nobleman in Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I am a nobleman by birth and grace, taking my leisure in this provincial town while lesser men squabble over groschen.”
Things Kunz von Iglau had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Prime
By St. George, the dice are cursed this week. I lost three throws to Jan Cook, a man who barely knows his numbers. The ale tastes thinner than water, but that scold Isabel sweeps the dust right into my cup on purpose just to spite me.
Nota scribaeDictated before noon. The man was still in his bedclothes and smelled of sour ale.
the feast of St Pancras, at None
John of Mesoles is becoming a bore. He asked again for that silver-hilted knife I borrowed at Candlemas. I told him plainly that a gentleman requires a fine blade for his daily meat, and he has a dozen others. He should be honored I wear it.
It was my grandfather's knife, Kunz. Bring it to the tavern tonight or I will take it from your belt myself.
Come try, John. St. George watch over us.
the Wednesday after Easter, at Vespers
Stepped out of the Tavern Svatych and nearly tripped over Tattered Else sleeping on the grate. I told her to move, but she just groaned. And these merchants like Nicholas Bell walk past as if they are my equals. Money does not buy blood.
Money buys a roof that does not leak, Kunz. Walter is looking for your rent.
Nota scribaeHe waved his arms about as he spoke, nearly hitting my inkhorn.
the third week of Lent, at Compline
Else Berg looks like she swallowed a lemon lately, keeping her eyes downcast while she pours. I suppose some peasant tragedy has befallen her, but she is quiet, which I prize. At least she does not raise a cloud of dirt with a broom like the other one.
I am perfectly well, my lord. Just tired from the long shifts.
Nota scribaeThe word he used for the housekeeper was much fouler, but I have spared the page.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
A fine day for a hunt, or at least a stroll. I found myself lacking a proper blade for my belt, so I borrowed a beautiful silver-hilted piece from John of Mesoles. It balances perfectly and suits my doublet far better than his ever could.
A fine blade indeed. Mind you return it before the week is out, I have a boar to dress.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The dust is to cover the smell of your breath, my lord.
The dice are not cursed, Kunz. You just throw them like a blind man.