beggar at the havirska steps, of Kuttenberg
“I am a man who keeps his head up. I ask for alms, but I do not whine.”
Things Squinty Godfrey had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at None
The sun is finally warming the stones, but my neck aches from looking at Thomas sitting ten paces away like a stubborn mule. I just want my beads back so I can pray proper. If the old man chokes on a crust tomorrow, I am taking them from his stiff hands.
Nota scribaeDictated near the church door. He jutted his chin the entire time.
the Tuesday after St George, at Terce
Saw some poor bastards from Kostelni getting shouted at for coin today. That ale-wife Ursel has them all by the throat. Say what you will about the cold here at Havirska, at least I am not drowning in an ale-cellar's debt. I keep my slate clean.
Ursel said she will send the bailiff for me if I do not pay for the dark ale I drank at Easter.
That is what you get for drinking beyond your purse, lad.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
The priests gave out good bread yesterday for the risen Lord, but it tastes like ash when I have no rosary to count my thanks on. Poor Oswald used to say a full belly was the only heaven we get. God rest him, he died without beads too.
Oswald was a stubborn arse, but he threw a good punch. We miss him on the steps.
Nota scribaeHe stared at the mud while speaking and asked if I had a spare rosary. I did not.
the feast of St Gregory, at Vespers
A merchant's wagon nearly ran over my foot today. The driver called me a blind idiot. I squint because the wind is fierce, not because my eyes are bad! If I had my beads, I would have prayed for his axle to snap on the road to Kolin.
Those drivers do not care if they crush us into the cobbles. Just another bump in the road to them.
the first Friday of Lent, at Sext
A black day. Thomas said he would never let his boys marry refugee girls, acting like the king of Bohemia from his patch of dirt. I told him he sleeps in the muck like the rest of us. There was pushing, and my wooden rosary fell in the slop. The old thief snatched it.
I rescued it from a man who mocks his elders. You do not deserve holy things.
Please stop shouting at my father, Godfrey. It makes the priests look at us funny.
Nota scribaeThe man was shaking with rage. I told him to lower his voice near the church.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Apologize for mocking me, you squinting fool, and I might consider giving the holy beads back.
I would rather freeze on these steps until judgment day.