tailor at the horse market, of Kuttenberg
“I am a tailor with good hands, wasting my time stitching filthy canvas in the mud of the market. If I had proper wool, I could clothe burghers.”
Things Kunz Schreiber had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
Fritz Schmidt is a whining fool. He thinks he deserves half the silver for something he did not even see under the wagon. I have half a mind to find a merchant before the week is out just to silence him. A man who does no finding deserves no keeping.
Nota scribaeHe lowered his voice so the other tailor would not hear.
the Tuesday after St Pancras, at Sext
Lorenz thinks his copper badge makes him a king. I will not give him back his little bone toy until he says aloud that the carter ran off to Prague on his own two feet. We were not at fault on that miserable rainy night, and I will not be blamed for it.
You fell asleep, you insolent whelp! Give me back my lucky die. You stole it from the mud.
Say the words, old man. Say Mathes slipped away and it was not my fault.
Christ almighty, you two give me a headache. Just break the bone in half and be done with it.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Poor Lene was docked five groschen by the widow Katherine because clumsy Fritz knocked over her ale tray. The maidservant works hard enough without that bitter tailor making it worse. It is no wonder Katherine is keeping Eberhard's padded jack until she sees the coin she is owed.
Praise be for your pity, Kunz, but I would rather have the five groschen. Katherine will put me out in the street.
I just want my bloody jack back. The cellar is freezing.
Nota scribaeHe began to say a much coarser word for the maidservant but caught himself in time.
Lady Day, at None
The mud in the horse market is knee-deep today. Half my stitches are ruined by the muck before the drovers even hand over my coppers. I have a quick mind and good hands. I belong in a proper shop, not wrestling with wet canvas while the horses shit on my boots.
Work is work, boy. Be glad you have a trade at all. God rewards a quiet mouth.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Terce
Praise be to my stepmother Christina. While the other rough hands sleep in draughty lofts and shiver, I woke to a hot bowl of pottage and a fire. Let the Hungarian soldiers march and the bread prices rise, I am warm enough in my father's house.
Some of us freeze in those lofts so you can boast, you smug whoreson. The frost is bitter.
Eat your pottage and mind your stitches, Kunz. The Lord favours the diligent.
Nota scribaeThe tailor looked immensely pleased with himself as he said this.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You know bloody well what I am owed, Kunz. Sell it and split the coin before I tell the bailiff what is in your shed.
You tell anyone anything and I will swear you took it yourself. Go patch a sack.