hired hand at the court, of Kuttenberg
“I reckon I am a hard worker, though the older men try to push me around. I just want my fair wage and my own tools.”
Things Philip had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
I reckon Baldwin is angry. Prokop is hiring ditchers tomorrow, and Baldwin wants his iron-shod spade back. But I told him I have it safe, just like he has my marked mattock. He can have his spade when he looks me in the eye and calls himself a thief.
Nota scribaeDictated while staring at his boots. He refused to speak louder.
the feast of St Pancras, at Terce
Asked Denis the Pole again to take word to my mother Elishka, since he goes that way. He told me to piss off. I reckon she thinks the Hungarians killed me by now. The roads are foul and I just want her to know I am hauling ore and drawing breath.
I told you, boy, it is out of my way. Pay for a real messenger or shut your mouth.
Stop whining about your mother and buy us an ale. You are in Kuttenberg now.
the Tuesday after Easter week, at None
Heard Maurice's leg is festering bad in that cellar of his after he fell from the timber wagon. I reckon I should visit him, but I cannot afford to lose a day's wage from the yard, not with bread costing what it does. Poor bastard. God keep him from rotting.
We are all one bad step from that cellar. Prokop doesn't care if we break.
Nota scribaeThe boy crossed himself three times before continuing.
the Monday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
Stood at the lower gates before first light, freezing in my boots. Prokop picked the older men again. I reckon I'll be sweeping yards for pennies today. At least I have my own tools to show I'm no beggar. A man is only as good as his iron.
Iron doesn't feed you when Prokop looks right through you. I am dreading the militia muster.
the Friday after Candlemas, at Compline
Lent my new ash-handled mattock to Baldwin. It cost me a whole month of hauling stone, and it has my mark burned right into the wood. He swore he only needed it for one shift at the trenches. I reckon I shouldn't have handed it over, but he is older.
Calm down, lad. I just need it for tomorrow. The ground is hard as a rock.
Nota scribaeDictated at the alehouse. He sounded close to tears, though he tried to hide it.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You little whoreson, give it here or I'll break your arms. I need that spade for the shift.
I reckon I'll give it back when you return my mattock, old man.