ditch digger of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I haul mud for a pittance and keep a long memory. The Lord knows every penny I am owed, and so do I.”
Things Hynek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Anthony sits in the damp rubbing wax into a canvas coat, thinking it will save him from a Cuman arrow at the muster. The fool will die sticky. I keep my own counsel, and my own sack of grain. I am a patient man, but debts get paid eventually.
Nota scribaeHe gripped his belt so hard while speaking that his knuckles were white as chalk.
the Feast of Saint Pancras, at Compline
Julian sat his arse on his horse today watching us haul wet clay. He docked me a half-penny because my spade was caked in mud. Bloody hell, it is a ditch. If he falls off that saddle into the muck, I will not be the one to pull him out.
He drinks our silver at the good taverns, I swear it. I would tell him to his face if he ever dismounted.
the week after Easter, at Sext
If John weeps one more time over his brother Denis in Troskowitz, I will drown myself in the puddle by the door. We all have miseries. Denis is a hundred miles away and probably dead of fever anyway. Weeping in a Kuttenberg cellar changes nothing but my temper.
You have no heart in you. The soldiers are burning barns in the north, and he is my own blood.
He is right for once, John. Stop asking me to carry messages when I go north. I am a busy man.
Nota scribaeDictated on the side of the road while the man ate a heel of hard bread.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
My woollen cloak was worth ten good groschen. It was the only dry thing I owned. Last night Jezhek shoved it into the rotting timbers to stop Eleanor's roof from dripping on his face. Now it is a foul, moldy rag. He laughed when I saw it. He owes me the silver.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
The rain has not stopped for a week. Widow Eleanor took her two groschen on Sunday and left us to sleep in wet straw. I asked her to mend the timbers and she spat at my feet. Five men breathing in the dark, and not a dry patch among us.
Better wet straw than sleeping in the ditch itself, lad.
Aye, it is a bitter spring. Keep your cloak wrapped tight.
Nota scribaeHe spoke very quietly, staring at the dirt the entire time.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It dries hard as wood! You will be the one weeping when the Hungarians march down the road.
The only thing you are patient about is letting other men do the fighting, you little worm.