market stallholder, of Pritoky
“I am a greengrocer. I tend my own stall at Kuttenberg market, buy my own stock, and keep my accounts strict.”
Things Frantishek Bright had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after Saint Mark, at Compline
I see young Adam is looking thinner than a winter hare. Denise watches those men like a hawk but doesn't feed them. If you run a crew, you pay them. If you cannot afford to feed them, do the work yourself.
Nota scribaeDictated at the man's door. He kept his arms crossed the whole time.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
I hear a certain man has broken his ankle and is locked in his yard. God's justice is swift. If he had paid for my ruined turnips, I might have brought him a cabbage, but as it stands he can gnaw on his broken cartwheel.
It was the rut in the road that ruined your turnips, you stubborn mule! My ankle hurts enough without your crowing.
My silver, carter. Then we will talk.
the Thursday after mid-Lent, at None
Bread is dearer this month because of the soldiers on the roads. Simon Carter bakes a good loaf, better than the sour rye at the market. I bought my daily loaf from him today, fresh and hot. A working man needs a good loaf to brush the dirt off his hands with.
Thank you, Frantishek. I only wish Alan would carry a loaf to my sister in Kouřim.
I am not walking to Kouřim, Simon. Not for all the bread in Pritoky.
the Feast of Saint Gregory, at Vespers
A disaster on the Kuttenberg road today. A clumsy fool put his cart into a rut and crushed a whole basket of my best spring turnips. I demanded payment, and he shouted at me! By Saint Wenceslas, I will not speak a single word to him until he hands over my silver.
He owes you for the turnips, aye, but you could have yelled a bit softer. My cows were startled.
A man's livelihood is his livelihood. Stand your ground, Frantishek.
Nota scribaeThe man was shouting hoarsely when he made me write this.
Candlemas, at Sext
Young Philip Newman is struggling with old Jacob's woodcutters. I hear them grumbling over the fence about wages. Jacob was a harsh master, rest his soul, but he kept them in line. Philip is too soft. A man must guard his strongbox and command his hired hands, or he will have nothing.
I am doing the best I can, Frantishek. It is not easy without my father.
We just want the coin we were promised. We can't eat softness.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Mind your own turnips, Frantishek. The Easter wages will be paid when the spring timber is sold.
I am alright, Master Bright. Just tired.