washerwoman at the washhouse, of Kuttenberg
“I scrub the mud out of miners' tunics until my hands bleed. I thought I'd marry my Karl, but he died, and now I just want my coin and what's owed to me.”
Things Kethe had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
The master's nameday is coming and I promised him a thick stew to keep my indoor shift. But I cannot go to the market, girl, not since I tipped that whoreson's basket of rotten turnips. I need someone to fetch me two cabbages, no questions asked.
Nota scribaeShe yelled this while wringing out a heavy shirt. The wet lye splashed my ink.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
I took every penny I had to buy that padded jack for my Karl. Since he died, I lent it to Christina for her brother. And what does she do? Pawns it for drink! I want it back, girl, before the next muster, or I will break her nose.
the eve of St George, at Prime
Denise is weeping over her bolt of linen again. I told her straight: Bridget is entirely in the right to hold that cloth until the eight groschen is paid. You do not survive in Kuttenberg without securing your debts. Stop your crying, girl, and pay what you owe.
It is my only good cloth! Endres will need a shirt when he comes back from the woods.
Endres is dead in a ditch, Denise. Pay me my eight groschen and you can have your cloth.
Nota scribaeDictated in the attic. The air smelled foully of damp wool and yeast.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Terce
If Elsbeth asks me one more time to carry word to her family, I swear I'll drown her in the wash vat. I have never been to her village, and I am not walking the roads. I have my own work to do, and pennies are too scarce to go wandering.
You are out and about anyway, Kethe! It is just a small message to let them know I am well.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
They buried my Karl today. The levy came, I bought him good gear to keep him safe from Hungarian swords, and he just died of the bloody flux in his own shirt. Christ almighty, what a waste of a decent man, and a waste of good coin.
He was a good sort, Kethe. Up in heaven he won't need a padded jack.
He talked too loud when he drank, but he paid his slate. May the Lord keep him.
Nota scribaeShe did not weep while dictating this, though she snapped at me twice to write faster.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I would fetch them for you, girl, but my back is aching from the vats. Ask one of the young ones.
I could fetch your cabbages, Kethe, if you promise to take word to my family on the road tomorrow.
Get out of my way, girl. I am not walking the roads for you or anyone else.