yard sweeper and labourer, of Kuttenberg
“I do my work and keep my mouth shut. The yard bosses pay a penny if you do not complain, and I never do.”
Things Philip Black had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
The damp air this morning set the ruined bones in my hand throbbing straight up to the shoulder. I stood near the hauling lines, keeping my right arm tucked tight under my tunic. The German foreman looked hard at me, but I picked up a broom with my left and he moved on.
Nota scribaeDictated in a low mumble. I had to ask him to repeat himself thrice.
the Tuesday after Ascension, at Prime
Jarda Carpenter is still stewing about his little bone die. The boy was winning every penny behind the tavern until I felt the weight of it dragging on one side. I dropped it in my pouch and walked away. Let him demand it all he wants. Swindling a crippled man carries a cost.
Give it back, you old thief! It is my lucky die, nothing more!
Your luck is sitting at the bottom of my leather pouch, lad.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Bread is dearer this spring with the Hungarian soldiers requisitioning the grain. I sat against the stone wall chewing a hard crust, thinking of Maresh. They say the drunkard fled to Prague before the Easter bells rang, leaving us holding his debts and our broken bones. May the whoreson choke on a fish bone.
God will judge him in the end, Philip. Though I would gladly push him toward the fire.
Nota scribaeHe spat on the floor after saying the foreman's name.
the feast of St Benedict, at Sext
Matthew's back is failing fast. The yard bosses were walking the lines today, looking for weak men to cull. I stepped in front of him when he winced and took the heavy end of the oak board. We survived the scaffold fall in ninety-six together. His boy Peshek cannot carry his debts yet.
I owe you a cup of ale for that. The pain was blinding me today.
the Wednesday after Candlemas, at Compline
Sitting by the lesser taverns with my one small ale, watching the young fools throw their wages away on dice. Godfrey Fuller talked my ear off again about his old mother Isolde. The man sighs like a bellows, but he helps me lift the timber when my shoulder freezes, so I listen.
She is an old woman and two days' ride away! A son must worry.
Better to listen to Godfrey than listen to Bynyek whine about a cabbage patch.
Nota scribaeThe man was nursing his ale so slowly the cup was entirely warm.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Take care, Philip. If they turn you away, it is the monastery gates for you.
I can help you move the heavier offcuts tomorrow. Just point to them.