plasterer and wall finisher, of Kuttenberg
“I mix plaster and make walls smooth. I keep my head down and hope the bailiff looks the other way, so it goes.”
Things Joerg Muller had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The ale-wife tells me my name is on the bailiff's list for the new levy. Master Ernest went to Hungary and never came back, dead in the mud. I will not hold a spear for the king's brother. If the men come to my door, they will find an empty pallet, so it goes.
Nota scribaeHe spoke in a very low voice and kept looking over his shoulder at the door.
the feast of St Mark, at None
The new clerk of the works gave me no copper today. Humphrey would have found a wall for me to patch, God rest his broken neck. I think I will walk to Sedletz and ask the Cistercians if they need a smooth wall. A quiet place, away from shouting.
My sister Johanka says the monks in Prague pay in good silver. You should walk further, lad.
Lend me two groschen for a cup, Joerg. I'm parched.
I refused you a chisel last week, Roger. I will not give you coin for ale to pour down your neck.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
My boots are worn through, and the dust from the mortar gets between my toes. I stood near the back of the crowd at the Italian Court this morning, but no one picked me. A man must eat, so it goes.
I have some leather scraps if you know how to stitch, lad.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Sext
A bitter wind today. The mortar freezes before it sets. We patched the lower wall by the cooper's shed, but my hands are raw. Geoffrey complained the whole time, drawing the foreman's eye. I just want my wage and a single ale before I sleep, so it goes.
My hands are bleeding too! It's not right, we shouldn't be working in the frost!
Nota scribaeDictated beside the public trough. He stared at a crack in the stone the whole time.
Candlemas, at Terce
Three winters now since Master Ernest took the king's coin. I remember his face when he marched off. He looked like a man walking into his own grave. I pray for his soul, but I will not follow his path, so it goes.
Ay, Ernest was a good master. A bloody waste, dying in the Hungarian mud.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
We are dead men, Joerg! They'll march us into the arrows, Christ almighty! What are we to do?
Keep your voice down, Geoffrey. There are trees enough in the woods by the rock tower.