scribe of Suchdol, of Suchdol
“I put the petty squabbles and debts of the locals into proper Latin, which is a thankless task.”
Things Richard Smith had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Still holding this cursed parchment. If I do not get my fee from Mesoles soon, I shall never have the forty groschen for the psalter I need. I require a capable stranger to force the writ into Petschkau's hands. He cannot feign ignorance if a man shoves the wax seal against his nose.
Nota scribaeHe counted his remaining groschen three times while dictating this, sighing heavily.
the eve of Saint Mark, at Terce
I sent a boy to Kuttenberg yesterday to deliver Mesoles's summons. He found Petschkau standing in his own hall, yet the brazen liar looked the child in the eye and claimed the master of the house was not at home. The boy returned empty-handed. Lord give me strength to suffer these petulant children.
He makes a mockery of the law! Send a firmer hand, Richard. I want my three hundred groschen.
I shall, my lord, the moment you provide the silver to hire one.
the Monday after Easter, at Sext
Spent the morning grinding iron gall ink and trimming my best quills to write out a formal summons for John of Mesoles. He claims three hundred groschen from a wager made on Saint Barbara's day. A staggering sum to squander on a dog fight while the country falls to ruin around us.
Nota scribaeHe took immense pride in his lettering, forcing me to admire the capitals.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Prime
Awoke again to the smell of burnt wood and dough rising through the floorboards. The baker's wife gave me a chunk of dark bread and weak ale for my fast. I added two pennies to the hiding place under the floorboard. Slowly, the illuminated psalter comes closer, and with it, my escape from this obscurity.
Candlemas, at None
The procession was bitterly cold. I had to count on my fingers to explain the church calendar to a man who wanted a lease drawn up for yesterday. Half the district cannot write their own names, yet they bicker over lost pigs as if they were the King's own estates. Memento mori.
If my brother John had paid his debts, I would not have to hear of these squabbles all the way in Prague.
Nota scribaeDictated in the tavern, though he refused to drink the ale.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You waste your ink, scribe. I owe nothing for that dog fight, and Stephen is likely waiting on the road to gut me anyway.