scribe and tally clerk, of Kuttenberg
“I am a man of letters driven to absolute ruination by a hole in my ceiling.”
Things Godfrey Lane had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at None
The wind last night tore the last good shingles from the roof. Absolute ruination. I woke with freezing water dripping on my nose. My landlord Ralph sits in Prague in a dry bed while I draft yet another petition to the bailiff. Standa is coughing. If a certain Kuttenberg carpenter would just read the letter I sent him, perhaps this misery would end.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Robert Baker complains daily about his ink. I tell him the truth: a rotting house takes precedence over his merchant contracts. What good is oak-gall ink to him anyway when Lambert White still has his brass lamp? I have more letters to write to save my family from ruination. The ink stays with me.
The lamp is my business. The ink is my property. Hand it over, you thief.
The lamp was given as a pledge, Robert, as I have said a hundred times.
Nota scribaeDictated in a rush. His fingers were indeed black with ink.
the feast of St Mark, at Prime
Waited shivering in the courtyard of the Italian Court for two hours before Edmund deigned to send out the slate. My hands were so cramped I could barely hold the chalk. Tallying charcoal sacks until my throat was black. It is honest work, but we are treated like dogs. At least Roger Clark is a bigger fool, spending his wages on a militia helmet instead of bread.
When the Cumans come to burn your rotting roof, Godfrey, you will be begging for my helmet.
the eve of St George, at Sext
Sat by the baker's stalls for my pottage. Hynek Turner was whining about his daughter again. I told him girls are nothing but a drain on the purse. Thank Christ I only have Standa to feed. Though the bread is dearer today than last week. Absolute ruination everywhere you look in this town.
You try keeping that thieving dog Christopher away from your house and see how you like it.
Nota scribaeThe man spoke very loudly and scattered crumbs on the ledger.
the Tuesday after St John Before the Latin Gate, at Compline
A letter arrived from Prague today. Or rather, a letter is going to a carpenter, sealed as if from Prague. A man must do what he must when the rain falls on his son's head. I hid the drafts under my mattress. If the bailiff sees my penmanship I am ruined, but it is a perfect hand. Far better than the old scribes at the Court.
Father, why is there paper under the straw? It crinkles when I sleep.
Hold your tongue, boy, and go back to sleep.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Godfrey, stop waving your hands and mend it yourself with some straw before the boy catches his death.
I am a scribe, woman. My hands are for the ledger, not the thatch.
Are you using my oak-gall ink for these endless petitions? I need it back.