digger in the ditch crews, of Kuttenberg
“I am a clever fellow, not like these coughing old men. Sakra, I even trade grain up in Troskowitz when the roads are clear.”
Things Frantishek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Terce
Anthony is a complete fool. He pawned Vashek's gambeson in January, and now the Whitsun muster is coming. He thinks he can melt tallow candles over a canvas coat and the sergeant will not notice. It is the stupidest thing I ever heard.
Nota scribaeThe man waved his hands the entire time he spoke.
the feast of St John before the Latin Gate, at Sext
John will not stop weeping about his brother Denis up in Troskowitz. He thinks the Hungarian soldiers burned his barn. I told him I travel there to buy cheap grain, and now he begs me to carry a message. I wish Denis would catch a fever so John would shut his mouth.
Just tell him we are praying for him, Frantishek. You said you go there next week.
Aye, next week. If the roads are clear.
St Mark's day, at Vespers
John needed his clay pot of wheel grease today for a borrowed wagon. I told him I could not find it in my straw. He lent it to me before Lent when we fixed a hand-cart, but I traded half of it for a cup of cheap ale. Sakra, I am not taking a beating for it.
Just dig it out of your straw, lad! I cannot return the wagon squeaking like a dying pig.
Nota scribaeHis face flushed red when he dictated this.
the Wednesday of Holy Week, at Prime
I nearly died laughing. The cellar roof was leaking again. Jezhek took Hynek's only good woollen cloak and jammed it right into the rotting ceiling boards to block the water. Hynek is too small to do a thing about it, and Jezhek refuses to pay the ten groschen for the damage.
It is that grasping widow Eleanor's fault as much as Jezhek's. She leaves us to rot in the damp.
It kept my head dry, did it not?
Nota scribaeDictated near the lower market square.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
My hands are bleeding from the shovel. Julian docked my wages again for a muddy boot. That whoreson drinks the silver he owes us at the good taverns while we haul heavy clay mud all day. At least I am young and clever, not like these coughing old fools I sleep near.
Keep your voice down, lad, Julian has ears everywhere.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The wax will harden it like iron, lad. You will see.