washer of raw wool, of Kuttenberg
“I wash the wool and sweep the yard for my husband Peter. A quiet life is a safe life.”
Things Agnes Gerber had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
The widow says she will hold the carding bench a little longer, though Easter is gone. I need but three more groschen. If Peter asks why the market bread is so small, I will tell him the flour is dearer with the soldiers about. May the Lord forgive my lies.
Nota scribaeShe whispered this so softly I could scarcely hear it over the carts.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
I swept the yard clean this morning, leaving the lines in the dirt just so. Then Sibyl comes out screaming at Grete over that soldier Gottfried, kicking the dust everywhere. I wish she would find a little Christian mercy and let me keep my sweeping neat.
My daughter will not marry a beggar who will die in a ditch, neat lines or no.
the feast of St Benedict, at Vespers
Peter says the flour jar in the pantry looks low. I told him the mice have been at it. My hands are cracked red from the lye vats today, and I am too tired to care. Let the mice have it.
I will pray for your hands, Agnes. I must pray for my vow to Sedletz anyway.
Nota scribaeShe kept her hands buried in her apron pockets the whole time she spoke.
the first Sunday of Lent, at Terce
Matilda Green came asking for my best needle. I told her I lost it. I know full well what she did with Alice Cook's shears, passing them to Lene and laughing about it. I lend nothing to a thief.
You are a tight-fisted mouse, Agnes Gerber. Keep your rusty needle.
You did right. I am still looking for my shears.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
Washing raw wool in the winter is a penance the priests know nothing about. The grease and the stench cling to my skirts, and the water is like ice. I pray the Lord sees fit to give me a drier trade before my bones freeze.
Stop complaining to the scribe and get the water boiling. The weavers are waiting.
Nota scribaeThe woman smelled strongly of wet sheep and lye.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A woman needs her own purse, Agnes. I pray you get your bench.
The bread is half the size it was at Lent. See that you don't get cheated at the stalls.