hired hand, of Kuttenberg
“I keep my head down and try to earn enough for a meal, while freezing in the mud.”
Things Leonard had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The feast of Saint Pancras, at Sext
Cumans on the roads, bread dearer than last year, and my cough grows worse with the spring damp. I asked Thomas Smith again for my gambeson, and he again asked me to run his message. If the bloody flux takes me first, I hope Albrecht chokes on his stolen hearth-smoke.
The Wednesday after Easter, at None
Every groschen I scrape from shifting muck goes into a pouch in my shirt. I sleep by the tanner's fire, stinking of piss and lime, but I am saving. When I have enough, I will pay a heavy-fisted stranger to catch Albrecht in an alley. We will see how warm he is then.
Better to spend your coin on hot broth, Leonard. Revenge won't cure the bloody flux.
Nota scribaeThe speaker kept looking nervously over his shoulder while dictating this.
The eve of Palm Sunday, at Prime
Stood at the gates of the Italian Court since dawn. Foreman Ralph looked right over my head again, picking men with broad shoulders and heavy picks. I have no pick. So it's another day wandering the lower town looking for a dropped crust or a pile of dung to shift for a half-penny.
The second Tuesday of Lent, at Terce
The magistrate is talking of the King's levy again. I gave Thomas Smith my last pennies to buy me a spear and gambeson, and the bastard pawned them for his own belly! If the muster is called, they will flog me for showing up empty-handed.
I was hungry, Leonard! I will get them back. Just do me a favor and take a message to my family.
I am not running your errands, Thomas. Get my gear back before I am beaten half to death.
The feast of Saint Matthias, at Vespers
That whoreson Albrecht told Agatha I stole her winter firewood. A bald lie to steal my spot by the hearth! The miserable old hag threw me out into the freezing mud. I have not stopped shaking since, and my chest rattles like a cart. I will see Albrecht bleed for this.
Keep crying, lad. You were always a thief, and Agatha's cellar is warmer without your hacking cough.
Agatha's a terror when she's roused. I owe her three groschen and dread going near the place.
Nota scribaeDictated while huddled against the church wall. He spat several times during the telling.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
God have mercy, we are all starving together. At least the Cumans haven't breached the lower town yet.