merchant of sundries, of Kuttenberg
“I am a merchant of standing, currently brought low by a most cruel gout. I demand order and industry under my roof, which is more than can be said for the rest of this yard.”
Things Havel Vorsucher had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
I sit in this yard tallying flour prices while that stubborn chandler in the upper town refuses to send down the two bars of lye soap I ordered. The man claims I shorted him on a winter bill! A few pennies misplaced, and he holds up a wealthy customer's order. A stranger could fetch it for me and be paid.
Nota scribaeDictated from his bench. He jabbed his thick finger at my chest twice.
the feast of St Philip and St James, at None
My daughter Rose weeps again today, begging for my blessing to marry a penniless nobody. I have forbidden it flatly. War drives the prices up, and I will not watch my blood slide into squalor because a foolish girl has no sense for silver. She will marry into a guild family, or she will stay unwed.
I only ask for a husband who does not treat me like a sack of grain to be bartered.
You speak the truth, Havel. These children need an iron hand. I forbade my own sons' matches.
the second day of Easter week, at Terce
This infernal gout has taken root in my foot. I can no longer walk the upper town to peddle my wares. I am forced to send my son Adam to collect my debts, but the boy's head is turned by a match that would shame this house. He too shall be refused. I demand respect.
Perhaps the pain will pass if you rest it, Master Vorsucher.
I did not ask for your counsel, boy. Fetch me water and earn your penny.
Nota scribaeHe winced and shifted his weight every time he spoke the word 'gout'.
the Monday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
I watched Bartel Bauer stumbling past the weavers' lane today. The man is a disgrace, pawning his neighbour's war gear. He deserves to freeze. Vashek Cook is a naive fool for lending his shears to such a deadbeat. I keep my ledger straight, and my goods under lock.
My Pavlena would have kept the books straight, Havel. You have no right to judge my ruin.
I only meant to help him, Master Vorsucher.
the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, at Sext
The king is still held by the Hungarians, and the bread is dearer than last year. I sat with Heinz Wolff sharing a flagon of ale, and we agreed that proper fatherly authority is the only bastion left against this creeping rabble. Even Jezhek Weaver is a fool for lending out that brass lamp.
My brother Matthew in Caslav says the Hungarians took his best loom, so a brass lamp is a small thing to risk.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard. The ale was indeed cheap.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Father, if you would only pay the man his due, we would not suffer this embarrassment.
Hold your tongue, boy, and find a bride with proper silver before you speak to me of embarrassment.