carver and tavern sweeper, of Old Kutna
“I was a master mason before a snapped rope and a fool master broke my spine. Now I drink to keep from screaming when I stand.”
Things Alan Taylor had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
I slipped in the mud near the market, nothing more. I was perfectly able to get up on my own time, but Zdenyek had to haul me up by my arms like a sack of turnips. I am not a babe, lad. Leave me to my own pain and my own ale.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted twice by the man groaning and rubbing his lower back.
the third day of May, at None
Sat outside the tavern today watching Walter and John Ford whine about Chenyek freezing their wages. Bloody hell, to hear them weep you would think the world had ended. A missed wage is nothing. Try losing your whole trade in a single afternoon because of a snapped rope.
It is easy for you to say, old man. We cannot eat memories of a snapped rope.
Leave him be, Walter. You lads do not know what real ruin is.
the second day of Easter week, at Terce
Saw Gilbert Miller standing tall at his merchant stall today. He is a good man, a brother in suffering, but seeing him straight makes my own spine throb the worse. Curse Maurice to the deepest pit of hell for what he did to us twelve winters ago. I need another mug.
I will pour the ale, Alan, but you still owe me for yesterday's sweeping.
Nota scribaeThe scribe struck out three further curses directed at the late Maurice as they were unfit for a Christian book.
the Thursday after St Gregory, at Prime
Swept the tavern floor this morning to settle my tally. Every motion of the broom sends a hot iron spike up my spine. My hands are not what they were. I fear the day I cannot even sweep, for then I will be dragging myself through the Kuttenberg mud like a beggar.
You should not be pushing a broom at all. Let me do it for you tomorrow.
I will push my own broom, you whoreson. I am not helpless yet.
Candlemas, at Sext
The cold seeps into my bones like water into a cracked foundation. The stamping mills rattle the boards beneath my pallet, and the ache is enough to make a grown man weep. If the good Lord has mercy, he will warm the air soon. Until then, the ale must do his work.
Ale is no substitute for prayer, Alan. Come to church and ask for strength.
Nota scribaeDictated at the tavern. The man's words were heavily slurred by ale.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You were face down in a puddle for an hour, Alan. You would have drowned if I had not pulled you out.
I was resting my eyes. A man is allowed to rest his eyes.