clerk at the weigh-house, of Kuttenberg
“I tally grain for the town council, though it is peasant work far beneath a man of my standing. Someday soon I will marry and leave this filthy square behind.”
Things Sebastian Hoffmann had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
My father Lamprecht is a stubborn mule. He speaks only of station and dowries, forbidding the match I desire. Let him keep his coin! I shall find a priest to marry us in secret, though it might cost me every groschen I have.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted thrice by the man shouting for more ale.
the second Tuesday in May, at None
Drslav Hill stares daggers at me across the weigh-house bench like a sour monk. If the man is weak enough to mope over a baker's daughter who ran off to Czaslau, that is his own folly. I only spoke the truth about her and the Hungarians!
It was a lie, Sebastian, and you know it. You ruined Magdalena for a tavern jest. Someday you will answer for it.
Go cry in your thin ale, Drslav. Everyone was saying it.
the third day of Easter week, at Terce
I left the weigh-house early today. Why should I sit there while Udo Lang gnaws on stale crusts saving coppers for Wilhelm's old seat? And Baldwin Fair is an idiot who let Ottilie's leaking thatch ruin a ledger. Thank God the chest humour took Wilhelm, or we'd be worked to death.
Some of us must earn our bread, Hoffmann, instead of drinking our father's.
Baldwin is a lazy tenant, but you are worse. You left us with three wagons to tally.
the Monday after St Benedict, at Sext
The carters are whining about the toll again, saying bread is dear because of the King's brother and his soldiers. What do I care for Cuman troubles? The ale at the tavern still flows, and my father's coin still buys it. Let the peasants weep over their grain.
You bray too loud, lad. Even your father's coin won't save you if the soldiers come to Kuttenberg.
Nota scribaeHe slapped the table so hard he spilled his drink on the parchment.
the first Friday of Lent, at Compline
Christ almighty, the tavern roared tonight! I told them all about Magdalena keeping company with the Hungarian guards. A baker's daughter giving out sweet rolls to the soldiers, eh? The whole bench laughed, save for Drslav, who looked as if he swallowed a toad.
It was a good jest, though her father won't think so.
You are a whoreson. I will see you choke on your own lying tongue.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You will do no such thing while you sleep under my roof, you idle whoreson.
He will cut you off, Sebastian. Mind your tongue before you ruin yourself.