beggar at the church doors, of Kuttenberg
“I am a poor servant of the Lord, begging a crust to feed four great louts of sons.”
Things Stinky William had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Compline
Ernest Weaver gave me twenty groschen and a fine cloth hood to lift a curse off his sour stomach. I gave him a scrap of charcoal gibberish and told him it was a holy ward. The fool thinks he is saved. I hide the hood when the watch is near, but I sleep warm.
Nota scribaeHe laughed while dictating this and showed me the hood.
the third day of Easter week, at None
My boy Lorenz still whines about that washing-girl Agnes, though she went to Prague in a baggage train before Lent. The girl's family steals from the poor box. I told him I will beat him if he speaks her name again. Even a beggar has his pride, we do not marry thieves.
She is my only chance at a decent life, father.
Your only chance is a thick stick across your back if you keep whining.
the Feast of St Gregory, at Sext
Gaunt Thomas is barking again about Lambert dying in the mud ten years ago. He says I broke the line. I swear by all the saints the clumsy bastard tripped over his own feet. No man could have saved him. Thomas should keep his mouth shut before the town officers hear him.
You left him to the spears, William. I saw it with my own eyes.
Let the dead rot in peace, Thomas. We have enough trouble with the living.
Nota scribaeThe man spat on the ground after naming Thomas.
the Monday after St Matthias, at Terce
Four boys eating like horses and bringing in nothing. I kicked Claus and Richard out of the straw before dawn. If I do not stand by the church doors putting on a grand show with my hands for the women, we all starve. The watchmen chased me from the steps today.
My belly is empty, father. Kicking me does not fill it.
The watch hit me with a cudgel yesterday. They have no pity.
Candlemas, at Vespers
The air in this slum is stale enough to choke a dog. I guard my bowl fiercely from Shabby John and Musty Fritz. The roads are full of Sigismund's soldiers, making bread dearer than last year. Up in heaven there will be no soldiers, but here we just cough and count coppers.
I never touched your bowl, William. Keep your crusts.
The soldiers took my last good boots on the road from Sedletz.
Nota scribaeDictated in the slum. The smell was as bad as he claims.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You told me it was the holy breath of St Blaise! My stomach still aches.
The holy breath works in mysterious ways, Master Weaver. Pray harder.