guard at the tailor shop, of Kuttenberg
“I freeze all day holding a cudgel outside the shop, only to sleep under a broken roof that pisses rain onto my face. I should have stayed in the mud.”
Things Jan had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The wind today is fierce and I cannot stop sniffling. Bread is up to three pennies a loaf because of the soldiers on the roads. I told Joerg we will be eating our own boots before long. My cloak is nothing but patches and the cold goes right to my bones.
Nota scribaeThe man wiped his nose on his sleeve three times while speaking.
the second day of May, at None
Andreas down the street will not stop wailing about his broken vow to Saint Barbara and his late sister Walpurg. It is exhausting. I have a terrible rheum in my chest and my toes are numb, but does anyone ask how I fare? No. They only care for dead sisters and purgatory.
It is my soul at stake, Jan! You only care for your running nose.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Another night ruined. It rained from compline to dawn, and the water poured through the wagon-wheel hole in the slates straight onto my side of the mattress. Master Hans has chests full of silver downstairs but would rather see us drown than pay a carpenter for new timber.
The timber is fine. You broke those slates yourself on St. Martin's Day climbing out the window drunk to fetch your dropped knife.
The wood was rotten! A feather would have broken through it.
Nota scribaeDictated with much coughing and self-pity.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Terce
Standing outside the door gripping this heavy cudgel. Master Hans is safely tucked away in his counting rooms above, warm and dry, receiving his wealthy clients. He never speaks a word to us out here in the damp. My throat is raw.
Be glad you are not breaking rocks in the mines, lad.
Candlemas, at Vespers
Joerg is making my head ache. He is rehearsing his argument with Ludwig again, over three miserable groschen from the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul before we even came here. Ludwig was levied and is likely dead in a ditch by now. I am too cold to care about tavern debts.
It is the principle of the thing. He owes me an apology and the coin.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
At least Master Hans pays our wages on time. You would complain if it rained ale.