shop hand and stallholder, of Kuttenberg
“I run a small stall out on the square and keep my own ledger. Let the younger lads break their backs hauling crates; I know the value of a penny and a quiet life.”
Things Ralph had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Ascension Day, at None
Joerg is whining to everyone but the bishop that I took his lucky bone die. Aye, I have it. And I'll keep it till he pays me the ten groschen I gave the ale-wife to stop her screeching his name across my stall. A man's debts must be settled, lad.
Nota scribaeThe man jingled his purse the entire time he spoke.
the feast of Saints Philip and James, at Vespers
I tossed the blacksmith's boy an apple today. They work young William half to death in that forge. At least when old Foreman Gottfried was on his feet, he only worked us till we dropped, not after. Rectory work has gone to the dogs since the gout took him.
the second day of Easter week, at Terce
Sat and bought Lamprecht a beer at the alehouse. It's a fine thing to be too old for the levy. Every time the bailiff's clerk walks in, the young lads look like they've seen a ghost, waiting to be sent to die for the King or the Hungarian, whichever it is.
He's writing names down, Ralph! I saw him staring right at me.
Lamprecht drinks anyone's beer. It doesn't mean he won't tax your stall next month.
the Monday after Laetare Sunday, at Sext
Someone asked me why I was looking so hard at the mud by the market. I wasn't looking for anything, and if I was, it's my own business. I don't need Tuma and Heinz following me around like stray dogs poking their noses into the dirt.
We were only offering to help, you proud old fool. Whatever it is, the pigs have probably eaten it by now.
I told you, I lost nothing. Mind your own carts.
Nota scribaeHe was quite flushed when he said this and refused to say what he had lost.
the morning of Ash Wednesday, at Prime
The merchants passing through are tighter with their purses this spring. Soldiers on the roads mean everyone holds their groschen closer. Still, I set my stall up as usual. A man must mind his ledger and let the world's fools shout at the wind.
Aye, trade is slow. Even the Cumans don't buy anything before they burn it.
You stallholders complain if it rains and complain if it shines. Pay your tolls.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It was theft, you old buzzard. I was going to pay her on Friday.
Then you can pay me on Friday, and have your little bone back.