hired hand, of Kuttenberg
“I am just a hired hand waiting by the Italian Court for a day's wage. I reckon it is an honest living.”
Things Humphrey had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Prime
Young Hans the Pike took a stone to the head and lies in the yard burning up. I reckon someone with free time must rouse him thrice a day. If I stay from the Italian Court, I lose my wage, and Philip will throw us both out in the dirt.
Nota scribaeDictated in great haste. The man kept touching his collar nervously as he spoke.
the feast of Saint Pancras, at Vespers
My knees are aching terrible from unloading Master Tanner's carts all day. But Sunday is a day of rest, and no man will catch me working it. The Lord provides, even if Philip's wife looks sour when I hand over my last penny.
You have a strong back, Humphrey, but you complain like a dying sheep. Be at the wall on Monday.
the third day of Easter week, at None
God rest poor Anthony. He died in the coughing sickness of ninety-nine, the very night my own fever broke. I vowed a pilgrimage to Sedletz for Saint Barbara, but I never found the spare groschen. I reckon every ache in my bones is her asking for that candle.
My hand shakes just thinking on it. I will make the walk one day, if I do not starve first.
Nota scribaeHe asked that a prayer be added, but I have not the time.
the eve of Saint Gregory, at Prime
I see these young lads pawning their tools and war gear to Philip. It only ends in ruin, I reckon. A man without his pry-bar is just a beggar in waiting. You cannot bargain with Heaven or an empty pocket.
Keep your sermons, old man. We cannot all wait for Master Polner to grace us with a day's wage.
Nota scribaeThe man spoke like a priest, though he smelled strongly of damp straw and sweat.
Candlemas, at Compline
The frost is bitter tonight in Philip's sheds. I paid my penny to his wife at the gate, but the draught comes right through the boards. At least we are not sleeping in the snow like the poor souls on the road.
My toes are blue. If Philip does not patch that roof soon, I will patch it with his own ledger.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I will look in on him at Sext, Humphrey. My mother Agnes used to say sleep is the worst thing for a knocked head.