housekeeper at the vintner's, of Kuttenberg
“I keep the hearth and the men fed from dawn to dusk, and try to do my Christian duty.”
Things Matilda had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The bells rang from St Barbara's today and my stomach turned over. I told John I would walk to Sedletz before the month is out. My feet are already sore just thinking of the sharp stones on the road, but a vow is a vow and God is waiting.
Nota scribaeShe wiped her hands on her apron no less than seven times while speaking.
the feast of St Pancras, at Terce
That stray I call Mary has vanished. I know exactly where she is, sleeping fat and happy on a certain weeping girl's bed down the street. Let her stay. The poor lass needs the comfort since her clerk was sent to Prague, and I'll not face her mother's sharp tongue to fetch a beast.
If you speak of my Kunigunde, mind your own hearth. We need no stray cats nor gossiping housekeepers.
She is a very good cat, Matilda. She listens better than anyone else in this house.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Anna from the armourer's next door had the gall to shout at me over some sweepings in the gutter. As if the wind does not blow where it will! And now she is marching up and down calling for her mouser Maggie. I have half a mind to say where the beast went, but I won't.
You swept your garlic husks right onto my step! And if you know where Maggie is, tell me!
Adelheid's soul will find no rest until that cat is brought back to the armoury.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly over the noise of the street.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
Sliced the bread and filled the bowls before the sun was even up. The men eat like starved wolves. I put a bowl of meat scraps out by the back door, and John groaned about the cost of good flour and meat going to strays. But the Lord says we must be charitable.
Ash Wednesday, at Compline
It has been a full year since my John caught that terrible fever and raved for three days. I swore a solemn vow then, kneeling on the cold stones, that I would walk barefoot to Sedletz if he lived. He lived, Christ be praised. I must make the walk soon. Next month, surely.
I am only waiting for the mud to dry on the road. The Lord knows I mean to do it.
He was as pale as a corpse last Lent. You'd best pay your debt, Matilda, lest the fever comes back.
Nota scribaeShe looked terribly guilty as she said this.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You fuss too much, woman. I am hale and hearty, the Lord has better things to worry over.
Take thick stockings at least, Matilda. The road is rutted from the wagons.