master framer and woodworker, of Kuttenberg
“I am a master of the trade, reduced to waiting in the dirt for a day's wage by this cursed war. I keep a decent house, and I expect my children to remember our name.”
Things Lambert Hill had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Compline
My throat is raw from shouting. Drslav brings another tale of that penniless girl he chases, expecting my blessing. He will get nothing of the sort. I will not have my father's name dragged through the mud because a boy cannot look higher than a gutter.
Nota scribaeHe jabbed his finger at my chest the entire time he spoke. I am not his son.
the eve of St George, at None
If William Brown speaks one more word about his brother Matthew's spring barley, I will take my mallet to his head. We are woodworkers. Swing the axe, hold your tongue, and be glad we have wages at all today. Walter Cooper is the only man here with any sense.
Matthew says the soil is too wet this year. I only thought you ought to know.
Keep me out of it, Lambert. I just want to finish this beam and go home.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Vespers
Sovka argues with me again over this match. She is stubborn as a mule, but I am the master of this house. The man is entirely beneath us, and I have forbidden it. I only pray young Isabel does not learn this rebellion from her sister.
He has a strong back and a good heart, Father. Your pride will not keep us warm.
My pride is the only thing keeping us from being beggars in the street, girl.
the third day of Lent, at Prime
Stood in the freezing mud by the Italian Court, waiting for Master Maurice to grace us with a pointed finger from his window. Kunz Weber spent the whole time bickering over a scrap of inheritance. Men have forgotten how to carry themselves. We beg for honest work.
It is my rightful land, Lambert! You would do the same if Johannes tried to steal your father's legacy.
I saved three groschen by not paying for a warm bed last night. Why do you complain?
Nota scribaeThe man spoke deliberately and slowly, making me late for Terce.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
They put Hedvika in the ground this morning. She was a God-fearing woman who kept a decent cellar. Now her nephew has locked the doors and called in the debts before the dirt on her grave is even dry. The dignity of our trade falls lower every day.
I owe that cellar two groschen. I told the nephew he can whistle for it.
You are a rogue, John Black. An honest man pays his debts.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
She is a good Catholic girl, Father, and you would see that if you looked past her dowry.
Do not shout so loud, Lambert. The neighbours have ears, and that is what shames us.