bartender at the dira, of Kuttenberg
“I pour ale here at the dira, and keep the slop off the tables. I do not run a charity, and I do not take promises.”
Things Joan Bell had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Compline
If Thomas and Nicholas do not shut their mouths about that pawned padded jack, I will take an axe to it myself. Christ almighty, you would think Martin the pawnbroker took their manhood, not a piece of cloth. Drink your ale or get out.
Nota scribaeDictated while she wiped a sticky table. She shouted the last sentence at the room.
the feast of St Mark, at None
William and Ralph are sitting at opposite ends of the room again, glaring at each other over that old militia grudge. Take your feud out into the street! You are frightening the better-paying drunks away, and the dira is no place for silent weeping over dead Jan.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Alice is moving slow today, so I am hauling the heavy pitchers. It is nothing, just the damp spring getting into her bones from that fall she took winters ago. The landlord does not need to know a bloody thing about it, and if any man mentions it, he gets no ale.
God bless you, Joan. My back is just stiff today, I will be right tomorrow.
Nota scribaeThe woman spoke softly for the first time today.
the eve of St Gregory, at Sext
Soldiers on the roads mean the carters come in thirsty and foul-tempered, and bread is dearer than last year. I broke a broom handle over a digger's arm today when he reached for my skirts. My brother Benesh sent word I should come live with him and Felice. I told his boy to go to hell.
We only offer out of Christian charity, sister. You do not have to live in filth.
I will take my own wages and stand on my own two feet, brother. Keep your charity.
the Tuesday after Candlemas, at Terce
That clumsy arrogant cow Elizabeth the weaver ruined my good apron in the market square! Spilled a jug of oil right on me, laughed, and refused to pay a single penny. She thinks a master's weaver can walk all over me. I want her to beg my pardon in the upper town, kurva, and pay for the apron.
It was an old, frayed rag to begin with, and you stepped into my path. I owe you nothing.
You will pay me the groschen or I will drag you through the mud myself!
Joan, please, people are talking. Do not make a scene with the upper town folks.
Nota scribaeShe swore loudly and continuously before I could write this down.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
He gave Martin the groschen that were meant for my slate, Joan! It is my jack!
Just pour the drink, Joan. They will tire themselves out eventually.