hired hand, of Kuttenberg
“I haul timber and silver ore down by the weigh-house, and I bring my own hammer. It is honest sweat, though my bones ache for it.”
Things Reginald had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after Saint John Before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
The bailiff calls a muster, and we must show our war gear or be flogged. I took it upon myself to mend the torn padded jacks and hose for the lads in the cellar. But the cellar is pitch black, and my eyes water. I need five candles, from the chandler or a church altar, just so I can see the needle and save us all from the stocks.
Nota scribaeThe man rubbed his eyes often. He did not say where he intends to get altar candles.
the eve of Saint George, at Compline
I curse Jacob the broker every night. He fled to Prague to hide from the soldiers, and he took Anthony's kettle hat with him, along with half the cellar's pawned gear. I only gave it to him to get a few pennies because Otto left me desperate. Now I have nothing to give back to Anthony, and I hope the soldiers catch Jacob on the road.
You pawned my hat? By God, Reginald, Vashek paid good silver for that! I need it back.
That was to help him, Reginald. You are old enough to know better than to pawn another man's iron.
Nota scribaeHe pointed his finger sharply when speaking of the broker.
the second day of Easter week, at None
By Saint Peter, this cellar is a nightmare. I try to sweep the floor and keep the straw fresh, but these younger whelps undo it all in a moment. Erhard weeps for his mother, Andrew snaps knives, and Hugh bellows about his lucky bone die. Svatava shouts down the stairs that she'll throw us out if we don't pay. She has a right to her coin, but the noise will kill me.
the Monday after Laetare Sunday, at Sext
A bitter betrayal by a careless fool. I had a good padded jack, bought with my own sweat, to wear to the muster. Otto took it and gave it to Svatava for his rent. He claims I owed him for a tavern slate from Martinmas! By Saint Peter, that debt was forgiven at Lent. Now I am left without armour, and the bailiff will not care why.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
Down at the weigh-house near the Italian Court, the new lads whine about splinters. I brought my own iron hammer today. Jezhek stays in his counting room and sends the boy out, but he knows who comes ready to work. It is back-breaking to load the carts with silver ore, but that extra half-penny keeps a man from starving.
Aye, the foreman knows. A man's own hammer is worth two of the crown's rusty ones.
Nota scribaeDictated at the weigh-house while waiting for the tallies.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Your eyes are just old, Reginald. Let it be, I don't need a mended jack to crack a skull.
My mother Kvyetoslava used to make tallow dips for me. I miss the light.
If you do not show good gear, Prokop, the bailiff will crack yours. Be quiet, Erhard, and let a man think.