labourer at the lower square, of Kuttenberg
“I haul bloody crates all day while the foremen give the easy work to their kin. A man deserves better.”
Things Jarda Tanner had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Terce
My chest aches from the Kuttenberg damp, and I fear I will catch a rot and die before my brother Jan ever knows. I would walk home tomorrow if I had the groschen. Denis keeps asking for his ink. He can whistle for it until Bartholomew gives up my bloody comb.
Nota scribaeHe was whining so pitifully while staring at his boots that I nearly offered him a penny myself.
the eve of St George, at None
Eberhard Schneider was shouting so loud about that girl Annabel again today. I cannot understand wanting to tear your own family apart over a maid. It makes my head pound. I just want to sit in the open fields with Jan's sheep again, away from all this noise.
Mind your own bloody business, Jarda. You know nothing of love or family.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
The foremen cheated us on the tallies again. They handed all the indoor packing to their cousins, leaving us to haul heavy sacks in the bloody wet. The only good thing today was helping Otto Baker look for his lost brass button in the dirt. He is quiet, unlike the rest.
Aye, thanks for the help, Jarda. The mud was thick by the steps today.
Nota scribaeHe spoke barely above a whisper, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Sext
Bartholomew Smith is a bloody thief. I left my good bone comb at his bench after sharing some wine, and now he flatly refuses to give it back. He says it is punishment for asking him to carry a message to my brother. I need that comb to keep the lice out!
You talk of nothing but Jan and his farm until my ears bleed. The comb stays with me.
I will not give Denis his ink back until I have my comb, so there.
Candlemas, at Vespers
I borrowed a bloody fine pot of ink off Denis Spicer today. I told him I need it to write a letter home to my brother Jan. Jan tends the farm and has not heard a word of whether I am alive or dead in this miserable town.
You cannot even read a single word, Jarda! Give it back, I have a buyer waiting for it.
Nota scribaeThe dictation took some time, as he stopped twice to scratch his head and stare at the wall.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My patience is gone. You are holding my property out of sheer bloody spite, you whoreson.
Stop weeping and buy another comb, Jarda. The town is full of them.