day labourer at the wall, of Kuttenberg
“I haul stone at the town wall for Master Vitek and try to keep my footing.”
Things Roger had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Holy Trinity, at Vespers
Edmund Black is at me again to walk his message out of town. By Saint Wenceslas, does he not see I hold my belt just to stand straight? My knees ache from the damp trenches. I am not walking those mercenary-filled roads for his kin when I can barely make it up the mill ladder.
Nota scribaeHe stood clutching his belt the entire time he spoke.
the feast of Saint Pancras, at Prime
Humphrey Miller has a heart of stone. Ten years my sister Sarah has been in Prague, and he refuses to pen one scrap to tell her I am not dead yet. He says Prague is too big. Well, she has a face, does she not? Someone would know her.
Prague is a sea of faces, Roger. You do not even know her parish. It is throwing good groschen into the wind.
He speaks truth, old man. Save your coin for ale.
the second day of Easter week, at None
The whole camp is weeping over Michael running off with their pawned gear. They say he took church candlesticks. Rubbish. I reckon he heard the soldiers coming for the levy and hid in the woods. Heinz and Richard are ready to kill each other over a pawned kettle hat. Absolute fools.
It was just a hat, Richard has another! And Michael owes me my boots back.
I will break your jaw, Heinz, if I have to march bare-headed because of your dice debts.
Nota scribaeThe man spat on the ground after naming the pawnbroker.
the feast of Saint Gertrude, at Sext
Master Vitek is shouting the lads deaf today at the wall works. I keep my head down and fill my baskets half-full. The young men haul heavier rock, but they come without their shovels and get turned away. Let them laugh at my grey hair. I have my tool, and I get my wage.
Vitek is a whoreson. He sits safe from the levy while we break our backs.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
I saw Joerg walk right off with Mathes's new iron-tined pitchfork today. Mathes starved himself all winter to buy it for the feast, and just let him take it. Joerg says it is for digging wages owed since Epiphany. A man without the spine to keep his own tools will not last long here.
He said he would beat me bloody, Roger. And he does owe me, though not that much.
Nota scribaeDictated near the bakery ovens. The man smelled strongly of wet wool.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is but a short walk, Roger, and my cousin needs to know we are safe.
It is too far for my bones, Edmund. Find one of these young fools to run it.