herdsman at the lower markets, of Kuttenberg
“I sell beasts down at the markets, and I've been at it longer than these young pups. I know every butcher in Kuttenberg.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday after the feast of Saint Mark, at Sext
I saw young Richard limping around the forge yard today. He is carrying too much weight, poor lad, he will drop dead at the anvil. I would go look at his back myself, but Robert is proud. Still, Robert has a good heart. He gave me a fine hammer on Saint Blaise's day to fix my ox pen. A generous gift before God.
Nota scribaeThe man spent half the time showing the hammer to the wall.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Prime
My soul is heavy. I swore to Saint Roch I would walk barefoot to Sedletz monastery with a beeswax candle if he spared my herds. He did his part, but the roads are full of Hungarian soldiers and I dare not go. I fear my animals will drop dead in a single night if I do not pay my debt soon.
Praise be to Saint Roch, but you cannot walk barefoot among armed men at your age. The Lord understands.
the eve of Palm Sunday, at Vespers
That German foreman Jan from the Italian Court sent a man asking after my pigs. I told him to chew on his silver. Honest Czech tradesmen must stick together in these times. I will not sell winter meat to him, no matter what coin he waves. The feed costs a bloody fortune, but pride costs more.
A pig is a pig, John, and silver is silver. You cannot eat pride.
Nota scribaeDictated at the alehouse. He spilled beer on the parchment.
the Wednesday before Laetare Sunday, at Terce
I saw that hired guard John eating meat at Robert's forge again. A sour man. He is like a disloyal dog eating his master's scraps while sniffing the wind for a new home. The forge's luck died with Mary, God rest her soul. She had a sharp eye for numbers and would not suffer a sluggard.
Watch your mouth, old man. I do the job I am paid for, and I go where the coin is good.
Candlemas, at None
A bitter cold morning, and my bones ache from the damp. The market bailiff is sniffing around the stalls like a hungry hound. If the murrain takes my sheep this winter, I do not know how we will survive. I have carefully hoarded my copper pennies, but the soldiers on the roads make it hard to buy feed.
Pray to the saints, John. The Lord tests us with frost and war alike.
Nota scribaeHe scratched his beard so much I thought he had fleas.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Christ almighty, John, it was a loan. I desperately need that hammer back for my own work.
Ay, you are a generous master, Robert. Your mother Mary would be proud.