hired hand and ditch digger, of Kuttenberg
“I work whatever jobs there are to be had around town. I have strong arms and I do not need my brother's charity.”
Things Claus Marsh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St James, at Vespers
Heinz was shouting about the far strip again at supper. He says I owe him coin from the bad winter of ninety-nine. By Christ's wounds, that silver was a gift to make up for him stealing our father Peter's land before the corpse was cold! I will take it to the bailiff.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted twice by the brother shouting from the next room.
the Tuesday after St George, at Sext
Saw young Cecily wandering the market stalls alone again today. She just wants out of that cursed house. I bought her a hot apple with a groschen I got from mending the cooper's fence. Someone has to look out for the lass while her father acts the lord.
My daughter does not need a ditch-digger's charity, uncle. Keep your pennies.
Thank you for the apple, Uncle Claus. It was better than sitting at home listening to the yelling.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Poor Kunigunde was scrubbing the floors today. Her knees are ruined. It has been three years since Jarda died of the winter fever, and she still owes arrears to the parish. The silver masters build grand houses while good men die and widows wash our floors. There is no justice here.
The Lord tests us all, Claus. Jarda was a silent man, but God remembers his honest toil in the woods.
You are kind to say it, Claus. Jarda's hidden savings are long gone now, God rest his soul.
Nota scribaeHe muttered angrily into his watered ale the entire time he spoke.
the feast of St Benedict, at None
William is still sulking over Emma, the tanner's daughter. Her father keeps her locked in the yard. I told the boy to forget her and find a woman who knows how to work. My back is sore from hauling crates all morning, I have no patience for his lovesick moaning.
You know nothing of love, old man. You only know dirt and bitterness.
I know you will starve if you do not put your hands to some real labour before the harvest.
Candlemas, at Terce
Alice dropped her spoon at breakfast. Her hand is still crushed from when Geoffrey tipped that wagon on her. The coward fled to Prague, but I curse him every time it rains and my own back aches. We are a family of cripples, fools, and thieves.
Leave Geoffrey be, uncle. It was years ago and I forgave him long ago. The Lord wills what He wills.
Aye, but the coward should have stayed to help instead of running off like a frightened hare.
Nota scribaeThe man crossed his arms and refused to elaborate further, insisting only that I write down his curse.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You borrowed that coin to eat, you ungrateful wretch. Pay me by Whitsun or I go to the bailiff myself.
Go then! The magistrate will hear how you cheated your own blood out of his rightful fields.