hired hand at the bakery, of Miskowitz
“I do the heavy lifting here and get nothing but complaints. Sakra, it is a dog's life.”
Things Richard had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
Mistress Cecily is creeping about the yard again at dusk, looking in every corner. Bloody hell, a man cannot even have a quiet spot to himself without being watched. I reckon she thinks I am hiding something, but I only want to rest my aching back.
Nota scribaeHe spoke quickly and kept looking nervously over his shoulder at the door.
the feast of St Pancras, at Vespers
The master was at the tally box late last night, counting pennies in the dark. Sakra, the silence was thicker than a burnt crust. I swear he means to find fault with me, just because the takings are light. It is the soldiers scaring off trade, not me.
The takings are lighter than they should be, even with the war. Frantishek never blamed the soldiers for the coin shrinking when he worked here.
Bloody hell, Frantishek went to the silver mines! He is probably dead in a ditch by now.
the Thursday after Easter, at Terce
Some lads at the alehouse asked why I do not go to Kuttenberg like Frantishek did, for the German silver. Are they mad? The roads are crawling with Hungarians and Cumans. I will stay here where it is safe, even if I have to split wood until my hands bleed.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled strongly of yesterday's ale and stumbled slightly as he dictated.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
Master William says I am too slow with the sacks. He says Frantishek could carry two at once. Well, William only got this bakery by stepping into another man's boots after old Reginald died. Let us see him haul the grain himself.
I will haul the grain myself if you cannot manage it, and you can explain your laziness to the bailiff.
No need for the bailiff! Sakra, I said I would do it, did I not?
Nota scribaeI advised him against putting this down, but he insisted and grew quite red in the face.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Compline
I owe a few groschen for ale, and the alewife is pressing me. I told her she will get it when the master pays my season's wages, but she looked at me like I am a thief. A man needs a drink after breathing flour dust all day.
Drink less ale, Richard. We all have to tighten our belts this spring, and the work must still be done.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If you spent less time resting your back, you would not need a quiet spot, lad. The wood will not chop itself.
I am not watching you, Richard. I am searching the floorboards for the wooden St. Nicholas that my Reginald carved for me.