shop hand, of Kuttenberg
“I am a man meant for poetry and destiny, though my hands are stained with my father's dust. True love is my only guide.”
Things Matthew Ford had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday after the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, at Vespers
My father Philip says if I speak her name again, I will be out on the street with the dogs. He thinks I fear his threats! I would starve in the mud before I forsake my angel in the charity ward. A man's soul needs more than copper pennies.
Nota scribaeHe paced back and forth the entire time, his hands jammed tightly into his belt.
the feast of St Mark, at None
Ulrich still whines about those goose quills. I told him plain: I gave him a fine brass belt buckle for them during Lent! If he wants his precious writing tools back so he can write his baker widow, he can admit the trade was fair or pay me twenty groschen.
You stole them, Matthew! I need those quills for Lida. Give them back!
Will you two stop yammering about feathers? There's a war on.
the Monday after Easter, at Prime
The market was mad today with refugees and soldiers trampling the mud. I carried heavy bolts of cloth from dawn until my back ached, all so Philip can hoard his silver. I have not a single groschen to my name, yet my heart is rich with love for Clemence.
At least you aren't on the bailiff's list. Be glad for your father's roof.
Nota scribaeThe lad paused three times to sigh heavily.
the second Sunday of Lent, at Sext
Sat at the cookshop by St James's with my thin ale. Ludwig was moaning again about Leonard and that ruined gutter. Who cares for a gutter when true love is kept from a man? These bench-warmers have no poetry in them.
It's my gutter, lad, and Leonard is a blind fool. You'd care if it was your roof leaking.
Drink your ale and be quiet, Matthew.
Candlemas, at Terce
I saw her today. She is an angel sent from God, though the sisters keep her in the ward where I cannot go. I swear I will find a way to make her mine. Destiny has written it in the stars, no matter what my father says.
Your father will break your head before destiny does, nephew.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the alehouse. He was speaking very fast.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep talking like a fool and see how poetic the mud feels in winter, boy.
You do not understand love, old man!