merchant of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I buy what desperate men sell and keep my strongbox locked tight. The roads are foul and silver is scarce, but I will not be made a beggar in my old age.”
Things Tobias had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
Eva is harping on the unpaid dowry again. God's nails, does she think I can pull silver from the air? The Hungarians have choked the roads and bread costs twice what it did. She will get her coin when my ledger allows it, not a single day before.
Nota scribaeDictated at the baker's house. The daughter-in-law was standing right there looking daggers at him.
the feast of Saint Mark, at Sext
That beggar monk Brother Basil is asking after the silver chalice I bought before Easter. He claims it is stolen church property and wants it back for his Christian duty. I paid Joseph Thatcher good groschen for it! Basil can bring me the coin I spent, or he can pray for it.
You hold the Lord's vessel in your greedy hands. Bynyek will hear of this sin, merchant.
I found it fair and square. Leave me out of your squabbles, holy man.
the Tuesday of Easter week, at Vespers
I bought a heavy silver cup from the apothecary today. He looked half-starved, and I took it cheap. I locked it in the iron-bound chest. My Juliana used to say I was too tight with my purse, but if I were loose with it now, we would all starve.
A wise merchant knows when to buy. The apothecary's loss is your gain.
Nota scribaeHe checked his strongbox lock three times before letting me leave.
the Monday after Saint Gregory, at Prime
They say the King is still held by his brother, and the Cumans are taking whatever they please outside the town. Bread costs double what it did in ninety-nine. I am keeping my silver locked up tight until the roads are clear. Only a fool parts with good coin now.
Aye, flour is dear, Father. But folk still need to eat.
the morning of Candlemas, at Terce
Three winters since my Juliana died of the fever. The house is too quiet without her. I stand at my counter and watch the Kuttenberg crowd, and I tap my fingers on the wood, but the days are long. Up in heaven she has no ledgers to fret over.
She was a good woman. May the Lord grant her peace.
Nota scribaeHe wiped his eyes, blaming the smoke from the ovens below.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You promised it at the wedding, old man. A vow before God and the priest.
Peace, both of you. You are souring the dough with your shouting.