setter of snares and wire, of On the roads
“I read better Latin than half the priests in Kuttenberg, though I sleep in the dirt. A man must drink heavy ale to keep the damp out of his bones.”
Things John the Hophead had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Prime
The bailiff knows my name and they say a muster is coming. If I do not have my sturdy kit, I will taste the whip. Martin, you whoreson, return what I paid good groschen for. Mea culpa, perhaps, but I need it now.
Nota scribaeThe man wiped his nose on his sleeve no less than four times while speaking.
the feast of St Pancras, at Vespers
That lord Hawkeye Schmidt was in the woods again today, asking too many questions about the trails. I tried to look like a simple woodcutter, muttering in excelsis Deo so he might think me a pious hermit. Better him than Richard of Petschkau, whose very shadow turns my bowels to water.
I heard you muttering, poacher. If you know where the path turns by the old oak, speak up next time.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Jan and I drank a great deal of heavy ale last night to celebrate the resurrection. A lord's deer may have found its way into a snare, and my hands are still stained with blood. In vino veritas, and the truth is I am too full of roasted meat to care if they hang me.
A fine feast it was, John. Next time I will bring my own knife to carve the beast.
Nota scribaeDictated smelling strongly of stale beer and blood. I advised him to confess to a proper priest.
the eve of St Gregory, at Terce
I took the gear Martin lent me and left it with the alewife as a pledge. Just for a few days, until I trap enough hares to redeem it. A man cannot survive this damp without a wet throat. Dominus vobiscum, let the hares be fat this week.
You are a fool, Hophead. Martin will break your nose if he finds out.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
The ground is frozen solid and the wire cuts into my hands like glass. My late father paid good silver so I could learn letters, and now I use my schooling to count the dead hares in the mud. Memento mori. At least the meat smuggles well in the dark.
Nota scribaeHe insisted I spell out his Latin exactly, though his pronunciation was wretched.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I will return it the very hour you hand back the gear I lent you, John. Do not think I have forgotten.
Patience is a virtue, Martin. I am merely having your plates polished by a very slow smith.