hewer in the deep shafts, of Kuttenberg
“I swing steel in the dark so the German masters can get fat, and rub my hands so they don't freeze shut.”
Things Andrew the Hophead had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second Tuesday of May, at Vespers
If a certain cabbage-seller drinks his groschen away and wags his tongue to the guards, I am undone. A man does what he must when his wages are cut, but my neck itches just thinking on the gallows. I need to get my cut and get out of the dark.
Nota scribaeHe stared at the floor the whole time and kept rubbing his knuckles.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Lawrence and Godfrey, you cowardly bastards. You took my padded jack and my iron cap that I paid twelve good groschen for, and you drank them away at the alehouse instead of marching. The muster is coming. Give them back, or I will take my pick to your doors.
the feast of Saint George, at None
My left knee clicks like a broken wheel, but I still got hired this Monday. Half the lads were turned away at the gate to starve. You bring your own pick to the German foremen or you don't eat. I'll swing this steel until my lungs turn to dust.
Ay, the foremen are getting worse. Better a bad knee than an empty belly.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the lower tavern. He smelled of cheap ale.
the Friday before Laetare Sunday, at Sext
Kunz Klein the baker has a mouth bigger than his oven. He goes about saying I am trying to tunnel under his house to steal his savings. I have never been near his house at night. Upper-town folk think every man with dust on his hands is a thief.
Someone is down there at midnight. If not you, then the devil himself is scraping at my cellar door.
Maybe it's rats, baker. Or maybe your head is just full of dough.
My husband needs his sleep. Stop your quarrelling, the both of you.
Candlemas, at Compline
The bailiff sided with the masters again and our wages are cut. They want us to eat rocks. King Sigismund's soldiers are out there making bread dearer, and we are meant to bleed for pennies. A man has to find his own way to feed himself, even if he has to dig for it.
Christ almighty, it's the truth. We'll all starve before Whitsun.
Nota scribaeHe muttered something foul about the bailiff that I chose not to write down.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I only drink to keep the frost out, Andrew. Your turnips are safe.
If you are skulking about at night, miner, the guards will catch you. I hear the knocking.