woodworker at the lower yard, of Kuttenberg
“I oversee the common hands at the lumber yard. A man builds his standing piece by piece, and I abide no fools.”
Things Andrew Alder had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
My son Prokop speaks again of that servant girl Ursula. I have told him plainly that if he mentions her disgraced name under my roof once more, he will leave it and never return. A rot in the foundation brings down the whole house.
the feast of Saint Florian, at None
Fritz Wagner asks again for his bag of hand-forged nails. I will tell him again: bring me the ten groschen for the good crosscut saw you snapped like a blind drunkard, and you shall have your iron back. Until then, they stay locked in my chest.
It was a hidden knot in the oak, Andrew! No blade could have passed it safely. I need those nails for my indoor work.
A good sawyer feels the knot before the blade bites. Ten groschen, Fritz.
Nota scribaeDictated at the lumber yard. The man spoke slowly and did not blink once.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
The thaw is well upon us, and the roads are clear. Yet my brother Lambert crosses the street when he sees me coming. Fifty groschen is a heavy sum to give a man to feed his kin in the bitter freeze, and heavier still when he forgets the man who gave it.
I have not forgotten, brother. The times are hard, and the silver simply does not stretch as it used to.
the Thursday after Saint Gregory, at Sext
Hans sent down the orders from the counting house today. The King's brother has his soldiers on the roads, and the wood shipments are delayed. I had to set Veit Preng to shifting the old damp pine. He looks terrified of the coming levy, but he does the heavy hauling quietly enough.
It is not the hard work I fear, Andrew, but those Hungarians with their curved swords.
Nota scribaeHe made me wait while he inspected the grain of a pine beam before finishing his thought.
Candlemas, at Terce
We blessed the candles this morning at Saint James's. The winter has been cruel, and the sickness took old Tomas. At least up in heaven he will not have to hear Joerg Wolf and Peter squabbling over who dropped the mine prop. A man should do his job and hold his tongue.
It was Peter's clumsy hands that dropped the timber, not mine! He crippled himself.
Quiet yourself, Joerg. Young men lack the sense to settle their affairs properly.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
She has done nothing wrong, Father. You judge her for the sins of her blood.
Listen to your father, boy. He knows what the town says, and we will not bear that shame.