wool carder for weavers, of Old Kutna
“I card muddy fleeces all day, but with a bit of ale and a fire, I cannot complain.”
Things Elizabeth had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
The eve of St John before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Sakra, the fleeces are nothing but mud and burrs this week! Those soldiers let their horses trample the pastures to ruin. My fingers are greasy as a butcher's block. I just want a cup of weak ale and a clean hearth, my lovelies.
Nota scribaeShe giggled after swearing. I told her the Lord hears it all the same.
The third day of Easter week, at None
If Christine comes looking for me, tell her I went to the market for bread! I swear on the Virgin, I still have her comb, but my piece-work is piling up to the ceiling. Eve, sweetling, if you happen to find my old comb, leave it on my bench?
The Tuesday after Laetare Sunday, at Sext
Matilda is pacing the street again and chewing her nails to the quick. She must owe the ale-wife silver. I am glad it is not my problem! Better to smile and shrug than worry yourself into an early grave, I say.
You know nothing about my silver or my worries, you empty-headed fool. It is Christopher who has my peace, not the ale-wife.
The feast of St Thomas Aquinas, at Prime
Poor Isolde dropped a whole basket of spun yarn into the mud this morning. She is so clumsy lately, wincing at every little thing. She just needs a good night at the tavern to loosen her bones, my duck.
My mother Mabel worked until the bloody flux took her. I do not need a tavern, I need my hands to stop burning.
Nota scribaeShe called me her duck. I asked her to remember her station.
The Monday after Candlemas, at Terce
The cellar was so bitterly cold I thought my toes would fall off. Eve was crying about a broken tool, so what could I do? I gave her my best iron carding comb. I cannot bear to see a friend weep. Let us hope she gives it back soon.
You are an angel, sweetling. I will just finish this pile and you shall have it back.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Mud is better than starving. Get your head down and scrub.
Oh, you are always so grim, my duck! A little laugh never hurt.