timber yard worker, of Kuttenberg
“I haul pine logs until my hands bleed, and now the bailiff wants me for the militia.”
Things Lorenz Zimmermann had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St George, at Vespers
Tomorrow is the muster for the levy, Sakra. I rub my neck just thinking of it. I can lift a pine beam faster than any man, but a Cuman arrow does not care how strong you are. I hope the steady older man on the list finds a way for us both to be passed over.
Nota scribaeThe lad spoke so fast I had to make him repeat himself thrice. He was sweating profusely.
the Wednesday after Easter, at None
Short shifts again at the yard. The Hungarian soldiers took another three timber wagons this morning. How am I supposed to earn my groschen when there are no carts to load the pine onto? We have half-empty purses, and Ursula the ale-wife is shouting my debts through her hatch.
It is a bloody outrage. My purse is as empty as a beggar's bowl, and my throat is dry.
And that thirsty hired hand still has my padded jack. It is a cold spring, Sakra.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Terce
I wish Edward would just apologise to old Nickel. They broke that handcart axle weeks ago and the rest of us are still carrying messages between them like we are the king's own couriers. It slows the work down, and things are disorganised enough without Ludwig.
It was his fault, the stubborn old mule. I will not say a word to him.
I heard that, Horner! You steered us right into the rut!
Sakra, see what I mean? Stop shouting across the yard and fix it!
the day after St Matthias, at Prime
I had too much watered beer at the alehouse yesterday and boasted loudly about how many logs I could lift. Sakra, I was a fool. The town bailiff heard me and put my name on the levy list. I just want to haul wood, not die violently in a ditch without a priest.
I told you to drink quiet like I do, boy. Boasting only brings trouble to your door.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed the back of his neck the entire time he spoke, looking as if he might weep.
the third day of February, at Sext
Ludwig the foreman has gone to Prague to treat with the woodcutters for new contracts. The yard is already a mess without him here. I am pulling thick splinters from my pitch-covered fingers with no one to organise the stacking. Sakra, it will be a long Lent.
Ludwig is a fair master. You young lads will see how much we need him now.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You are a strong lad, Lorenz. Just keep your head down and do not talk so fast at the captain.
The bailiff knows a strong back when he sees one. Better you marching off than my old bones.