seamstress and pieceworker, of Kuttenberg
“I sew piecework for the merchants and keep my own coin. People call me hard, but they take my silver gladly enough.”
Things Amice Baker had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
The feast of St Philip and St James, at Terce
I bought good war gear for Christine for the town muster, paying honest coin. The girl pawned it the moment my back was turned. I expect it returned before the bailiff's inspection. The youth of today are an utter exhaustion to me.
Nota scribaeShe sighed heavily and rubbed her eyes.
The Tuesday of Easter week, at Sext
Kethe and Madlen are feuding bitterly over a bone comb and a lump of lye soap. They scream at each other across the wash-tubs instead of admitting they are both ruined. I stay well clear of such foolishness.
She stole my soap, Amice! It cost me three pennies.
My mother Grete would never have stood for such a foul lie. I took nothing.
The feast of St Benedict, at Prime
I still have Isolde Goodman's best shearing tool. I do feel for the girl, as she is quiet and reads her letters, but she owes me for her rent. Practicality must overrule sentiment, lest we all starve.
I know the debt is just, Amice. But without the shears, I cannot earn the silver to pay you back.
Nota scribaeShe wiped the blade of the shears with a cloth the entire time she spoke.
The Wednesday after St Valentine, at Vespers
Rosa Taylor says a neighbour should not hold her tools ransom. I told her I will gladly hand over her goose quills the moment ten silver groschen are placed in my palm. Until then, the quills stay in my locked box.
You are a hard woman, Amice Baker. I traded my stamping die away and need those quills for my patterns.
Then you should have saved your coin through the winter, Rosa, as I did.
Candlemas, at None
Lorenz the agent came to the yard today demanding hard silver for the rent, not grain. Half the women wept. I paid my share, and paid for Rosa and Isolde too. I took their tools as surety. A debt is a debt.
That Lorenz is a grasping leech. He cares nothing for our empty pots.
He is a man doing his master's arithmetic. Tears do not pay the chapter house.
Nota scribaeDictated in a perfectly even voice while she counted out pennies onto the table.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I only needed a little coin for bread, Amice. I swear I'll get the kit back before the bailiff comes looking.
Bread is eaten, Christine. The bailiff's fines remain. Get it back.