guard for salt carts, of Old Kutna
“I walk beside Jezhek Clark's salt carts and look threatening so the cargo doesn't walk off. It's miserable work, but a man has to eat.”
Things Ralph had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday after the feast of Saints Philip and James, at Vespers
The master sent me to check the carts again. The yard is nothing but mud. James is still coughing up his lungs in that foul outbuilding because Jezhek won't spend a single groschen to patch the roof. I reckon the man has silver buried under the floorboards while we freeze in the straw. It's a bloody disgrace.
Nota scribaeThe man shouted the last sentence at the tavern door.
the Monday after Misericordia Domini, at Sext
Saw young Paul sneaking off toward the lower town again to see that pot-scrubber girl, Rose. The boy is an absolute fool. Risking a merchant's ledger and a warm bed for a maid without a dowry. I'd laugh, but I'm too busy hauling fish sacks like a pack mule.
You know nothing of it, Ralph. Rose is kind, which is more than can be said for anyone else in this yard.
Kindness won't buy you ale when your father throws you out, lad.
the eve of Saint George, at Compline
There are soldiers on the Kolin road demanding tolls from honest men, or dishonest ones like Jezhek. The King's brother has filled the country with hungry bastards. I keep my hand on my cudgel, but a man can't fight a whole band. Bread is dearer than last year, and my boots are ruined from the mud.
Nota scribaeDictated at the alehouse. He drank half a tankard before speaking.
the Wednesday in Easter week, at Prime
My head itches like the devil. Jezhek still has my bone comb. He took it as a pledge back at Saint Martin's when the cart wheel snapped. I swear on the cross that wood was completely rotten before we ever left the yard. Forty groschen for a repair, and he blames me for driving too fast. Give me back my comb, you miserable bastard.
You drove like a madman to get back for a tavern wager. The pledge stands until the debt is paid.
The wood was rotten! A blind man could have seen the rot in that hub.
Nota scribaeThe word he used for his master was struck out and replaced.
Ash Wednesday, at None
The Pope says we must write down our days for the Lord. Well, I have this to say: I am cold, my boots are wet, and I miss the smithy. Father's debts ruined us. Now I sleep with my arms crossed so I don't get robbed in my sleep by the drunks in the yard. Memento mori, I suppose.
Nobody wants to steal your wet boots, Ralph. Just pass the ale.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The innkeeper's roof is the innkeeper's business. You are paid to guard the carts, Ralph, not to judge my purse.
My throat is swollen shut. I'd give my last penny for a roasted apple or a dry blanket.