butcher on Havirska, of Kuttenberg
“I part joints of meat with a single strike and sleep under a roof that pisses rain on my head. By Saint Lawrence, I deserve better.”
Things William Swift had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
Saw Valihora hacking at a mutton shoulder today like a blind woodcutter. A single strike is all it takes to part the joint, if you know your craft. I had to toss the ruined scraps to my hound Vlcek so the meat was not entirely wasted.
Nota scribaeHe demonstrated the strike with a bloody cleaver, nearly hitting my inkhorn.
the feast of St Pancras, at Vespers
Christ almighty, another night of rain and the drip landed squarely in my eye. That old miser Kubyenka is dead in the ground and still tormenting me. His nephew in Kolin has not answered a single word. I will catch a lung sickness and die before the summer.
Pay for a better room then, William. You hoard your coin tighter than the dead man did.
It is the principle of the thing, Lene. I pay good rent.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Tossed a good marrow bone to Vlcek this morning, mostly to keep him quiet so the maidservant Alice could pass without jumping. Her master drinks his wage and works her to the bone. We all carry our crosses, I reckon.
Thank you, William. The dog is kinder than my master, truth be told.
the eve of St Gregory, at Terce
Traded a fine cut of pork belly to Andrew for three loaves of his bread. He makes a fair crust, though his hands are always stained with ink for some reason. Bread is dear enough these days with all the soldiers about on the roads.
The ink is none of your concern, butcher. Eat your bread in peace.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the baker's door, the man smelling strongly of raw pork.
Candlemas, at Sext
My father says I must speak to the scribe for the Pope's new book. Very well. I am William. I spend my days up to my elbows in grease and blood, and my nights freezing under Kubyenka's cursed roof. If the Lord is reading, tell that nephew in Kolin to mend the thatch.
Stop your moaning, brother, and help me haul this carcass.
Nota scribaeThe subject was foul-tempered and demanded I write faster.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My blade was dull, William, and the beast was old as the hills.
Just cut the meat and stop boasting, boy.