hired hand, of Kuttenberg
“I haul timber and clear rubble when the masters will have me. It was better when Humphrey was here.”
Things Peter the Townsman had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
Christ's wounds, the bread is dearer again. Stood at the market square from dawn and the merchant picked only three of us. The rest went away with nothing. I ache when I stand up, and the dust is thick today.
Nota scribaeThe man rubbed his jaw before every sentence. It took time.
the feast of St Mark, at None
Told Jacob to mind his own business today. The lad would pawn his own mother's shift if she hung it out to dry. Never trust him with a nail, I say.
That's not fair, Peter. I only asked if you were using your heavy mallet.
And I told you where you could put it.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Martin still thinks Master Humphrey will send for us from Prague. The man is gone. He paid his silver on Saturdays and didn't cheat us, but he's not coming back. We have to shift for ourselves now.
He said he would! He promised us all a place on the cathedral.
You're a fool, Martin. Hold on to what coin you have.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Compline
I was thinking of the year ninety-nine. Stephen's sister Milada used to cook a stew thick enough to stand a spoon in. Her cellar was warm. There's no stew tonight, just watered ale.
God rest her. We pooled our pennies then.
I nearly wed her, you know.
Shut your mouth, Jacob.
Nota scribaeDictated in a dark cellar. He smelled strongly of the watered ale he spoke of.
the week after Candlemas, at Terce
I lent Nathan my best saw. He needed it for a few days, he said. Now every time I ask, he says he left it at another site. Christ's wounds, I need that saw to get chosen in the morning line.
I told you, Peter, the bailiff's man locked the shed where I left it. I'll get it by Sunday.
A good tool is a month's wage, Nathan. Bring it back.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My back is killing me, Peter. The wood gets heavier every year.
Rest it, Stephen. Don't let the masters see you grimace.