craftsman for the mines, of Suchdol
“I cut heavy shoring planks for the silver mines, and I have no patience for idle talk.”
Things Richard Fisher had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
My father shouted himself hoarse across the yard today, demanding I court some Kuttenberg guildsman's daughter. Sakra. I told the old fool I am done with women. Beatrice was the only one worth having, locked away in Prague, and I will die an old sour man before I wed another.
Nota scribaeDictated near the yard gate. He scowled at the road the entire time and stood with his arms crossed.
the Monday after St Pancras, at Vespers
I cut twelve clean joints for the new mine shaft today. My back is screaming and my shoulders are ruined, but I am the best craftsman in this yard. The Kuttenberg bailiff knows who keeps his silver coming up safe.
You have a heavy swing, Richard, I will give you that. Come have an ale and rest your bones.
the eve of St Philip and St James, at Compline
William is whining about his tin plate again. The fool lost it fair and square on Saint Mark's day when we wagered on the dog race. He can eat off a wet wooden trencher tasting of old grease until he admits his loss before witnesses.
You stole it, you whoreson! Give it back. I never wagered a three-groschen plate on a dog.
Admit you lost the wager, brother, and maybe you will taste less warped wood tomorrow.
Nota scribaeHe stubbornly ate his stew from the very tin plate while he spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
My brother Hynek is moping about the yard over that penniless baker's niece, Svatava. Sent off to Prague to scrub pots, she was. He is making the same mistakes I did, chasing what he cannot have, but I have no patience to coddle the boy.
You know nothing of it, Richard! At least my heart is not a dried up knot of resentment.
the Thursday after St Gregory, at Terce
The bread costs more groschen every week with these Hungarian soldiers walking the roads. Poor Matilda is stretched thin making the mutton last. Ever since our mother died of the winter fever, this house is nothing but foul moods.
I do my best with the coin Father gives me, Richard. Do not complain unless you plan to cook it yourself.
Nota scribaeThe man swore several times by the saints regarding the price of grain. I left those parts out.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You will do as you are told, boy, and secure our standing! I will not have my eldest son pining like a wounded calf.
Save your breath, Father. My mind is set.