labourer of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“Waiting for my master to come back and set me right. These old men will see.”
Things Martin the Townsman had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Compline
Stephen is drinking himself into the grave again. Sits there at the alehouse pouring it down while the rest of us go hungry. I've got fire in my blood still, I won't end up like these tired whoresons coughing their lungs up.
Nota scribaeThe speaker spat thrice upon the floor during the dictation of this entry.
the second day of Rogation days, at None
Stood in the dirt until midday while some fat merchant picked a dozen refugees for half the proper wage. Bloody hell. Master Humphrey wouldn't have stood for it. When he comes back from Prague with his wagon of silver, he'll make me foreman, and we'll see who gets work.
Humphrey is gone, lad. He's not coming back for the likes of us.
He'll come back! And when he does, you won't be on my crew, you hoarding miser.
the week after Easter, at Sext
If I don't get my tool back from Michael soon, I'll starve. A good tool costs a month of sweat! The whoreson borrowed it at Candlemas and always has some excuse. I can't get decent work without it. Why do I bother trusting anyone in this town?
I still need it for the wall works. Keep your shirt on, you'll get it when the job's done.
I reckon you should just go round his cellar and take it back, Martin.
Nota scribaeHe refused to name the tool, though I asked twice.
the feast of St Matthias, at Vespers
Bread is dearer every week and the roads are full of Sigismund's soldiers. If you ask me, they're eating everything before it reaches the market. It's a bloody disgrace. God grant the king comes back and hangs the lot of them.
Amen to that. I paid a whole groschen for a loaf yesterday.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
I bested Jacob at arm-wrestling last night. Wagered eleven groschen on my own arm and slammed his hand to the table. And what does the whoreson do? Laughs it off and walks out! Eleven groschen! If I were bigger I'd knock his teeth out. Someone ought to teach him a lesson.
It was a drunken joke, Martin. Nobody wagers eleven groschen on an arm-wrestle. You're mad.
A wager is a wager! Pay what you owe or I'll find a mercenary to break your legs.
Nota scribaeDictated with a bruised knuckle, smelling strongly of stale beer.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My back is ruined, you little shit. Try lifting stone for twenty years and see how much fire you have left.
Leave him be, Martin. He misses his sister Milada. And you're not as young as you think.