guardsman at the swordsmith, of Kuttenberg
“I watch the master's iron and strongbox all day so the Kuttenberg thieves do not carry them off. I am a reliable man, though God knows I am not treated like one.”
Things Kunz had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second Monday of May, at Compline
Heinz is groaning again with his ague. I pity the boy his cramps, truly I do, but a man needs sleep to stand watch. I told him to drink less of that bad ale and pray more, but he just holds his belly. I fear he will end up like Dietrich before the summer is out.
Nota scribaeThe guardsman spat on the floor when he said the dead man's name. I asked him not to.
the eve of Saint George, at Vespers
I hear the master complaining about the price of coal from the carters. He says the King's brother has the roads choked up with soldiers taking tolls. I care nothing for the King's brother, but if the master is short on coin, he will use it as another excuse not to buy timber for the roof.
It is not my building to mend, Kunz. Go complain to Erhard at the Italian Court if you want new shingles.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Sext
It rained all night again. The water comes straight through the cracked shingles and right onto my miserable bed. If Veit thinks he is getting his prized three-groschen pitcher back before he admits he broke his sworn word, he is a fool. I am keeping it right here to catch the worst of the drips.
I told you, I had to shoe those horses for the caravan. My sister Enneleyn needs the silver in Prague. Give it back, Kunz.
You swore on the cross you would help me haul thatch. You chose the silver instead. The pitcher stays.
Nota scribaeDictated slowly, with arms folded. The pitcher in question was sitting on the table.
the Monday after Saint Gregory, at Prime
I have been scratching since dawn. Dietrich died of the bloody flux last autumn, and I am certain he left this rotting pallet completely infested with fleas. I asked the master for a clean bed, but he just told me to turn it over. By Saint George, it is an insult to a working man.
Dietrich was a decent fellow. He taught me to shoot a bow. It is not his fault the master is tight-fisted.
Ash Wednesday, at None
Veit had the nerve to ask for his tin pitcher back today. He claimed his warm corner by the bake-oven all those years ago, leaving Heinz and me to suffer the damp in the loft. He hoards every penny since Epiphany, refusing to spend a single groschen on ale or hearth-wood. I despise a greedy man.
I am not greedy, you whoreson! I am sending it to a widow who has nothing. You would understand if you had family to care for.
I have a wet bed and your pitcher. Be glad I do not melt it down.
Nota scribaeThe guardsman was glaring out the window at the yard the entire time he spoke.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is the damp wool and the draft, Kunz, not the ale. My stomach is in knots.
Then close your mouth so the draft does not get in.