apprentice saddler of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I work the leather under my father. I try to keep my stitches neat and say my prayers.”
Things Robert Fair had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Thunder over the town again today. I dropped my bone folder and crossed myself three times. My hands shake so badly I ruined a good stirrup strap. The roads are still full of Hungarians, they say. How is a man meant to walk to Sedletz with soldiers on every path?
Nota scribaeThe young man's hands were indeed trembling as he spoke.
the Tuesday after St Mark, at None
Had to walk past Thomas Cooper's shop to fetch pitch. My tongue tied itself in a knot when he glared at me. He still holds my father's pattern purse, just because my father spoke up for poor Heinz Bauer at the lords' court. It is not right.
Tell your father he can have his purse when he stops sticking his nose in my business with my journeymen.
A master pays what he owes his men, Thomas. The guild rules keep us from acting like Hungarian thieves.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Aunt Anna is planting cabbages again. I try to stay out of the yard at midday so I don't trample them. Grandfather Joseph left us this house and land three winters ago, and my uncle John still curses over the far strip of it at every supper. The yelling makes my stomach turn.
The cabbages need the sun, Robert. And your uncle needs something to complain about or he would stop breathing.
Nota scribaeDictated while chewing a piece of dry bread in the yard.
the Thursday after Laetare Sunday, at Terce
My stitches were perfect today. The awl slipped only once. I am vain about my work, I know it is a sin, but my father praised the seam on a new saddle. If only I had the courage to do what I promised the saints. The guilt is heavier than a wet hide.
Your hands are steady enough when you stop your fretting, lad. Keep at the bench.
Ash Wednesday, at Compline
It has been weeks since the storm. I was taking goods to the garrison when the snow blinded me. I swore to Saint Barbara I would walk to Sedletz on my knees if I lived. I found a woodcutter's shed and did not freeze. But I have not gone. I am too afraid of the roads.
There are vagrants everywhere, lad. The saints understand if a man waits for the snow to melt and the soldiers to march on.
Nota scribaeThe lad spoke so quietly I had to lean across the table to hear.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Never mind the sky, lad. If your father doesn't settle this land dispute with the bailiff soon, we'll have worse than thunder.
Uncle, please, not today. My head is pounding.