monk of Sedletz, of Sedletz
“I keep the door for the abbot and sort the wheat from the chaff. Usually there is only chaff.”
Things Brother Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St Urban, at Vespers
There are men in the lower courtyard talking of a new levy for the king's war. They say the bailiff was asking after a man by my old secular name. Let him ask. That man died when I took my vows, and I shall not leave this cloister to hold a spear for any king.
Nota scribaeThe brother kept his hands tucked deep in his sleeves and sighed thrice before speaking.
the Friday after Easter, at None
Down at the beggars camp outside the walls, handing out the abbey's alms. There are more hungry mouths than grain, thanks to the soldiers on the roads. Bald Ellen was there, shivering in the mud. I gave her what I could, but we cannot feed the whole of Kuttenberg.
Bless you, Brother. A little bread is better than the fever taking me entirely.
You coddle them, Brother Thomas. Honest toil is the only cure for idleness.
the Monday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
A letter came today from Benesh Bell in Kuttenberg, demanding the abbot rule if it is a sin for a priest to make jokes in the pulpit. I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the seal. Thomas Aquinas says a man who never jokes is entirely boorish. I shall write back and tell him so.
The dignity of the holy church is no laughing matter! Father Dominic makes a mockery of the mass.
Let the man read Aquinas! Even the Lord must laugh at a clerk so thoroughly stuffed with his own importance.
Nota scribaeDictated in the abbot's antechamber. He was smiling, which is rare.
the feast of St Thomas Aquinas, at Sext
Sigismund's Hungarians passed along the Kolin road this morning. I watched from the high window. The Kuttenberg clergy can squabble all they like about parish business, but out there the world is burning. I thank God every hour for the strictness of the rule and the height of these walls.
Amen, Brother Thomas. Let them pass us by without knocking.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Matins
The stone floor of the dormitory is a harsh master before dawn, but the bells call and we answer. Another day of standing watch at the abbot's door, turning away merchants and fools. The patience required is a penance of its own.
You monks love to complain about your cold floors, but at least your roof does not leak on the altar.
Nota scribaeHe dictated this while rubbing his feet, shivering in the cold.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Stay within the walls, brother. The Lord protects His own, and our stone is thick.
A spear is heavy work for soft hands anyway, monk. You are better off hiding.