ale-wife in the camp, of Sigismund's camp
“I pour ale for these bloody soldiers and try to make an honest living before the quartermaster throws me out on my arse.”
Things Matilda Cutler had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the Tuesday before Pentecost, at Vespers
That bloody quartermaster wants his twenty groschen for my stall space by Pentecost. I need my copper jug to pawn, but Benedek still has it from Lent. He left it in his tent and is too proud to admit it. They are a pack of unwashed boys trying to ruin a proper ale-wife.
the feast of St Pancras, at Sext
If any stranger wants seven groschen, go to Andras and take back my best tin pitcher. I lent it to him in the winter to fetch clean water for the sick, and now the bloody fool uses it to brew root tea. Says he earned it by guarding my stall. Arse.
I kept the drunks off your barrels. The pitcher is mine now.
I can try to sneak into his tent while he is on watch.
Nota scribaeDictated while she wiped down a plank. She spat when she said the man's name.
the second Sunday after Easter, at None
These Cuman archers are a bloody nuisance. Today they did nothing but argue over the ambush at Malešov and blame each other for the drover Bartholomew getting beaten to death. Bartholomew was a quiet man who always paid his tab in good coin. Not like these whoresons bickering over clipped pennies.
We were outnumbered in the trees. It was not our fault.
Orban ran first. He left the wagons.
the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
My knees ache worse than ever this morning. I know I swore a solemn vow to Our Lady to walk barefoot to Sedletz and light a beeswax candle if I survived the flux, but the walk is long and who will watch my barrels? I fear damnation, but an honest ale-wife cannot just leave her stall.
I brought you a soft heel of bread from the officers' mess. Eat it and rest your legs.
the feast of St Valentine, at Terce
The camp flux is finally passing, praise be. It was a bitter winter that took my Anna. The archers helped me dig her grave in the frozen mud, which was a rare decency. Now Andras sits here nursing a single ale, hoarding his coin for that laundress Gerda who already left for Kolin. Bloody fool.
Gerda is waiting for me. She knows I will pay her debts.
She took your silver and ran, you blind sheep.
Nota scribaeThe woman paused for a long time after mentioning the grave.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I do not have your jug, woman. It is lost.
Lost under your filthy blankets, you mean. Bring it back!