labourer and townsman, of Kuttenberg
“I do an honest half day's work when my back allows it, and try to find a decent cup of ale after.”
Things Godfrey Fuller had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The Tuesday before Ascension, at None
Christ's wounds, is there not one honest merchant going toward Prague? I only ask they carry word to my mother Isolde that I am alive and earning good coin. The carters want two groschen just to carry a memory! Bloody highwaymen, the lot of them.
Nota scribaeHe offered a half-eaten loaf as payment to a man of substance. I did not record the merchant's reply.
The Monday after Low Sunday, at Vespers
Carried a dozen bundles of wool up from the lower market today. Philip Black took the other side of the load. A good lad, Philip. He doesn't whine like the old men in this town, just gets on with it. Now who's buying the ale?
I appreciate the help with the lifting, Godfrey. You saved me a scolding from the master.
The Tuesday before Easter, at Sext
Benesh Stone and Endres Kraus sit at the alehouse moaning about the rain, the mint, and God knows what else. Endres is still muttering about Bynyek and that ruined cabbage patch from last autumn. Christ's wounds, they are like two old hens in a storm.
At least we earn our ale, you lazy whoreson.
Nota scribaeDictated in the tavern. He sighed heavily four times.
The Thursday after St Gregory, at Prime
Jarda Carpenter is a stubborn fool who cares more for rotten wood than a man's dignity. He still holds my prized tin pitcher hostage. It is my only decent thing! He won't give it back until Philip returns some lucky bone die. What has that to do with me?
You broke my ash-wood trestle, you drunken arse. Send word you owe for it and will pay, and tell Philip to bring my die!
The day after Ash Wednesday, at Terce
My head is ringing like the bells of St James. Shrovetide was a grand night, but I leaned on Jarda's trestle and the bloody thing snapped. It was rotten through, I swear it! Any stiff breeze would have broke it. Now the whoreson has marched into my room and taken my pitcher as a pledge.
I saw you fall on it, Godfrey. You hit it like a felled oak.
You need to wipe your eyes, Hugh.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Pay a proper courier or hold your tongue, Godfrey. We are sick of hearing about it.
Christ almighty, Endres, you have a heart of cold stone.