hauler at the tannery, of Kuttenberg
“I move hides and keep my mouth shut. It is honest sweat and I thank God for the groschen.”
Things Peter Gerber had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The heat is in the yard now. The skins stink like the devil's arse. I keep my left thumb hooked in my belt while we wait for the wagons.
Nota scribaeDictated at the yard gates. The man kept his hand hidden the whole time.
the feast of St John before the Latin Gate, at None
Fritz is whining about that maid Milena again. The boy should listen to his father and find a girl with a dowry, not weep into his ale over a lass in Prague.
You do not understand, Peter. My heart is heavy.
Leave him be, Peter, he is young and foolish.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Compline
A heavy load of cowhides today. My fingers slipped on the wet leather and the bundle nearly fell in the mud. Thank Christ for Julian catching the other end before the foreman saw.
Say nothing of it. We all slip in the muck sometimes.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
Vitek was shouting about his father's land again. I told him to be quiet. If old Godfrey was still foreman, he would have docked us a penny just for the noise. God rest his soul.
Godfrey is dead and my father's land is still mine by right!
Godfrey was a hard man. Not like my mother Rose. She was pious.
Nota scribaeThe man crossed himself with his right hand as he spoke.
Candlemas, at Vespers
The frost is bitter. The cold gets right into the bones of my left hand where the wagon gate caught it. I dropped my scraper twice today.
Have some ale, Peter, it warms the blood.
I need the coin, Tuma, not the alehouse.
Nota scribaeHe asked me to write this quietly so the others would not hear.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Come straight home, I have a heel of bread and some pottage.