elder of the saddlers guild, of Kuttenberg
“I am elder of the saddlers' guild in Kuttenberg, keeping the trade from the gutter and my father's name respected.”
Things Heinz Fair had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
That whoreson Thomas Cooper still sits barricaded in his shop like a frightened maid. The lords decreed he owes half a threescore groschen to his crippled journeyman, yet he pays nothing. He also has my leather pattern purse. If the guild allows men to act as mere merchants, our fellowship is ruined.
Nota scribaeHe rested his hands on his belt and stared at the wall until I had finished writing.
the feast of Saint John before the Latin Gate, at None
Robert is pale as milk again. He thinks Saint Barbara will strike him down for not making his pilgrimage to Sedletz. I told him the saint can wait. The roads are full of Sigismund's Hungarian dogs, and I need him at the awl. Better a guilty conscience than a slit throat.
A vow is a vow, Father. The snowstorm nearly took me. I swore on my knees.
Keep the boy home, Heinz. The soldiers took three pigs from the lower town yesterday.
the Wednesday after Easter, at Terce
Inspected the new hides brought up from the lower town. Good thick leather, proper for the royal garrison. Not like the cheap scraps some fools use to undercut the guild. Two years ago we saw what happens when a man steals contracts with low prices. The work suffers. Saint Eligius preserve us from such ambition.
Amen, Heinz. The fellowship must hold the line or we all starve.
Nota scribaeHe spoke very slowly, making me wait after every few words.
the second Sunday of Lent, at Prime
Another meal ruined by my brother's bleating. Our father Joseph left this house, the workshop, and the far strip of land. I am the eldest. The matter is closed. But John will not let it rest, demanding the bailiff divide it. At least Anna has the sense to stay quiet and plant the cabbages.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
Winter bites hard. Thomas Cooper's new journeyman, the Bauer boy, lost his grip in the chill and cracked a saddle-tree. Thomas gave him nothing but a fustian jacket and threw him out. It is a disgrace. The guild must answer this. A master provides, he does not abandon his men to the snow.
My hand was crushed by a cartwheel, Master Fair. The cold makes it stiff as wood. I only want what I am owed.
Nota scribaeDictated in the workshop. The smell of tanned hides was very strong.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Perhaps if you spent less time fretting over Thomas's purse, we could go before the bailiff and settle the far strip of land.
The land is settled, John. Eat your cabbage and be quiet.
I am not hiding from you, Heinz. And Bauer ruined a costly saddle-tree! His hand is useless in the cold.