beggar of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I just need a merchant or a teamster heading south who will remember my name. I never forget a face, if folk would only stop walking while I speak.”
Things Peckish Fritz had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
By Saint Christopher, will no one listen? I asked Gaunt Markvart again to just walk to the southern crossroads, and he swore at me. My kin are down there, waiting to hear I survived the winter. I do not ask for groschen, just a man with working legs to take my message.
Nota scribaeHe spoke so fast I had to make him repeat the middle part thrice. He grabbed my sleeve the entire time.
the second day of May, at Terce
Ursel is threatening to call the bailiff if we do not settle our slates. Where does she think we will find the coin? Squinty Godfrey is pawning things left and right over at the Havirska, but I have nothing left to pawn. If I go to the dungeon, my family will never find me.
If I could find my tin plate, I could sell it. Or maybe I should just follow Magdalena to Prague.
You will find the coin or you will find a cell, Fritz. I do not run a charity for idle mouths.
the Wednesday after Easter, at None
A wagon full of merchants passed through the square today. I ran alongside them from the lower gate to the mint, begging the driver to listen, but he snapped his whip at me. Bloody hell, how hard is it to remember one name? 'Peckish Fritz is alive.' That is all they have to say!
Merchants care for silver, lad, not the words of a beggar. Save your breath for begging bread.
Nota scribaeThe lad was panting heavily while dictating this.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Prime
Stepped on Filthy William's legs again getting out from under the blanket this morning. He kicked my shin so hard I can barely walk. It is too cold to sleep on the edge of the steps, but the older men push me out. Oswald died of the fever before Lent, and I fear I am next.
Watch your clumsy feet, then. You woke me from a dream where I had a warm pie.
Come sleep by my side tonight, Fritz. My broken hand throbs less if someone is blocking the wind.
Candlemas, at Sext
Christ almighty, my throat is raw. Stood by the Kostelni church all morning asking everyone in boots if they were walking toward the southern rivers. The soldiers burned our village and we scattered like quail. My mother and sister went south, I know it. I must send them word before they forget me.
Stop yelling so near my ear, boy. My daughter's stomach is bad enough without your wailing adding to our miseries.
Nota scribaeDictated near the church doors. He wept a little, but wiped his face when a monk passed.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I told you, boy, I am not walking south for you or anyone. The soldiers are out there. Leave me be.
It is just a few miles, Markvart! Saint Christopher would bless you for it.