hired hand, of Kuttenberg
“I wait on the steps for tally-work and remember better days. The young ones complain too much, but a man needs ale money.”
Things Bartholomew Smith had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
Jarda Tanner is still whining about his brother Jan. I told the lad, I am not walking two days into the dirt to tell a farmer his brother misses him. My knees ache enough from the tally-benches. If he wants Jan to know he's alive, he can walk there himself.
Nota scribaeThe man coughed heavily throughout the dictation and pointed his finger at my nose.
the third Tuesday after Easter, at None
Saw Veit Muller down by the alehouse. He was complaining about the soldiers and the tight-fisted masters, and I told him he's right about the masters. But pawning Markvart's war kit? The man's a bloody fool. I won't lend him a single groschen.
A man has to drink, old friend. And Markvart wasn't using it.
You shouldn't cross the soldiers. Better to save what little we have.
Drink it now, Denis lad. The Hungarians will take it anyway, and your wife Lida will be a rich widow.
the Monday of Holy Week, at Prime
Bread is dearer again. The Hungarians choke the roads and the German masters toss us copper like beggars. I remember when King Wenceslas was here and the groschen flowed. Now I have to dodge crates just to keep my throat wet.
Aye, the silver doesn't reach our pockets anymore.
We break our backs in the mines and for what?
the second week of Lent, at Terce
Maurice Polner is asking for his tool back again. I told him I need it for active work on the tally-benches. Besides, he doesn't even know how to hold the bloody thing properly. A tool belongs with a man who knows its weight.
It's my best tool, Bartholomew! You borrowed it at Candlemas. I want it back.
Keep your shirt on, lad. You'll get it when I'm finished. You'd only blunt it anyway.
Nota scribaeHe refused to name the tool, tapping his pouch instead.
Candlemas, at Vespers
Sat with Jarda Tanner and shared a skin of cheap wine. The lad means well, but he talks too much. Left a fine bone comb on the bench when he stumbled off. I reckon I'll keep it safe for him until he learns to hold his drink like a man.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It's just a message, Bartholomew! And you still have my bone comb. You took it from the bench after we drank.
I don't know what you mean, boy. And I'll find your comb when you stop bleating about Jan.