miner in Kuttenberg shafts, of Miskowitz
“I hew silver for a tight-fisted master, drink to forget my aching back, and survived the levy.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
Jan was shaking in the tavern again, babbling about spirits whispering through his daub. Sakra, I told him the spirits probably just think he is a fool. Prokop looked ready to hit me, but a joke is a joke.
Nota scribaeDictated at the trough. He stood uncomfortably close while speaking.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
I need my good padded jack back before Captain Fisher calls the muster. I lent it to Otto for the levy, and the whoreson pawned it to pay for his drinking. Sakra, if he does not cough up the groschen to get it back, I will take it out of his hide.
The ale-wife has it safe, lad. I will pay her back soon as the master pays me.
See that you do. I will be checking your kit, Thomas.
You hear that, Otto? Get my jack back before I break your jaw.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at Compline
Another day hacking rock in the dark. The German master watched the scales and docked me a penny for resting my arms. Sakra, my lungs are full of dust and my shoulders ache. The only good thing in this life is the ale at the tavern.
Ay, the master is a tight-fisted bastard. We will drink to better days tonight.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled heavily of sweat and cheap beer.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Vespers
Had a few cups and remembered the levy. We marched together last autumn. Humphrey fell when the Hungarians charged. He died in the mud, and John knows exactly why. Sakra, some men run and leave their betters to the slaughter, then drink with us like nothing happened.
The line broke, Thomas! We all ran! I did not leave him on purpose, Christ almighty.
You did not stop for him either. You just kept running.
Nota scribaeDictated in the tavern. The man was swaying and loud.
Candlemas, at Prime
Winter is a bitter curse. Woke up freezing in the loft, ate stale bread, and now I am off to the shafts. The Pope wants to know what I do? I dig silver for the King while my hands bleed. Praise be to God for the small beer.
Less complaining and more digging, Thomas. The mint needs the silver.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
They know my name, Thomas. They whisper it in the dark.
Leave the poor lad be, Thomas. He has enough trouble without you braying in his ear.