farmer of Bylany, of Bylany
“I am the master of the greatest estate in Bylany. I work my hands to the bone to keep my late father's legacy standing.”
Things William had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
Still no sign of Drslav on the Kuttenberg road. Sakra. Thomas spat right on my boots today when I told him to mend the barn. I will pay him his wages when the merchant pays me, and not a day before.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed his jaw the entire time he spoke.
the feast of St John before the Latin Gate, at None
Joan is wringing her hands over her sister Avice again, weeping that the soldiers will get her. I told her to be quiet. If my brother Adam gave me a groschen from his hunting instead of buying hounds, we could all sleep easier.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Easter has come and gone. Drslav promised the final settlement of silver for my wheat by the holy day, and the whoreson never showed his face. The roads are full of soldiers, but a merchant knows how to travel. My father would have broke his nose.
I check the road every morning for his wagons too. John wants his pay, and I have nothing for him.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled strongly of morning ale.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Sext
Johanka is shaking like a leaf in the yard because Father Geoffrey's clerk came sniffing around for her dead husband's burial fee. I need her working the soil, not weeping over bells. Christ almighty, the church takes enough from us as it is.
If I do not pay him, master, Geoffrey will shame me before the whole parish.
the eve of Ash Wednesday, at Compline
Matilda tripped in the yard and shattered a good wooden churn. The stupid cow refused to pay for the wood. So I took her prized bone comb from the wash-bench and put it in my pouch. I will hold it as a lawful pledge until she pays.
Give it back, you thief! It was a loose paving stone that tripped me, not my own feet. You will get no butter from me.
Nota scribaeHe patted his pouch to show the comb was there.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A man cannot eat promises, master. Pay what you owe since Candlemas.
You will eat the flat of my hand if you spit again, lad.