wool carder and ale pourer, of Old Kutna
“I card wool for the German masters by day and pour ale for the garrison by night. If you don't look out for yourself here, the dogs will eat you.”
Things Eve had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Matilda is weeping again about being flogged because Christopher locked his doors and she cannot get Isabel's gambeson back. Sakra, she is a coward. If it were me, I would take a heavy rock to his window and fetch the war gear myself. The whoreson pawnbroker only respects a hard hand.
Nota scribaeShe shouted this while carrying three tankards of ale. The froth soaked the page.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Elizabeth is begging again for her iron-toothed comb. I told her I only need it for one last fleece. The German masters are paying mere pennies for the work of three women, and I must keep bread in my belly. She has plenty of friends to borrow from anyway.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
I cannot stand the sight of Mary in the cellar. That tight-fisted old cow is hoarding Matilda's copper boiling kettle, and I reckon she would steal the cross off the church if she could fit it in her tub. The greed of some people in this town makes me sick.
Mind your own tubs, you impudent little thief. Everyone knows whose comb you are holding.
Nota scribaeDictated in the cellar. She did not see the irony.
the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at Compline
My hands are bleeding from the grease and dirt of these bastard sheep. Working next to Isolde puts the fear of God in me. I see her groaning in agony and I swear I will never end up a cripple making for the poorhouse. A girl has to be sharp to survive.
My mother Mabel always said a complaining maid goes hungry. Work through the pain, girl.
Nota scribaeShe drank a whole pint before finishing this thought.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
The frost is so hard the work has dried up, and I have not eaten since Sunday. I had to swallow my pride and beg Elizabeth for the use of her best comb. The soldiers at the tavern have no coin for ale until the muster, so I must card fleeces or starve.
Take it, Eve. We all must help each other through the cold.
The roads are snowed over. Even the bailiff is eating short rations.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is easy to boast when it is not your back facing the whip, Eve.
Stop crying into the tubs and pick up a stone, you silly goose.