catchpole at the workshops, of Bohounovice
“I keep the peace among the tradesmen and wear the bailiff's badge, though nobody thanks me for it.”
Things Adam had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
These bloody Hungarians on the roads have the labourers jumping at shadows. I told them my badge carries the King's peace, but the men look at me like I am a dressed-up scarecrow. Saint Wenceslas give me strength. If they riot over bread prices, I have nothing but a heavy belt to stop them.
the Wednesday after Easter week, at None
That whoreson William is telling half the village I stole his iron nails. Let it be written clearly: he gave them freely on Saint Matthias's day. A gift is a gift. Now he wants them back because his name is still on the muster roll. I do not write the lists, you nervous pup.
Nota scribaeHe sighed heavily four times while dictating this, staring at a rusted nail.
the eve of Palm Sunday, at Prime
I woke in a puddle again. Jarda took my rent and then fled to Kuttenberg to count groschen at the mint, leaving me with thatch so rotten it breeds moss. A curse on him and his audits. A catchpole should not sleep like a beggar in a ditch.
The rent pays for the ground, Adam. If you want a dry head, buy some timber and fix it yourself. I am busy with the King's silver.
Nota scribaeThe catchpole's uniform was visibly damp. The smell of mildew was profound.
the feast of Saint Matthias, at Sext
William just pressed a canvas bag of forged nails into my hands. Twelve groschen worth of good iron. He babbled something about neighbourly love, sweating like a sinner at Judgment. I took them. If a hired hand wants to honour my authority, it is not my place to refuse him.
Candlemas, at Terce
The spring rains are coming and my outbuilding is already a swamp. I told Jarda the timber is giving way. He just smiled his clerk's smile and told me to pray to the Virgin for a dry wind. Christ almighty, one of these days I will lock him in his own cellar.
Maybe if you had some nails you could patch the worst of it, neighbour.
Nota scribaeHe spent a long time adjusting his belt before speaking.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
They were a loan to patch your wretched roof! Give them back, Adam, or I will go to the bailiff.
Go to him, lad. Tell him you tried to bribe the King's catchpole.