master of the normalni Statek, of Bylany
“I grow cabbages, raise calves, and try to keep this farm standing while the world goes mad around us.”
Things Joseph had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Sybil glared at me over the porridge again. I know I owe her wages, but without my good cart to take the cabbages to Kuttenberg, the lockbox is empty. She can spit all she likes, but she is not leaving until the harvest is in.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed the back of his neck the entire time he spoke.
the feast of Saint Pancras, at None
Caught Emma weeping by the boundary stone again. That drunken layabout Hugh is gone to Prague, and I pray he dies in a ditch there. I will not have my family made the laughingstock of Bylany over a landless fool who drinks too much ale.
He is finding work to save groschen! He will come back and prove you wrong.
Young blood runs hot, Joseph. But a father knows best.
Saint George's day, at Sext
I have taken on Sybil to help with the house and the yard. Ever since the lord's men marched Martin away in the levy, I have been doing the work of two men. I count the tools every night just to be sure we still have them.
She is a help, husband, but she has a sour look about her.
The Lord provides hands when the burden grows heavy. Praise be.
Nota scribaeHe asked me to list the tools, but I refused.
the Wednesday of Holy Week, at Prime
King Sigismund's soldiers marched through and took my last good cart. How am I to sell our surplus at the market now? The roads are tolled heavily enough as it is. It is honest work we do here, bought with a broken back, and they take it for nothing.
We must bear our earthly trials with grace, Joseph. The Almighty sees all.
the second Friday of Lent, at Compline
Margery is in tears again, praying to Our Lady of Sedletz. It has been three winters since the bitter frost took her sister Katherine. Katherine was a good woman, but all this weeping does nothing but bring anxious thoughts to my roof. I wish she would let the dead rest.
I made a vow to save this farm, Joseph! If I do not fulfill it, the sickness will return.
Nota scribaeDictated in a hushed voice, looking over his shoulder.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Promises do not fill my belly, master. Pay me what is owed.
You will be paid when the silver town sees our crop, and not a day before.