hauler at the smelting works, of Kuttenberg
“I haul silver ore from the wagons to the crushing pits. Ten years I've done it without breaking my back, and I plan to do it ten more.”
Things Black Jacob had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St John before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
My joints ache from this bloody damp, but I can still work a full shift without staggering. Kurva, look at Peter Milk-drinker whining about his shoulders. His father Ernest knew how to lift, God rest him. The boy is soft.
the eve of St George, at Compline
Stephen the Ox pawned his iron cap for ale in the winter, and now he is shitting himself over the bailiff's inspection at the spring muster. If a man pawns his own war gear, he deserves whatever beating the bailiff gives him. Kurva.
I was hungry, Jacob. A padded jack doesn't fill a belly. If you think it's so funny, lend me a groschen to get it back.
He won't lend you a penny, Stephen. He'd sooner let the bailiff break your legs.
Nota scribaeDictated at the tavern. He spat on the floor after he said the last word.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
I swear on Christ's wounds that Gilbert the tallyman shaves the marks at the end of the week. Six heavy loads of ore I brought to the crushing pits today, and the tight-fisted whoreson only gave me five lines through his barred window.
Aye, he steals a load from every man. He pockets the groschen for himself, the bastard.
You brought five loads, Jacob. The sixth was half dirt and slag. If you hauled properly, you would be paid properly.
the second Friday of Lent, at None
Ulrich the Fox won't shut his mouth about that heavy iron crowbar. I needed it to chop frozen firewood, but kurva, it's perfect for breaking loose the heavy slag at the pits. He is far too lazy to need such a good tool anyway.
It is my crowbar, you thief! I lent it to you to chop wood, not to keep forever. Give it back to me before Sunday.
Come and take it out of my hands, then. Denis probably stole your other tools anyway before he marched off.
Nota scribaeHe asked me to write that the tool was his by right of use, but I refused to put such thievery on the page.
Candlemas, at Prime
The ground is frozen hard as iron and the widow's cellar is freezing. Had to borrow a crowbar off Ulrich just to break up some wood for the fire. Christ almighty, the snoring in here is loud enough to wake the dead.
The snoring is nothing compared to the smell of unwashed feet. At least the frost kills the fleas.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My father owed half the town beer when the bloody flux took him. And the priest still wants his burial fee. It is easy for you to talk.
Tell the priest to dig his own silver. Keep your back straight or you'll end up begging at the monastery gate.