apprentice at the camp forge, of Sigismund's camp
“I haul coal, sweep scale, and work the bellows for the masters. I keep my head down and try to learn the trade.”
Things Walter had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Master Nicholas is on at me again about that iron lamp. He claims the watch is looking for a man breaking curfew with it. Christ almighty, the man just weeps over the cost of a few drops of oil. I told him I haven't seen it since Lent.
Nota scribaeDictated while he was hiding something in his bedding. He smelled strongly of ale.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
The damp this spring is a curse. I woke up with my left hand aching so badly I could scarce grip the broom to sweep the scale. I have to tuck it in my belt just to keep the warmth in. If I drop the heavy tongs today, Master John will have my hide.
You fetch the water today, lad. I will handle the heavy stock. Just do not let Nicholas see you dawdling.
Praise be, Master John. I will not spill a drop.
Nota scribaeHe kept his left hand hidden the entire time he spoke.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at None
Saw a merchant's cart stuck in the mud on the road today. Brought back foul memories of that whoreson Lawrence. Three winters since that pig iron crushed us, and he fled rather than pay the surgeon. May the devil take him and his silver.
My back gave a twinge just seeing it, lad. A curse on Lawrence, wherever the Cumans have chased him.
the feast of Saint Gertrude, at Sext
Caught my sleeve on a rusty nail fetching coal and tore it half off. God rest poor Zlata's soul. When she was alive she would have mended it for a smile and a thank you. Now I am walking around looking like a plucked goose, and the wind goes right to my bones.
She was a good woman. I still remember the copper ring I made for her nameday. You look a disgrace, Walter.
Nota scribaeHis tunic is indeed in a pitiful state.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
Went to the canteen for a heel of bread and Ernest gave me a look that would sour milk. The kitchen hand is still holding a bitter grudge over that dropped roast from Saint Martin's day. I wasn't even the one who dropped it, that was Master John's doing!
You work for the man, you share his sins. Keep out of my kitchen, hammer-boy.
It was a greasy roast and my back was hurting! Let the boy have his bread, Ernest, or I will shoe your head to a horse.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Give it back, you little fool! If the bailiff catches you, he will put my name on the vanguard levy! I know you have it.
It must have fallen behind the coal bin, master. I will look tomorrow.