roofer of the mint outbuildings, of Kuttenberg
“I am a man who keeps to his own tools, pays his own way, and expects the same from others.”
Things Daniel had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday after St Mark, at Vespers
The mercenaries on the roads are driving the price of grain to impossible heights. A man gives a full day's sweat on the timber frames, and his groschen buys less bread each week. I keep my discipline, but I fear where this ends.
Nota scribaeHe stared at the wall the entire time he spoke.
the Monday after Low Sunday, at Compline
Paul slipped on a wet cobble three days ago and twisted his ankle. Now he sits at home weeping over lost wages. A man must watch his step. I offered no pity, for the stones do not care if you are clumsy.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Before the feast, Jonas and I were hauling a heavy cart of slates. He let his side slip into a deep mud rut, shattering the load and costing us both two days of wages. I have tallied exactly what he owes me on a paper. I will not speak to him until it is paid.
Your own hands were on the cart! It was the mud that took it, not me.
A formal tally is written. I require a stranger to carry it to his hands.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the pillory. He refused to look at the man standing ten paces from him.
the Wednesday of the third week of Lent, at Sext
I see men begging for iron at the muster again. A man who borrows tools is a beggar in disguise. I bring my own, and Master Gilbert knows I give a full day's sweat. A master should keep his distance and not drink with common labourers.
Candlemas, at Prime
Another bitter winter survived. Ten years since I fled the plain, and discipline is the only thing that keeps the cold out. I sit in my cellar, eat my salt fish, and wait for the light. There are too many men in this town who expect charity.
There is warm stew at the kitchens if you lower your nose, Daniel.
Nota scribaeHe stood rigidly upright the whole time, reeking of old fish.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My brother Bohuta marched off with them. Least he gets fed.
Your brother is likely dead in a ditch, Simon.