tailor at the horse market, of Kuttenberg
“A man's worth is entirely visible in the neatness of his seams. These days, men expect me to mend their torn padding for nothing, as if my needles grow on trees.”
Things Eberhard Preng had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Ascension, at Vespers
I paid good silver for a quilted doublet for Lene, and what does she do? Takes it straight to Frantishek the pawnbroker. A complete waste of good stitching and silver! I must recover it before the muster to shame her for unravelling our friendship like a dropped stitch.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was slow. He paused repeatedly to brush loose threads from his apron.
the third day of May, at Sext
I penned a letter for my sister Amice in Nymburk. With Hungarians on the march, I am sick with worry for her life. I asked Heinz to carry the parchment, as he walks the roads anyway, but the lazy lout refused. He abandons his friends when they need him most.
I am a guardsman, not your errand boy to risk my neck for a tailor's anxiety.
It is a bad time to walk the roads, Eberhard. We must pray for her safety instead.
the second week of Eastertide, at Prime
Fritz and Kunz complain of the cost of raw wool, but I say the real trouble is sloppy work. I look at young Leonard Green shivering under his counter, his tunic frayed to ruins. If a man wears a tattered shirt, his soul is equally frayed. Stand straight, boy, and mend your hem!
I am freezing, master Eberhard, and missing my mother Martha. I have no coin for new wool.
The wool is dear all the same, Eberhard. You cannot stitch a cloak out of air.
Nota scribaeHe measured the width of my shoulders with his eyes the entire time he spoke.
the Monday after Laetare Sunday, at None
The shouting from John Polner's forge across the mud is enough to make a man cut his thumb. I know precisely what he pawns to drink his profits away. His apprentice Jan goes hungry because of it. I pressed a few pennies into the boy's dirty hands today, though I said nothing.
Thank you, master Eberhard. I bought a heel of hard bread with the copper.
Mind your own seams, tailor! What I do at my forge is my own business.
Candlemas, at dawn
Before the sun breaks, my needles are threaded and shears sharpened. I pay four groschen a month for my stall here, on time without fail. Yet every soldier with a ripped gambeson expects free work because of the skirmishing. The chaos this war brings is a terrible thing to bear.
We bleed for you, tailor. The least you can do is patch our canvas for a fair price.
You work too hard, brother. Ensure you come back to the hearth before dark.
Nota scribaeDictated at the Horse Market before the stalls opened.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I needed the coin more than the padding, Eberhard! The pawnbroker gave me a fair price.
Leave her be, tailor. She can do what she likes with a gift.