stone carter at the walls, of Kuttenberg
“I cart stone for the walls and try to stay out of the bailiff's sight.”
Things Andreas Preng had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
The town crier came through the lower town ringing his bell for the muster. I dropped my cart handles right there in the mud and ran to Uncle Eberhard's cellar. I sat under the wool bolts until I could not hear the marching anymore. It is practical to spare my mother grief.
Nota scribaeDictated from behind a pile of cloth in the tailor's shop. He was trembling the entire time.
the Monday after Ascension, at Sext
Adam Thatcher was shouting again at the church steps about the broadaxe Frantishek took at Candlemas. I moved away to the edge of the yard. All that noise will bring the watch down on us, and I have no desire to be noticed. A quiet man lasts longer.
If you lent out a good axe and got nothing back, you would shout too, you trembling mouse.
I told him he will get it when the work is done!
the Friday after St George, at None
Hauling for the wall foundations today. The stones are heavy and my hands are raw, but I am glad Mikesh stays in his house and only sends the tally boy. An unseen master is a blessing. Out here in the ditch, nobody from the upper town looks twice at us.
I remember when Mikesh walked the line himself. Now he sits by the fire while we break our backs.
Be glad of it, Hugh. The less they look, the less they ask.
Nota scribaeThe ink froze in the pen twice while waiting for him to speak louder.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Alan Fletcher stood by me this morning jingling coins, staring up the hill toward the upper town where that maid Lidka works. He did not hear the tally boy call his name. His obsession will bring trouble. I told him to look at his boots instead.
You have no heart, Andreas. If I get enough pennies for her master, I can see her.
Keep your eyes on your own boots, son, and bring your wages home to your mother.
the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, at Vespers
Nicholas Fisher was booming on about pawning his jacket, but then he said King Sigismund's troops burned another village near the road. The thought of being handed a spear makes my stomach turn. I went straight home after my shift. I pray the bailiff loses the muster list.
They burned it to the ground, lad. And we will be next if we do not guard the roads.
They will not catch us. We know the back alleys better than any soldier.
Nota scribaeHe asked if the Pope's decree meant the bailiff would read this book. I told him no.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A wise choice. I told them my wife Else is ill again. Let the Hungarians fight each other.
You cannot sit in my cellar every time the wind changes, lad. The watch will look here eventually.