armed retainer to a tailor, of Kuttenberg
“I stand in the cold and watch silk so thieves do not steal it. Sakra, it is not glorious, but a man's word is his bond.”
Things Joerg had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Sakra, it has been raining since Terce and our attic is a sodding puddle again. Master Hans will not buy timber because of the war. Jan whines it is the master's fault, but I know Jan broke those slates climbing out the window drunk last St Martin's day. A man should admit his faults.
Nota scribaeThe man shouted the last sentence at his companion, who was standing right next to me.
The third day of Easter week, at Prime
I was thinking of the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul last year. Three groschen that whoreson Ludwig owes me for spilled ale. They levied him and marched him off, but I have not forgotten. A debt is a debt. I want a public apology and my coin, whether he is hundreds of miles away or not.
The lad is likely dead in a ditch somewhere by now. Let it rest and watch the street.
St Gregory's day, at None
Andreas from down at number twenty-six has been weeping again. He thinks he is cursed because he never walked barefoot to Sedletz for his late sister Walpurg. It is exhausting to listen to. I told him to hold his spear straight and stop blubbering, or he will end up begging in the mud.
The Thursday after Saint Matthias, at Terce
Bloody freezing today. Jan and I pooled our coppers last night for a single jug of small beer in the alley, just to feel something in our bellies. The master locks the cutting room right at dusk. I keep my cloak pulled tight and my cudgel heavy. Nobody is getting past me to the dyed wool.
And the beer was sour. We should ask the master for another penny a week.
Nota scribaeDictated while stamping his feet to keep warm.
Candlemas, at Sext
Hungarian soldiers on the street today. Looking at everyone like we are dirt to be scraped off their boots. They better not come near Master Hans's silk. I do not care who the King's brother is, a thief gets his head cracked all the same. Sakra, I just want a hot fire.
Nota scribaeThe man asked me to write down the word 'sakra' exactly as he said it.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Christ almighty, you are stubborn as a mule. The snow broke the slates, not me. Master Hans just loves his groschen more than he loves us.
I saw your boot on the slate, Jan. My word is my bond and I say you broke it.