roofer on the high roofs, of Kuttenberg
“I work the high scaffolds for Master Francis. I have a steady hand for lead and copper, provided I do not look down.”
Things Oswald Christman had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
I slipped on the slate today. It is the punishment starting. I swore to God I would walk barefoot to Sedletz after I fell into that mud cart last autumn, and I never did. All the saints protect me, I must make the walk before I break my neck.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed his knuckles so fiercely while speaking that the skin was entirely raw.
the eve of Ascension, at None
I am asking again for my engraved copper plate, the one with the holy halos. Maurice borrowed it before Easter. I will gladly pay twelve groschen to any man who fetches it from him. I must have it back to show my father my progress.
Christ almighty, Oswald, I still need it for tracing. It is perfectly safe where it is.
Twelve groschen? You should be saving your wages, lad, not throwing them away on errands.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Master Francis expects us up on the scaffolding before the bells even finish ringing. My legs are shaking just looking at the ladders this morning. The wind is fierce up by the spire. May St Barbara keep the timber from snapping under us.
The master would have us working in a gale if it meant the lead got laid faster.
Nota scribaeThe man kept scanning the sky above the desk as if waiting for a lightning bolt.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Terce
Stay well clear of Wenceslas Green if you value your toes. The man swings his adze like a blind foreigner. I took my tools to the far side of the roof today just to keep my skin whole.
My swings are perfectly true, you whoreson. It is not my fault you jump at every shadow on the scaffold.
Ash Wednesday, at Compline
My mother keeps trying to feed me warm bread straight from the hearth, but I cannot stomach the heat of the bakery anymore. It is stifling in there. I would rather be freezing on the high slates than choking on flour dust.
You are too thin, Oswald. A cold heel of bread at midday is no meal for a working man.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the tavern.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You worry too much, Oswald. Master Francis will have your hide for slipping long before the Lord gets a turn.