maidservant for Lord nicholas, of Kuttenberg
“I wash the floors till my knuckles bleed to keep this house standing. We all have our cross to bear.”
Things Grete had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday after Trinity Sunday, at Vespers
I have scrubbed the lower hall three times over today and hauled enough wood to roast an ox. Let no one say I do not earn my keep in this great hollow house, penny by penny. The Lord sees who does the real work here, and who just jingles keys on her belt.
Nota scribaeShe wiped her raw hands on her coarse apron no less than twelve times while speaking this.
the Friday before St John before the Latin Gate, at None
The cobbler at the market square has his fifteen groschen at last, praise be. Let that be the end of my idiot brother's debts bringing shame to my door. I paid it from my own hard sweat, and God knows I will make up the coin myself before the summer.
Nota scribaeShe crossed her arms and stared very hard at the wall when saying whose sweat paid the debt.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Praise the Lord Christ risen, though the market only yielded tough turnips and a fowl that looked like it died of fright. Lord Nicholas expects the larder bursting and the linens washed for his sudden visits, but he leaves a child in charge of his silver.
We must make do with what the market offers, Grete. Lord Nicholas trusts me, and that is what matters.
the Thursday after St Gregory, at Terce
My useless lump of a brother Andrew marched off with the Hungarians in the levy. Not a word of farewell to his own sister, just left me an empty ale jug, a ruined pair of boots, and the bailiff breathing down my neck. Christ almighty, the boy is a fool.
A man's got to eat, sister. Don't worry, I'll send back silver when we're paid.
Nota scribaeDictated at the kitchen door. The curses she used for her brother were entirely too coarse to ink.
the day after Candlemas, at Compline
The widow Vendula knew how a proper Kuttenberg house should be run. Every penny accounted for, everything in its place. Since the winter fever took her three years ago, I am adrift. Now I must answer to a slip of a girl who has never hauled a bucket of water in her life.
God rest the widow, Grete, but she is gone. This is Dum Zbrojire a Reznika, and we answer to Lord Nicholas now.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The floors are clean enough, Grete. You needn't bang the wooden buckets so loudly when I am trying to sleep.
The dirt does not scour itself out of the stone while we rest in bed.