hauling man, of Kuttenberg
“I am a strong fellow who moves sacks for the millers. No job is too heavy for me and my hands are perfectly sound.”
Things Flea-bitten Richard had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after Philip and James, at Vespers
The rain is wicked today. It makes a man's joints ache like the devil himself is chewing on the bones. But the foreman at the yards says I hauled more sacks than any two men combined. I feel fine. Beatrice shall have a warm loaf tonight, God willing.
Nota scribaeHe spoke this with his teeth clenched so hard I thought they would crack.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Hermann is asking after his tin plate again. I told him my own wooden bowl is broken and I just need his for a few days more. A man must eat his pottage from Sedletz, or he cannot haul for the millers. He will get it back soon enough.
You said a few days before Lent, Richard! I am eating out of my hands like a dog.
Patience, friend. St Peter will reward your charity in the kingdom of heaven.
the feast of St Gertrude, at Sext
I hear soldiers on the Prague road are taking the very grain from the carts. If bread gets any dearer, the millers will stop hiring men entirely. Gaunt Markvart is playing his flute to cheer us up. It sounds like a dying goose, but it covers the coughing in the shelters.
If you had an ear for music you would know it is a hymn to the Virgin.
the Monday after St Matthias, at None
Lazy Kunz and Warty Heinz are at each other's throats over a drawshave. Fools. Half the men here have pawned their tools to keep Ursel the ale-wife from calling the bailiff on us. Better to owe a friend a tin plate than owe Ursel a single groschen.
It was my drawshave and Heinz knows it.
I hear you talking, Richard. See that you never ask for a slate in my cellar again.
Nota scribaeHe looked over his shoulder before saying the ale-wife's name.
Candlemas, at Terce
Ursel demanded her coin today and said the pillory awaits those who do not pay. I had to let my spare goods go to the pawnbroker to settle my slate. Poor Oswald went to the grave last week from the winter fever, and I swear I will not let Beatrice freeze or starve.
God rest Oswald. At least he does not have to pay Ursel where he is going.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Come back to the steps, my love. I saved us a dry patch under the overhang.