farmer in Bylany, of Bylany
“I work my parcel of land and expect to be left alone by town and abbey alike.”
Things Robert had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Prime
The wind howled through the roof again last night. Cecily wrapped us in three blankets and still we shivered. I will not pay a carpenter out of my own pocket to fix another man's property. If the landlord wants his house to rot, let it rot.
Nota scribaeHe crossed his arms and stared at the wall for a long time before speaking.
the feast of St Pancras, at Vespers
Some strangers came asking after the town's wooden pipes. I told them they must be rotting in the dirt from poor keeping. If Kuttenberg takes our brook water for their fountains, they cannot act surprised when their timber breaks down in the soil.
They are not rotting, you stubborn fool. Someone is digging them up and stealing them.
Then you had best find who it is, Master Fuchs, and leave honest farmers alone.
the Tuesday after St George, at None
Saw those Kuttenberg miners on the road, loud and stinking of the dark. They think swinging a pick in a hole is the only real labour in the world. Let them try pulling heavy stones from Bylany dirt for a day.
We pull silver for the King, farmer. You pull turnips and complain about the rain.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Terce
Heard that Reginald the old Pipe Master is dead on the Kolin road. Poor bastard. Well, up in heaven there will be no highwaymen to trouble him, and no brooks for him to drain dry either.
Nota scribaeDictated from a boundary stone beside a dry stream.
Candlemas, at Compline
The brook is running low again and the ground is frozen hard. Kuttenberg drinks us dry. At least we have good dry firewood for the hearth tonight, cut into fine round lengths. A fair trade, I reckon.
Keep your voice down about the wood, Christ almighty.
Nota scribaeHe smiled grimly while saying this and refused to say where the wood came from.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My toes are still numb, Robert. Pride will not keep us warm when the winter comes again.
A peasant complaining of the wind. How entirely novel.