beggar and flute player, of Kuttenberg
“I am a musician, friend, bringing a bit of joy to the market. The merchants love my playing, though times are hard enough to make a man beg.”
Things Gaunt Markvart had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
The crowds at the market were exceedingly generous today, friend! They hurried past, but their smiles were wide. I must keep playing just a few days more. The silver flows, and the music lightens their heavy loads.
Nota scribaeHe smiled the entire time he spoke. The tune he whistled while I wrote was dreadful.
the second Tuesday in May, at None
Hauling sacks by the mint today since the coppers were scarce. Flea-bitten Richard dropped his load and cursed like a Cuman. I reckon his hand is ruined, but I said nothing. We all need the groschen.
My hand is fine. Keep your crooked mouth shut before you lose the work for both of us.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Peckish Fritz is at it again, asking me to carry word to his family down south. I told him I have not left Kuttenberg since I was knee-high to a sheep. Let the boy find a carter, I have my public to entertain.
It is only a day's walk, Markvart. You never go anywhere but the church steps and the alehouse.
Nota scribaeThe man tapped his foot constantly against the table leg.
the feast of Saint Benedict, at Terce
Filthy William and Leonard are turning the shelters upside down looking for a carved spoon and a bone die. Desperation makes magpies of us all, friend. Best to keep your head down and your foot tapping.
Someone here took it. When I find who has my die, there will be blood on the steps.
God's wounds, William, let a man sleep. Nobody wants your cursed bone.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Sext
Ursel threatened to send the bailiff for my debts, friend. A man cannot make music in the pillory. I pawned my good pipe to clear my slate. Thank the Lord that Gummy Hermann lent me his grandfather's wooden flute, just for a day or two.
Your pipe barely covered half the ale you drank. Stay out of my cellar.
Just for a day or two, you said. I want it back by Sunday, Markvart.
Nota scribaeHe smelled strongly of sour ale and fear.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It has been three months, Markvart. Give me back my grandfather's flute.
Just until the end of the week, friend! The merchants are finally learning the chorus.