am not a messenger. I have enough to do watching the road for soldiers without looking for your sister.
It is hard to be away from your mother's kin. I pray for them both.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
A great rush of work from the upper town. God be praised for the silver they spend on wool. Christine was weeping over a heavy order, so I lent her my best shears, fool that I am. Now I must cut everything with my small scissors until she finishes.
Bless you, Ellen. Just a few days, I swear.
Never lend a good tool. You will never see it again without a fight.
Nota scribaeShe said this while measuring a length of cloth.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Bread is dear everywhere. Rest your eyes, Ellen. We are all wearing out.
I am not taking any message to Kolin, if that is what you are hinting at.