general merchant stallholder, of Kuttenberg
“I sell fine goods, not chalk. I am meant for grander things than counting pennies in the dirt.”
Things Johannes Klein had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Terce
By the Holy Mother, I will not wait another month. If no priest in this town has the courage to marry a man to his true love without his father's blessing, I will find one on the road. Ursula, hold on just a little longer. I am wearing my finest blue tunic today.
Nota scribaeHe paced so much while speaking that I had to ask him to stand still. He refused.
the Friday after St George, at None
Fritz Hartmann and Nickel Hahn are circling old Menhard's stall like hungry dogs again. What a miserable way to spend a youth, fighting over chalk and salt. At least Uncle Erhard has his shooting, though he was screaming at the sky this morning about his leaking roof because Claus is in Prague.
Fetch me a cup of ale and shut your mouth, boy. My boots are soaking wet from the rain.
Menhard's lease is worth more than all the wooden spoons in your locked chests, Johannes.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
My father parades around the square like a burgher born to silk, complaining about the price of bread. It is hilarious. By the Holy Mother, the man acts as though the groschen he borrowed from Uncle Kunz last year was a gift from the King.
It was fourteen hundred and two, and I am still waiting for half of it back, Eberhard.
Silence your foolish mouth! A true burgher knows how to manage a necessary debt for the family name.
Nota scribaeThe father was standing not ten paces away during this dictation.
the feast of St Benedict, at Sext
I hear old Joerg Binder is turning purple because his son Fritz wants to marry Enneleyn, the peddler's daughter. Joerg is just as tyrannical as my own father. A man's heart cannot be commanded by a merchant's ledger! We are not beasts.
The girl lives on the roads and has nothing to her name. Keep to your own stall, boy.
My business is love and honour, old man, not sitting in the dirt counting pennies.
the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at Prime
A cold morning at the stalls. I bought watered ale to keep warm. I saw Sebastian Torwart grimacing as he lifted a sack; the man is simply unsuited for heavy labour. Paul the miner was drinking already and whining about his unpaid wages, ruining a crisp morning with his complaints.
If you dug in the dark all day you would drink at Prime too, you vanity-struck peacock.
My back was crushed, you idiot, it is not a lack of spirit for the work.
Nota scribaeDictated while polishing his boots with a rag.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You will do no such thing, you whoreson. She is a beggar's spawn and I will cut you off without a groschen.
I passed the word to the gates, lad, but the master's wife was watching the yard.