patcher of linen and wool, of Kuttenberg
“I sit in the damp alley behind Saint James patching old wool to earn my ale. The dark and the drink ruin my eyes, but I am terrified of what the soldiers are doing on the Prague road.”
Things Stislav Weaver had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at None
The bailiff is talking of the levy again. My belly turns to water. I bought a good padded jack to save my skin, and lent it to Bynyek Brown for one cold night. Now it sits behind Bohuta's iron grilles because the whoreson pawned it for beer.
Nota scribaeDictated at the alehouse. The man was swaying and slurred his words heavily.
the feast of the Ascension, at Vespers
The light in this alley is fading, and my eyes ache from staring at a miner's torn breeches. I need a cup of ale just to stop my hands shaking. I see young Dietrich jumping at every shadow in the street. At least I have the drink.
The shadows have Hungarian soldiers in them, Stislav. You would see them too if you were not blind drunk.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
I paid my silver to Julian's men so I can keep sitting in the mud behind the church. I do not know why I bother. Hynek sits carving spoons, Kvyetoslav shouts about his land, and I just want to sleep.
Julian is a thief with a charter! And my land is none of your business, weaver.
the Tuesday after Saint Gregory, at Sext
I begged Kubyenka to carry word to my sister Betty. She is three days towards Prague, right where the King's enemies are burning the roofs. I just want her to know I am alive, but he flatly refused me. A coward and a false friend.
The roads are crawling with mercenaries, you drunkard. Am I to die for a message?
You would not walk across the street for a dying man, Kubyenka.
Nota scribaeThe man was weeping when he spoke this.
Candlemas, at Terce
My head pounds like a smith's hammer today. The loft floor was colder than the grave last night, and my mouth tastes of old malt. John Swift is whining about that girl Avice again. I wish he would take his misery somewhere else so I could suffer in peace.
My father sent her away to Caslav! It is a tragedy, Stislav, you have no heart.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I was freezing, Stislav. And I meant to buy it back before the muster, I swear it by the cross.