seamstress of heavy canvas, of Kuttenberg
“I sew cart covers and tents from dawn to dusk so I do not starve. If you want a patch, bring groschen, not tears.”
Things Lene Muller had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Christ's wounds, the garrison still has not paid for the five tent covers I patched. They say the paymaster is waiting on silver from the mint. I cannot eat promises. If my purse stays empty I will be gnawing on my own callouses by Whitsun.
Nota scribaeDictated without looking up from her sewing. She stabbed her finger twice while speaking.
the Tuesday after St John before the Latin Gate, at Sext
Felice was at my window again, begging me to walk to Maleshov to see her mother Elsbeth. I told her no for the hundredth time. The roads are thick with Hungarian mercenaries. I am not risking my neck for a letter I cannot read. Let the girl find a carter.
She is bedridden and alone! You only care for your own belly, Lene.
My belly is here in Kuttenberg. If I meet a Cuman on the road, neither of us eats.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Clara Binder is wailing about the roof of her shed caving in. Hannes is still in Prague and will not fix it. I would pity her, but she has a husband to keep her warm and bread on her table. Some of us have only our own hands to keep the rain off.
It is easy to be hard when your own roof holds, Lene.
I will pray for Hannes to return and show mercy to his tenants.
Nota scribaeThe woman spat on the floor when she mentioned the landlord.
the Wednesday of the third week of Lent, at Prime
Alice Cook is weeping in the yard again. Matilda Green handed me a pair of fine Nuremberg shears to finish a hem, and now Alice says they belong to the woman she originally borrowed them from. Christ's wounds, I need them to cut this heavy canvas. The tool belongs to whoever needs it to survive.
Please, Lene! The owner will have my hide if I do not return them. I only borrowed them at Candlemas!
I only gave them to you for a moment, Lene! You are a thief!
Call me what you like, Matilda. Without these shears I cannot cut, and if I cannot cut, I starve.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
The light is poor today and my eyes ache. A blind seamstress is a dead seamstress. I sat by the window to catch the sun, but the clouds are thick as wool. I pray my sight holds, or I will be begging by the church door before the snow melts.
Drink a broth of carrots and parsley, Lene. My grandmother swore it kept the dark away.
If you went to Mass more and worked on feast days less, the Lord might preserve your eyes.
Nota scribaeShe paused to rub her eyes, leaving a dark dye stain on her forehead.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Gottfried says the mercenaries take what they want and leave nothing for the king's men, let alone us.
Then Gottfried can eat canvas, Sibyl. I need my groschen.