hired hand, of Kuttenberg
“I haul timber for the mine props up at the Italian Court. The Lord spared me from the sweating fever, and I try to keep my head down and do my carrying.”
Things Hannes had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St Mark, at Vespers
My shoulders are numb today. The tallyman gave me the nod and I hauled props until None. Still no wages from Master Christopher. I suppose the King's ransom comes first, as the steward says. I only had a crust of bread, but it is God's test.
Nota scribaeDictated at the edge of the yard. The man kept rubbing his hands.
the third day of Easter week, at Compline
The shed is unbearable since the widow Ellen went to Prague. It rains and the floor turns to mud. Joerg threw Nickel's blanket right into the slop just to take the dry corner. I stayed quiet. I don't want any trouble with him.
Holy Saturday, at Prime
Every time I look toward Sedletz, my heart is heavy as lead. I swore a holy vow when Nickel and I had the sweating sickness that I would walk to the monastery if the Lord spared me. I am alive, but without wages I have no strength to make the journey. May God forgive me.
When you finally go, perhaps you'll see my sister Margery. She is a novice there now.
You'll drop dead on the road without food in your belly, lad. The Lord knows you're starving.
Nota scribaeHe crossed himself three times before speaking this.
the Monday after St Gregory, at None
Richard and I spent an hour digging through the filthy straw in the shed looking for a little wooden saint his sister gave him. We found nothing. I reckon the rats dragged it off. There are rats the size of cats in here.
Ash Wednesday, at Sext
The mint steward told us today there will be no more wages paid. The King's ransom is all that matters. I do not know how we will buy our crusts. I only hope the militia muster is not called soon.
If the bailiff calls a muster, some folk in your shed will have explaining to do about where their gear went.
Keep your voice down, Hermann.
Nota scribaeDictated in a low whisper, looking over his shoulder.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
God's test my arse. That steward is sitting on our coin. I'm hungry enough to eat my own boots.
Do not blaspheme, Nickel. We must bear what is sent to us.