hired hand at the rectory, of Kuttenberg
“I am just a simple man trying to earn my daily bread, friend, though my bad knee makes honest work a pure torture.”
Things Joerg had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
That old bastard Ralph took my lucky bone die from the alehouse table, just out of pure spite! I only stepped away for a moment, friend, and he swiped it. If a man cannot even leave his belongings on a bench without shop hands picking them up by mistake, what is the world coming to?
the second day of May, at None
Let it be known that Heinz is a thief. I lent him a bag of iron nails on Saint George's day to mend Foreman Gottfried's cart, and now he refuses to return them. A man without his nails is nothing but a beggar! I will pay thirteen groschen to anyone who wrings them out of his stubborn hands.
You hid in a cellar for two days, you coward. I hauled three carts of stone alone. The nails are my rightful wages for your sweating.
Heinz is right, Joerg. The Lord rewards honest sweat, not hiding in the dark.
Nota scribaeDictated in a high, anxious voice. He kept shifting his weight from foot to foot and would not meet my eye.
the Friday after Saint George, at Prime
My knee is giving me pure agony today, friend, so I had to take my bread behind the apothecary's stall. It is quiet here, save for the guards. I saw Fritz walking by, but I kept my head down. Better to let sleeping dogs lie than remind a big man of old dice games.
I saw you hiding by the barrels, Joerg. You still owe me two pennies from last summer. I have not forgotten.
the Wednesday of Holy Week, at Terce
Bloody hell, I saw Lamprecht the clerk prowling the square in his tabard, looking for able-bodied men for the levy. I will not go to catch a Hungarian arrow in my gut! My knee is far too weak for marching anyway. I found a nice damp cellar to wait out the trouble. Master Bauer's sacks can sit a day.
Get out here and help me with the stones, you lazy arse! Foreman Gottfried will skin us both.
Nota scribaeThe ink is smudged, as the man dragged me into a dark, stinking cellar to write this down.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Sext
Hauling crates for Master Bauer all morning. My joints are stiff from the winter cold. I let Tuma and Heinz take the heavy timber, for they have the broad backs for it and I have the brains. A man must use the gifts God gave him, friend, and mine is good common sense.
Your gift is making excuses. My back is breaking while you lean on a grain sack clutching your knee.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I took it as a pawn, you whining whoreson. I paid your ten groschen tab when the ale-wife was screaming the street down.
It was a mistake, friend! Hand it back and we will say no more about it.