hired hand at the smelting yard, of Kuttenberg
“I haul slag when I should be reckoning accounts, and watch every bastard try to cheat me.”
Things Ulrich the Fox had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at None
I am staying off the main roads from now on. I saw the Hungarian levies marching past the upper gate looking for able-bodied men to dig latrines for their camps. I would rather shovel Gilbert's slag until my back breaks than haul Cuman shit. A clever man stays out of sight.
the eve of St John before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Stislav the Kite is shouting at Martin the Pike again over his missing shovel. He is a blind fool. I was awake in the cellar when it went missing, and I know exactly who took it. But why should I sort out their mess? Let the bastards scream at each other.
If you know who took my shovel, you speak up, Ulrich!
I never said I knew for certain. And you can find your own tools.
It was probably Denis. He stole half the cellar before he marched off with the levy.
Nota scribaeHe spoke quickly and looked over his shoulder twice.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
They are singing hymns for the dead, but the dead still owe me silver. Ernest died of the bloody flux last autumn and took my three groschen for a pitcher of ale to the grave. His boy Peter is standing right there in the yard, acting like his father was a saint. A saint who drank my ale for nothing.
My father was a good man who worked hard. Leave him be, Ulrich.
A good man who owes me three groschen, you thieving bastard.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Compline
Another day of shovelling heavy ash from dawn to dusk. Gilbert the tallyman deliberately under-counts my loads, I know he does. A man with my brains should be managing the merchants, not hauling dirt. The whole yard is a web of men trying to cheat me out of my rightful earnings.
If you hauled more rock and did less complaining, your tally would be higher.
Nota scribaeDictated in the cellar. The air was foul with unwashed hauling men.
Candlemas, at Sext
That bastard Black Jacob borrowed my heavy iron crowbar to pry loose some frozen firewood. It cost me a full month's wages, the best piece of iron I ever owned. He walked off with it and now he is using it to break slag. I will crack his skull if he doesn't hand it back by tomorrow.
It is a heavy bar, Ulrich. It does better work breaking slag in my hands. You will get it back when the frost thaws.
You had better, you bastard, or there will be hell to pay.
Nota scribaeHe pointed his finger sharply at my chest the entire time he spoke.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Aye, keep your head down. They took three lads from the lower town yesterday.