laborer at the town walls, of Kuttenberg
“I try to keep my head down and my lungs clear of mortar dust, praying the bailiff looks past me.”
Things Geoffrey Thatcher had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
Christ's wounds, I saw a man in the bailiff's livery looking at the men by the Italian Court today. I rubbed my neck so hard it's raw. I made sure to limp heavily on my left knee. I haven't two groschen to rub together for a bribe.
Nota scribaeThe man rubbed his neck thrice while dictating this.
the Tuesday after St George, at None
This white mortar dust is the devil's own breath. My lungs burn before midday. I asked the clerk to put me to woodcutting, but he looked right through me. Pay at dusk is a cruelty. I wish to feel the coin in my purse when the sun is high.
Stop your whining and haul the rubble. We all have dust in our throats, and coin is coin.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Every night I lie awake thinking of Master Ernest. Three winters since he took the king's coin, and he never came back. Butchered by Cumans, no doubt. I would sooner take a mason's hammer and shatter my own leg than march for the levy.
Ernest was a master, and even he fell in the mud. God protect us from the spear.
Nota scribaeHe spoke loudly, then looked over his shoulder in sudden fear.
the Thursday after St Gregory, at Terce
I cannot abide Richard Miller's arrogance today. We are breaking our backs hauling stone, and he does nothing but brag about his sister Johanka and her baker husband in Prague. Who cares how many loaves they bake when we have Hungarian soldiers breathing down our necks?
It is an honest bakery, and a finer life than scraping mortar from your chin. You are just bitter.
Let us just drink and forget about Prague.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
An ale-wife told me my name is written on the new muster roll. I felt the blood drop out of my head. I have been practicing my limp so the clerk sees my bad knee. I only want to earn my groschen in peace.
My late mother Svatava used to say a coward dies a thousand times. Stop shaking.
It is not cowardice to want to live, Hynek.
Nota scribaeDictated in a panicked rush.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I saw him too, Geoffrey. We must stand at the back tomorrow. If they take us, we'll end up in a ditch.
In Prague, Johanka says they don't snatch up honest men like this. You should have learned a better trade.