bartender at the tavern, of Troskowitz
“I serve ale to the guards and village folk, and wipe down the sticky tables. I try to be grateful for the breath in my lungs, though my feet ache.”
Things Joan Cutler had written, latest first, with the glosses of her neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
The mud on the roads is drying, and my chest tightens when I think of the long walk to Sedletz. I promised Saint Barbara I would go barefoot if the fever spared me. I am a coward. I just touch my cross and pour the dark ale.
Nota scribaeShe spoke so softly I had to ask her to repeat herself twice over the din of the taproom.
the Wednesday after Saint George, at Compline
Robert and Lawrence were shouting over split wages again tonight. My hands shook fetching the heavy pitchers from the cellar. I wish the soldiers would take their loud voices out into the yard so we could have some peace.
We would not have to shout if Lawrence paid what he owed from the dice game.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Poor Anna has to sleep in that draughty lean-to rented from Osbert. It is worse now that Frantishek cracked the support timber in his cups. I pity her when the rain comes through the roof.
That absent landlord will see me rot before he fixes the roof, and Frantishek is a blind fool.
I tripped on a root in the dark. It was barely a tap, the wood was rotten anyway.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Sext
I saw Matilda crying today. The sweating fever took her sister Vendula just before Advent, the same time I was sick in the back room. God spared me but not her. I rub my wooden cross and pray for grace.
Vendula kept a neat house and never harmed a soul. There is no sense in who the fever takes and who it leaves.
Nota scribaeShe wept a little while saying this, wiping her face with a dirty apron.
Candlemas, at Prime
We tossed fresh sawdust on the floor to catch the spit and spills. One clumsy young guard spilled a whole pitcher of ale on my apron last night. I forget his name, but it is just another hazard of the taproom.
I am sorry about the ale. The bench caught my leg as I turned.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The Lord sees your heart, child, but a vow made to the saints must be honored before the judgment comes.
Do not listen to him, Joan. You will bleed your feet raw for nothing. Pour another pint and stay inside.