junior clerk and runner, of Kuttenberg
“I am a junior clerk, though my father treats me as little more than an ink-stained scullion. I know my letters and my sums, and soon I shall have my own desk.”
Things Ulrich Porter had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Holy Trinity, at Vespers
The aldermen will not hear my petition for Lida. My father has poisoned their ears, or perhaps they simply cannot read the rough script I was forced to use without my proper quills. I will empty his strongbox if I must. The damp in that cellar is worsening.
Nota scribaeThe speaker sighed heavily throughout and kept his hands clenched tight in his belt.
the Tuesday after Saint Mark, at Terce
I declare Matthew Ford a common thief. He still has the imported goose quills I lent him in good faith to write to his refugee. Now he demands twenty groschen or claims we traded for a brass buckle. Without them, I cannot draft my petition properly. Return them!
We traded, Ulrich. A fine brass buckle for the feathers. Pay me my groschen or admit the trade.
You took advantage of my pity for your helpless Clemence. You are a liar.
the third day of Easter week, at None
My fingers are cramped from copying salt manifests since Prime, and my father pays me in clipped pennies. I sat at the cookshop near Saint James for my pottage, listening to Menhard and Francis squabbling like old women over the levy list. I wish Wenceslas would put my father's name on it.
Wenceslas takes his ale, and I stay off the list. You should learn how the world works, clerk.
Nota scribaeDictated at the cookshop. The speaker requested I wipe my nib before starting.
the Monday after Laetare Sunday, at Sext
I slipped away to the grate of the alderman's cellar. I passed Lida half a loaf of bread. She coughs from the damp. My brother Jan tells me to forget her, but I will not. If my father would advance my inheritance, I could pay her debts today.
She is a bankrupt baker's wife, Ulrich. Father is right. Leave it be.
the Wednesday of the first week of Lent, at Prime
Matthew Ford was weeping over his inability to write a letter to Clemence in the charity ward. Out of Christian charity, I lent him my best set of imported goose quills. I bought them with a month of saved pennies. I expect them back before Sunday.
God bless you, Ulrich. She will weep when she sees the fine letters.
Nota scribaeHe spoke with great pride about the price of the quills.
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, boy. The baker's widow stays where she is, and you will not shame this family.
I will shame it if I must, Father.