nobleman in the upper town, of Kuttenberg
“I am Thomas of the House of Bohunowitz. I spend my days trying to elevate the local spirits, just as my cousin writes they do in Paris.”
Things Thomas of Bohunowitz had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at None
If a man of good birth requires a padded jacket for the upcoming muster, it should suffice without question. Stephen the Ox is being terribly ungracious about a certain set of war gear I borrowed before Lent. A gentleman cannot be rushed on these matters.
Nota scribaeHe spoke loudly and waved his hands in broad arcs, nearly knocking over the inkwell.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
I require a vast sack of goose feathers from Adam out in Bylany, and bundles of straw from Godfrey in Lorec. It is for a private masquerade of the highest Parisian fashion. I shall send a discreet lad to gather them, provided I can find one who will not wag his tongue.
Maundy Thursday, at Prime
This town has no sense of sport. I sent a fellow to Oswald Petzold in the artisans' quarter for a simple pot of boiled pitch, expecting the quiet carpenter to hand it over without fuss. Instead the man demands good silver! Do these tradesmen not understand patronage?
Pitch costs money to boil, my lord. I am a working man and I need to eat.
You should have let me send for it. Your lads have no authority.
Nota scribaeDictated from a tavern bench before he had put his boots on.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Sext
I have a grand vision for the ball. I need a fine pair of ram's horns for my mask. I know Kunz the herdsman kept a set down in the pastures from the last slaughter. If some discreet stranger would walk down and pay him ten groschen for them, I should be much obliged.
I have the horns here in the grass. Ten groschen is fair. Send your stranger down to the fields.
It was my suggestion we go as wildmen of the woods. Do not let your cousin Hugh take the credit.
Ash Wednesday, at Compline
The wine in this dreary place is mostly vinegar, but Nicholas, Ralph and I do our best to drink it all so the good folk need not suffer it. We sit in the upper town and speak of Paris. If only the landlord would stop waving his slate at me.
The wine gives us a sliver of dignity, and it is better than listening to my son William all day. Pour another cup.
Nota scribaeHe adopted a cold stare when the landlord asked that his debt be paid.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You pawned my steel to clear your drinking slate! Have it back by Sunday or I will come up there and show you how a miner asks for his due.
By Saint Wenceslas, keep your voice down, Stephen. It is perfectly safe. I am merely having it polished.