guard at the tailor's shop, of Kuttenberg
“I stand watch with my cudgel and keep my head down. It is best not to draw the Lord's eye.”
Things Andreas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Thunder broke over the rooftops again today. Every clap sounds like the Almighty demanding his due. I should walk to Sedletz as I promised, but I have not the coin to spare. Walpurg rests uneasy, and the war and the dear bread are the price of my cowardice.
Nota scribaeHe stared at his muddy boots the entire time he spoke and crossed himself thrice.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
A single loaf is three pennies now. It is a punishment. The Hungarian soldiers march past the door all day, and I just grip my cudgel and watch them. I am paying for what I failed to do two autumns ago.
And Master Tuchmacher had no rich merchants today. The street is dead.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at None
Joerg is still talking about the three groschen Ludwig owes him. Ludwig has been gone with the army since last summer. It is madness to hold a grudge over ale money when the world is burning for our sins. I told him to let it go.
It is a matter of honour. He drank my ale and marched off without paying.
I would rather have three groschen than honour. That would buy new slates for the attic.
Nota scribaeDictated in the alley while sharing a single jug of small beer. The man rubbed his knuckles anxiously.
St Gregory's day, at Sext
Standing on the cobbles for twelve hours makes a man's legs ache. But my back rooms are dry. Joerg and Jan argue all day about who broke the slates at Master Hans's place. They bicker like an old married couple while the rain drips on their heads.
Master Hans is a miser. If he paid us a fair wage I would buy the slates myself.
Be glad you work for me, Andreas. Now stop twisting your cloak and watch the street.
Candlemas, at Terce
It has been two winters since the sweating sickness took Walpurg. I prayed to Saint Barbara and promised a month's wages and a barefoot walk to the monastery if she lived. She died on Saint Wenceslas's day. I kept the coin. Now every wagon on the stones sounds like judgment.
The bargain was broken when she died. You owe the church nothing.
Nota scribaeThe man spoke in a mournful drone, looking terribly frightened of the sky.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You fret too much. If the Lord cared about copper coin he would strike down Master Hans for not mending our roof.
Aye, my boots are soaked through again. Be glad your pallet is dry.