clerk and tallyman, of Kuttenberg
“I am a scholar whose eyes are ruined by market dust. A man of my learning deserves a stool in the inner counting house, not hauling charcoal.”
Things William Baker had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
The magistrate speaks of another militia muster. By Saint Tiburtius, my heart cannot take this torment. My padded jack is safe, of course, resting securely where no Hungarian could ever soil it. I only pray the inspection is delayed again so a peaceful scholar might breathe.
the feast of Saint John before the Latin Gate, at Sext
It is a wicked world. I spent my last groschen on a fine kettle hat to satisfy the bailiff, and a certain vicious miner simply took it from my hands. By Saint Polycarp, is there no justice? I am a man of the pen, not the sword, and I cannot fight a brute.
You owed me for that ale at Candlemas, you snivelling old floor-sweeper. The hat fetched a fair price from the pawnbroker.
Let him have it, William. A helmet won't save a coward from a Cuman arrow.
Nota scribaeDictated in a high whine outside the baker's stalls.
the Monday after Low Sunday, at None
Master Jacob assigned me to tally the charcoal wagons again. My eyes weep from the black dust. A man who can read the silver ledgers should not be treated like a common digger. But the master's temper is foul today, so I sweep the floor and bear my cross.
You can barely read your own name, William. Sweep the dust and be glad for the pennies.
the day after Saint Gregory, at Prime
I must praise the boundless charity of Robert Brook! Yesterday, on the blessed feast of Saint Gregory, patron of scholars, he gifted me six fine Prague goose quills. Such a generous name-day gift warms the heart of an old clerk. I shall treasure them always.
William, they were not a gift. I lent them to you for the militia rolls. I need them back by Vespers.
To demand a holy feast-day gift be returned is a miserable, unchristian insult, Robert! Have you no fear of the Lord?
Nota scribaeHe spoke loudly enough for the whole tavern to hear.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Terce
My head pounds like the stamping mill this morning. The wind howls through the boards of my lodging, and I cannot sleep for the cold. I only had three cups of small beer last night to soothe my throat, but the ale-wife must have watered it with swamp muck.
Three cups? You drank half a barrel and pawned your padded jack, you old fool.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted twice by his coughing.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I should like to see how the jack fits you, William. We must be ready if Sigismund's dogs return.
It fits perfectly, Robert. A marvel of tailoring. I keep it wrapped in linen so the market dust does not ruin your generous gift.