hired hand at the forge, of Kuttenberg
“I strike iron for Jacob the armourer and shoot straight for my ale. I have no time for idle chatter, only the work.”
Things Fritz had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
My hands ache so bloody badly I can barely close them into fists. Jacob kept us shaping plates since Prime without a drop of water. But Saint Vitus's Day is coming, and I am close to the sum. I will not die a broken hired man.
Nota scribaeHe wiped his face during the dictation and smeared soot across the parish ledger.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Won three pennies off the silver miners shooting at targets behind the tavern. Praise be to Saint George for a steady eye. I put the coin safe away. John Weaver sat there tallying up his ledgers like a dry old bone while real men drank.
A dry bone pays his tab on time, Fritz. You will drink your pennies away before the month is out.
the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, at Compline
William is weeping into his ale again about his mother Elizabeth up north. Christ almighty, the soldiers are there and the woman is likely dead or starving. A man must face the cold iron of the world and stop his whining.
You have no heart, Fritz. She is only waiting for a message.
Leave the boy be, Fritz. We all have our sorrows in this war.
Nota scribaeHe was drinking cheap ale and struck the table so hard my inkhorn rattled.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Sext
Forty groschen. That is what stands between me and a master's tools, a smaller anvil, and Jacob's shouting at my back. I swear by Saint Jude I will have it by June, even if I must bleed into the quenching trough to earn it.
Forty groschen is a king's ransom for the likes of us. Better to accept your lot.
Candlemas, at Prime
The decree says we must speak to the priest. Fine. I woke before the sun, hauled charcoal, and cleared the slag so Jacob could scream at us by daylight. It is freezing, but the forge fire is hot enough to roast a sinner. Let that be written.
Do not bring that ash into the tavern tonight, Fritz.
Nota scribaeDictated in the courtyard. The heat was unbearable and the man smelled strongly of sweat and ash.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Aye, my back is breaking too, lad. But we will rest soon enough.
You will rest when Jacob puts you in the ground, old man.