woodworker at the lower yard, of Kuttenberg
“I shape timber for the mines and just want to provide for Kethe, Andreas, and little Margaret in peace.”
Things Veit Preng had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Saint Urban, at None
My back is ruined, truly ruined. I can barely lift a mallet without a sharp pain in my chest. A clerk said the bailiff is drawing up a list for the muster. I pray they see how frail I am. If I march, who will feed Kethe and little Andreas? We would all starve.
Nota scribaeHe spent a long time wringing his hands before speaking. His back looked perfectly straight to me.
the Wednesday after Easter, at Prime
Still wearing my heavy wool tunic today, though the sun is out. Last winter nearly broke us, and the chill sits deep in my bones. I stood in the sawdust at dawn praying Master Hans would pick me for a shift. Praise God he did. Margaret needs bread, not excuses.
At least you have a dry bed to go home to, Veit. My shed is still dripping from the thaw.
Bring the tunic to my shop, brother, I can patch the elbows where the adze work wore it thin.
the feast of Saint Benedict, at Vespers
Joerg Wolf threw a mallet across the yard today and cursed out the whole crew. Ever since poor Peter's leg was shattered by those dropping props, Joerg has been a storm waiting to break. I kept my head down and focused on my cuts. I have my Kethe to think of, I need no quarrels.
Keep my name out of your mouth, Veit. Peter's leg was his own clumsy fault, not mine.
I meant no offense, Joerg! Truly! May God heal Peter, is all I meant.
Nota scribaeHe sighed five times while telling me this, rubbing his palms raw.
the Monday before Saint Gregory, at Sext
Richard Weaver asked to borrow three groschen this morning. I told him I had barely enough to buy flour for Andreas and Margaret. He's a shifty one, always pawning things off to Menhard. I won't risk my family's dinner on his promises. Andrew Alder says a man should stand on his own feet, and he is right.
It was only three groschen, Veit! I'd have paid you back by Sunday, Christ almighty.
You did well to keep your coin, Veit. Though I wish my own flesh and blood listened to reason as well as you do.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
The cold on the scaffolds is bitter today. I can hardly feel my fingers on the adze, but a man must work or starve. I cut props for the deep mines all morning. Every swing I pray to the Lord to keep my hand steady. If I fall, what becomes of Kethe? The thought turns my stomach.
The Lord watches over us, Veit. I should have gone barefoot to Sedletz as I vowed, maybe the winter would be kinder.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard. He rubbed his hands together the entire time.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Stop your whining, Veit. The King needs men, though God knows you'd be little use with a spear.
Hush now, husband, the bailiff won't take a man with a chest as weak as yours.