nobleman of Zhelejov, of Kuttenberg
“I am a true nobleman making my mark among the merchants of Kuttenberg. We Zhelejov men do not sit idle!”
Things Hynek of Zhelejov had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
That stubborn townsman Walter White still refuses to carry my letter to my father Stephen. He claims he goes south to Sazava, but a day's ride west first would hardly kill him! Saint Wenceslas, I am surrounded by idle cowards. My father must know of my great deeds here.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly. The ink was spilt twice when he slammed the table.
the feast of Saint Florian, at Vespers
The ale here is water, but I drank Jan Cook under the table! A true Zhelejov man never falls first. I have made such powerful friends at the Italian Court. If only my father could see the respect I command in this town.
You fell asleep on the bench, Hynek. We left you there to snore until morning.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Saint Wenceslas be praised for the laugh I had today! Old Geoffrey of Danemark tried to take precedence over me at the Italian Court. I called him out for the common knave he is. His grandfather bought that title! He retreated like a frightened child.
I have a sealed letter of lineage, you whelp. You only speak so boldly because you know I lack the thirty groschen to pay Erhard for it.
Thirty groschen! A true nobleman would toss that to a beggar. Go back to the mud, old man.
The fee is the fee. The parchment sits in my chest until the coin is paid.
Nota scribaeThe man leaned so close his breath nearly poisoned me.
the Tuesday after Laetare Sunday, at Terce
They say Sigismund's Cumans are moving again. Let them come! A true Bohemian sword will send them back to the hell they crawled from. Though the bread prices in the market today are the real robbery. The bakers here charge noblemen double, I swear it.
Mein Freund, you would soil your breeches if you ever saw a real Cuman on the road.
Candlemas, at Compline
These Kuttenberg merchants do not know what to make of me. I told John of Mesoles that the Italian Court is nothing but a den of ink-stained clerks. I am here to find real sport. We drank until the bells rang, and I showed them all how a Zhelejov squire holds his liquor!
You vomited in the alley behind the church, Hynek. Everyone saw it.
Nota scribaeHe dictated this while leaning on the wall to keep from falling over.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
For the last time, Hynek, Sazava is south. I am not riding to Zhelejov just because you are too drunk to find a proper courier.
Watch your tongue, townsman, or I will have you taught a severe lesson!