porter at the Italian court, of Kuttenberg
“I move heavy crates and keep my own tally in this mud. Silver is silver, and a man must not be cheated.”
Things Henslin Schmidt had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Lorenz Braun walked off with my fine brigandine and pawned it to feed his own face. I need that armour for the militia muster. If the bailiff fines me for standing there in my bare shirt, I will take it out of Lorenz's hide. God's nails, the man is a thief.
Nota scribaeThe dictating was interrupted thrice so he could spit on the ground.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Maresh Fuller talks too fast and works too little. I told the others not to lend him a single penny, for he will only lose it at dice. And Christopher is just as bad, writing terrible poems for Dorothy instead of running his errands. Fools, the lot of them.
I only needed a few pennies to win back what I lost yesterday.
My verses are for her heart, Henslin. You would not understand.
the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
Albrecht Schmidt left his copper engraving plate with me as a pledge for ten groschen in January. Now he claims buying me ale at the tavern settles the debt. Ale is ale and silver is silver. The plate stays locked in my chest until he pays the coin in full.
I bought you good dark beer for a month straight! You drank it all!
My piss went into the dirt, but my ten groschen are still gone.
Nota scribaeHe brought the heavy iron padlock with him to show me how secure it was.
the feast of Saint Matthias, at Terce
A biting wind in the lower square today. I carried five heavy merchant crates up to the Italian Court and did not drop a single one. Then I paid Lene the ale-wife my exact tally, so I got the thicker cabbage soup. A man must pay his debts on time.
Lene's tongue is sharp enough to cut wood, but her soup warms the belly.
Candlemas, at Sext
King Sigismund's soldiers are on the roads, and bread is dearer than last year. We common folk just carry on under it. I stand on the church steps at midday to eat my crust, watching the shouting matches between Franz Keller and Wilhelm Schreiber. They waste their breath.
If his boy did not provoke mine, there would be no shouting.
My son is a saint compared to yours, Wilhelm.
Nota scribaeHe stared at the wall for a long time before saying this.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The Hungarians have made bread too dear, Henslin. A man has to eat.
Then eat dirt. I want my kit back by Sunday.