ditch-digger at the town works, of Kuttenberg
“I was a farmer before the frost and soldiers pushed me behind the walls. Now I am just an old back hauling Kuttenberg's mud.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
The bailiff has called the muster for Whitsun. My neck is stiff just thinking on it. I need silver by Sunday, or the sergeant will flog me raw. Anthony says he can fool them with a waxed canvas coat, but the man is an idiot. Christ almighty, I am for it.
Nota scribaeDictated in a state of high agitation. He rubbed the back of his neck the entire time.
The feast of Saint Pancras, at Vespers
Saint Mark's day came and went, and I lost a hauling job because a certain lying boy will not give back my pot of wheel grease. He will not fetch it, and he will not carry word to my brother Denis in Troskowitz either. I reckon he never buys grain there at all.
I will fetch your grease when I feel like digging in the straw. The roads are full of Cumans, I am not risking my neck for your brother.
The third day of Easter week, at Prime
It rained all night and the cellar roof leaks like a sieve. Eleanor takes our groschen and leaves us to rot. I kept my head down, but Jezhek took Hynek's only good woollen cloak and stuffed it in the hole to stop the drip. A cruel thing, but I was not going to cross Jezhek.
I will freeze on the road now. May the widow choke on her coin, and Jezhek too.
It stopped the leak, did it not? Dry your eyes.
Nota scribaeThe ink ran slightly on this page owing to the damp.
The eve of Saint Gertrude, at Sext
Hauling clay out of the town ditches for Julian. My back is gone and the mud never washes out. We stand there waiting at first light like cattle, and the master docks us if the spade is rusty. Praise be to Saint Barbara for the ale at the end of it.
Amen to that. Julian drinks our silver at the good taverns while we eat mud.
The Monday of the first week of Lent, at Compline
A bitter frost. My stomach was so empty I thought I would die in the straw. I took a walk to the pawnbroker and traded a heavy piece of steel for enough bread and cheap ale to keep my soul in my body. A man must eat, God forgive him.
What steel? You had nothing to pawn. John, where is my kettle hat?
Nota scribaeHe spoke quietly, glancing over his shoulder toward the door.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The canvas will work if you stand in the back and look fierce, you old fool.
If you are looking for silver, you could start by giving me back my steel kettle hat.
I am keeping it polished for you, lad. Safe and sound from the damp.