merchant of cloth and grain, of Kuttenberg
“I just try to keep my head down, earn my daily groschen, and mind my own business. The tolls and the soldiers make honest trading near impossible.”
Things Hugh Brook had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
They say there is another muster coming. Bloody hell. I cannot go back out there in the mud. And if we do march, William will be asking after the iron gauntlets he lent me. I need to find a way to replace them before he notices.
Nota scribaeHe kept glancing over his shoulder while dictating this.
the third day of Easter week, at None
I waited until dusk to speak with Amice Fuller away from the magistrate's men, but she slipped away again. A promise made in the mud of a burned-out village ought to be kept when we are back behind the town gates. I only want what is fair.
Keep your voice down, you fool. The walls have ears and I will not hang for your impatience.
Then settle the tally, Amice, before I am ruined.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Terce
Standa Turner will not stop talking about poor Osbert and the skirmish. Sakra, the lad is dead and buried in the mud. Talking about it will not bring him back, it only brings the magistrates sniffing around. We should bury the whole campaign and forget it.
He was our friend, Hugh. We cannot just pretend it never happened.
Hugh is right. The dead are dead. Let them rest.
Nota scribaeDictated at the market. He rubbed his mouth the entire time.
the eve of St Matthias, at Prime
That whoreson Baldwin has packed his wagons and gone to Prague. He gave me a pitiful handful of pennies for the iron gauntlets when I was starving, and now I have no way to redeem them. The winter was brutal, but the spring might be worse.
You pawned borrowed gear? Christ almighty, Hugh, you are a fool.
Baldwin preyed on all of us hungry veterans. May he break an axle on the Prague road.
Candlemas, at Sext
We are finally back in Kuttenberg. The autumn levy was nothing but freezing mud, hunger, and running from Sigismund's soldiers. I thought we would make a brief show of force, not starve in the dirt. At least I am alive, though my purse is empty.
Be thankful you have your legs, lad. War takes more than coin.
We survived, Hugh. And our luck will turn, just you wait.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled of damp wool and exhaustion.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I will be needing those back before Sunday, Hugh. See that they are oiled.
I am in the same boat, lad. That bastard Baldwin took off to Prague with my kit too.