master baker of Miskowitz, of Miskowitz
“I am the master baker of Miskowitz, keeping the fires lit and the village fed while paying ruinous prices for rye. My loaves are the best, even if half the town is ungrateful.”
Things Walter Eldris had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the week before Whitsun, at Terce
A fine morning, until my old hand Edmund dropped half a sack of Kuttenberg rye by the door. At today's prices! I clapped my hands and nearly boxed his ears, but Margery stayed my arm. The man walks like a three-legged stool, but where am I to find a cheaper hired hand in this war?
Nota scribaeThe baker had white dust on his face and spoke very fast.
the third day of Easter week, at None
A certain maidservant in my house keeps weeping about a bolt of linen locked in my chest. If Sybil wants it back for her draughty shed, she can pay the ten groschen she owes for the flour she ruined at Lent. I would have Vitek mend her roof, but the king's levy took him.
Christ almighty, master! It was my own coin, and I am freezing in the nights because you will not fix the slates!
Then fetch me ten groschen or sleep closer to the oven.
the Tuesday after Saint Tiburtius, at Vespers
I stood at my half of the market boards today and sold forty loaves. I did not say a word to the man on the other side, nor he to me. He knows he owes me fifty groschen for the awning he brought down on my bread last Michaelmas, but he is too proud to pay.
Your cur of a dog pulled the ropes down, Walter. It was not my peg that failed. Fifty groschen! Bloody hell, you are mad.
My dog knows better than to tie a knot like a blind weaver. Pay what you owe.
Nota scribaeDictated at the stall. The man opposite glared at us the entire time.
the second week of Lent, at Prime
Praise be, the soldiers on the Prague road are buying up all the hard bread. They pay in good silver, mostly. Still, I caught myself looking over my shoulder to see if my father Peter was watching me count the coin. He never had to haggle with Hungarians. He would have known what to charge.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
The winter winds are cruel this year. I had to clap my hands just to feel my fingers by the fire. We blessed the candles yesterday, but it did not stop a wolf from taking a neighbor's ram. I pray the holy light keeps the troops from burning Miskovice, else we will all be eating ash.
If the soldiers come, I will send word to my mother Martha in Prague so she knows I am dead.
Nota scribaeHe asked if the Pope's book would keep the Cuman riders away. I told him no.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You shout loud enough to wake the dead, Walter. The flour is swept up and the bread will bake just the same.
Aye, but the dirt adds nothing to the flavor, wife.