beggar of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“Just a poor, wretched man trying to survive another miserable day, begging pennies from those who have too much.”
Things Weepy Simon had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at None
I saw Edmund ride by the Italian Court today on his grand horse. He did not look down. It has been two years since his beast kicked me into the dung, and the wealthy bastard has not tossed me a single groschen for it. May the Lord empty his purse.
Nota scribaeDictated near the greengrocers. The man stretched out his words in a most grating manner.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
My chest aches from the damp, but my pride hurts worse. Everyone in the market knows John took my wooden alms bowl last autumn. He snatched it right out from under me! I will not speak a single word to him until he stands before the bakers and begs my forgiveness.
Christ almighty, Simon. I bought that bowl from a tinker in Kolin. You tripped and fell in the mud on your own.
Lies! You stole a starving man's only comfort! I demand my public apology!
Palm Sunday, at Prime
The rain fell hard in the night. Adam and I found a dry spot under the eaves, praise be. I had a good chuckle thinking of Joan Mailer in her rented room, getting soaked to the bone because her rich landlord will not mend the roof. Truly, God is just.
You are a bitter, spiteful old man, Simon. Keep laughing in your alley.
A cruel thing to laugh at, Simon, even for you.
St Gregory's day, at Terce
That wretched Elizabeth Little chased me away from her turnips with a wooden spoon today. I only wanted a rotten leaf to chew on. She threatened to tan my hide, the miserable old crone. I saw her wincing as she lifted her sacks. The pain in her back is her punishment for lacking charity.
Keep your filthy, trembling hands off my goods, Simon, or next time I will use a heavier spoon!
Nota scribaeThe man whined so loudly that a passing dog began to howl with him.
Candlemas, at Prime
The frost bites at my stiff joints. The bakers are firing their ovens on Ceska street, and the smell of warm bread is torture to a hungry soul. Adam and I sit here, holding our cupped hands out, but the Kuttenberg folk just walk by and kick dirt in our faces. The world is terrible.
Save your breath, father. Nobody is listening.
I dropped a crust for you yesterday, Simon. You could at least say thank you.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I say amen to that. He takes my rent and lets the rain pour right through my thatch.
Aye, but you have a bed, Joan. I sleep in the dirt while he rides in velvet.