ditch digger and rightful landowner, of Kuttenberg
“I haul stone for the town only to pay for legal petitions. I am a man of property, whatever my brother says.”
Things Andreas Engel had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St John before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Hermann Lang was weeping about his leaking roof again. I told him straight, jabbed my finger right in his chest, just stop paying Oswald the rent. God's wounds, you fight a miser with a closed purse, not by whining in the mud.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly while pointing at my face.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Bread is dearer than ever with these soldiers about, so I must dig more trenches to pay the bailiff's clerks. Meanwhile, Kunz sits on our father's far strip like a fat lord. He is stealing the very food from my table.
Father meant the far strip for me, you stubborn old mule. You waste your groschen on nothing.
I know the feeling. My sisters are just as treacherous with our father's fields.
the eve of St Tiburtius, at None
My hands are blistered from hauling stone all morning. That lazy boy Lorenz Braun barely lifted a pebble. If old Bartel were still alive to lead the crew, he would have kicked his arse across the lower market.
I pulled my weight just fine, old man. Keep your complaints for your brother.
Bartel was a good master. He knew my hand was bad.
Nota scribaeThe man shouted so loud my ears ring.
the Friday before Laetare Sunday, at Sext
My son Gottfried mopes around the house with a face like a wet Monday. God's wounds, he should be thanking me. I spoke to the priest and saved the Engel name from being dragged through the shit by that disgraced girl.
You ruined everything. Walpurg is gone to Prague and I have nothing.
Hold your tongue, boy, or I will box your ears. I preserved our standing.
Nota scribaeHe means the girl sent away to Prague.
Candlemas, at Terce
I have begun drawing up the petitions. Kunz was ploughing the far strip this morning as if it were his own dirt. I will not yield a single furrow of my legacy. I am a landowner, not a peasant, and the bailiff will hear of this.
You are a ditch-digger who drinks his wages. Leave the farming to me.
Nota scribaeHe paid for the writing with a handful of very dirty pennies.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is easy for you to say, Andreas. Oswald will throw me in the street.