guard at the weaponsmith's, of Kuttenberg
“I am a retainer to the master weaponsmith. I keep his wares safe from thieves and fools, which is honest work and pays the rent.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Compline
The bailiff's men were asking about the yard today. They have a list for the muster. A man makes his living guarding a master's iron, and they think he should march out to face Sigismund's Cumans for a copper penny and a shallow grave. It would be a practical choice to seek work in another town if they call my name.
Nota scribaeHe kept his hand on his sword while speaking, though there was no one else in the room.
the second day of May, at None
The noise in this yard is enough to wake the dead. If Nickel Fischer isn't shouting about the rent, Fritz is shouting back about their father's land. I sit in the rafters just to hear myself think. And that Ursel keeps staring up at the loft. I wish she would mind her own business.
I was looking to see if the roof was leaking over our storage, not at you. Save your vanity.
If you don't like the noise, tell your master he can find another forge. I am the master of this house.
the Friday after Easter, at Sext
Master Mathias sent me to the lower square to fetch charcoal. The price is up again, and there are soldiers on every corner looking hungry. A carter said the silver is scarce and trade is choked. I kept my hand on my pommel the whole way back. Kuttenberg is on edge.
It's the Hungarians. They block the roads and take what they please. We'll be eating bark by autumn.
Nota scribaeDictated in the street while waiting for the charcoal burner.
the feast of Saint Benedict, at Terce
The master finished a fine longsword this morning, good balance, sharp enough to shave a hog. It's a comfort to see proper steel being made. He pays me a fair wage to keep it safe, and I will, so long as we stay in Kuttenberg. Work is work.
Keep your eyes on the door, John, and stop talking to the scribe. The steel won't guard itself.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Vespers
They say every man must tell the priest his days for the Day of Judgment. The Lord knows I stand by the forge and check the locks at first light. If there's a reckoning, let it be for the fools who start wars, not the men who have to live through them.
Amen to that. I told my mother the same thing, God willing she gets word of it.
The Lord judges us all, boy. Even those who hide in lofts.
Nota scribaeHe spoke this very quickly, as if he feared to be overheard by passing soldiers.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You talk like a frightened hare, boy. A real soldier wouldn't run from a Cuman.
You wouldn't last the morning in a camp, Fritz. Stick to shouting at your brother.