bartender and cabbage-grower, of Kuttenberg
“I haul the heavy casks when the cellar lads cannot, and I grow the best cabbages in Kuttenberg. I earn my keep with my own back.”
Things Betty Vejmola had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Svatava cornered me again at the market, going on about our father's land. If she and Francis think they can turn that hard soil, they are welcome to try, but their hands would blister before Prime. I had to point a muddy turnip at her to make her back off.
Nota scribaeShe waved a turnip at me while dictating, raining dirt on my parchment.
the second Tuesday after Easter, at Terce
The spring muster is coming and Else still claims my padded jack and iron hat are drying on a line. How long does a kettle hat take to dry? I paid good cabbage money for that gear during the Cuman scare. I want it back.
I swear it is just taking a while to air out, Betty! The damp gets into the padding terribly.
She is lying, Betty. She probably took it to the pawnbroker's widow.
Holy Saturday, at Prime
Dragged three full casks up from the cellar this morning because the scullery boys are weak as newborn lambs. My back aches something fierce. Passed Sarah Cook on the stairs and she muttered kurva under her breath, glaring at Christina. I gave her a wide berth.
Good work with the casks, Betty. The cellar boys get smaller every year.
Mind your own business, Betty. You do not know what that woman did.
Nota scribaeDictated from the cellar steps. She sighed heavily before every sentence.
the feast of St Gregory, at None
Saw my niece Elishka near the walls while I was digging the turnip rows. Slipped the poor girl a copper penny while Svatava was not looking. The soil is hard this year, but William needs the roots for his stews.
Thank you, auntie. I bought a honey cake with it.
Do not give my daughter coin behind my back, you meddling field-scratcher.
the day after Candlemas, at Vespers
Frost is still thick on the ground but the tavern never stops. A drunk merchant grabbed my apron tonight, so I shoved him into the hearth. I am terrified my back will give out one day and leave me begging on the church steps, but today is not that day.
He deserved it, the whoreson.
Saw him flying through the air. A beautiful toss, Betty.
Nota scribaeThe woman smelled strongly of wet earth and stale ale.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Father meant that strip for Francis to oversee! It is our birthright, Betty.
He meant it for whoever could lift a spade, Svatava. Go bother someone else.