ale fetcher at the market, of Kuttenberg
“I carry ale to the stalls so the men do not have to walk. It is a hard life in the mud, but I endure it.”
Things Lene had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Fritz Schmidt was drunk by None and knocked my tray into the mud. Three full mugs gone. The ale-wife docked me five groschen, and that whoreson just laughed. I need a strong arm to beat the coin out of him.
Nota scribaeShe wiped her hands on her apron the entire time she spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
Eberhard Preng is asking after his padded jack again. I told him I left it at the washerwoman's. God forgive me, but Katherine the widow has it in pawn for my rent, and she will not yield it without coin.
Lene, the muster is coming. I need that jack by Sunday or the captain will have my hide.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
The mud in the horse market is up to my ankles today. A stray dog snapped at my heel, and the carters are already shouting for their morning ale. Saint Barbara give me strength.
The mud is worse by the gates, Lene. Count your blessings.
Nota scribaeDictated while carrying a heavy bucket of cold water.
the Monday after St Valentine, at None
Old Lorenz is still whining about Mathes the carter running off to Prague last Martinmas. The man wanted to escape his debts, and he did. I would do the same if I had a wagon.
Candlemas, at Terce
The priest says the Pope wants our days written down for the Lord. The Lord knows I haul ale and wash mugs until my back breaks. If He wants to read about it, let Him pay my rent to Katherine.
Nota scribaeThe priest warned her against blasphemy, but she would not recant.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You walked right into me, you clumsy cow. Watch your feet.
Fritz, you owe the girl. Pay up before the bailiff hears of it.