casual labourer and hauler, of Kuttenberg
“I am just a man trying to keep a broken roof over my head and earn my daily bread.”
Things Henry Hunter had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second Tuesday in May, at Sext
The bread is dearer this week. They say the Hungarian soldiers are taking the grain on the roads. A man works until his back breaks just to feed himself. I will not swear, but it is a hard season for poor folk.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed the back of his thick neck as he spoke.
the eve of St George, at Compline
Roger Thatcher is bothering travellers again, begging them to take word to his sister Amice in Tachov. He ought to look to his own debts. I only pray my boy William has more sense in his merchant trade. A father worries that a son might end up hauling rock like me.
Do not fret, father. My ledgers are sound and I have bought a good bolt of cloth.
Amice is alone up there! A man must look out for his blood.
the third day of Lent, at None
Henslin Kohl kicked over Albrecht's barrel of pitch today. Eleven groschen of tar running through the mud. A clumsy fool's trick, but Albrecht only shouts and whines instead of settling it. I keep my head down and walk away. Younger men make their own misery.
Eleven groschen! It is my livelihood ruined, and he just laughed at me!
Nota scribaeThe man spoke very slowly, chewing his words before letting them out.
the Tuesday after Ash Wednesday, at Vespers
Stood by the pillory since dawn. The overseers picked every German who showed his face before looking at the rest of us. Ended up carrying sacks of grain across the market. My joints ache like rusted iron, but I brought home a few pennies.
Come by the forge tomorrow. I have some broth, and you look weary enough to drop.
Candlemas, at Prime
The snow is melting, and half of it falls straight into Bozhena's cooking pots. Christopher sits warm in Prague, taking our coin while we freeze under bare timbers. The miserable miser will not spend a penny to mend the shingles that blew off four winters ago.
My hands are raw from emptying the pots out the window all morning.
Nota scribaeDictated while sighing heavily through his nose.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I heard the bailiff is drawing up a levy list. We will all be marched off to die!
I have grey hairs enough to keep me off the parchment. Settle your nerves, Zdenyek.