master butcher of Bylany, of Bylany
“I cut meat and try to keep this yard from falling to ruin, though the hands fight me every step. A man's father leaves him a shop, and the world leaves him nothing but debts to pay for it.”
Things Roger Fuller had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Terce
The soldiers took three of my best sheep for the levy and paid in lead that won't buy a loaf. Then Jan stands there staring like a witless calf. I told him to scrub the blood-pits before I take the cost of the sheep out of his hide. The meat we sell is still the finest this side of Kuttenberg, no matter what they say in the alehouse.
Nota scribaeHe wiped his hands on his apron throughout the dictation. The word he used for the soldiers was not written down.
the second day of May, at Vespers
Christine asked for her wages again. I told her the truth: the coinbox is locked and stays locked until Master Havel gets his due. She's been fed and sheltered since Ash Wednesday, and that will have to be enough. If she wants silver, she can go cut it from the rock herself.
A girl cannot wear shelter or eat promises. I work my hands to the bone in your yard.
Hush, Christine. The master has much on his mind with the bond. We must all be patient.
I don't need a wife to speak for me, Lucy. Get back to the kitchen.
the Wednesday after Easter, at Sext
That little thief Isabel still has my knife. My father's knife, Mary's knife, the master's tool. I cannot break down a hog properly without it, and the spring slaughter is upon us. I will pay a stranger to drag it back from her if she doesn't bring it to the block by morning. And she can forget about that penniless journeyman of hers.
It was my mother's. You don't care about the knife, you only care about selling me to pay your cursed debt to Havel! Julian is twice the man you'll ever find for me.
I trust the spring slaughter is profitable, Fuller. Saint George's day approaches.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard. He was pacing heavily.
the feast of St Gregory, at None
Edith is weeping again about her bone comb. I told her she'll get it back when she pays for the crock of rendered fat she ruined, vow to Sedletz or no vow. Careless wenches cost me money, and money is the only thing keeping Master Havel from throwing us all into the mud.
the Friday after Candlemas, at Prime
A bitter frost this morning. I had to shout the hands out of their beds to haul water before the ice set hard in the barrels. This priest came round saying the Pope wants our days written down. Fine. Write down that Roger Fuller is up before the sun, working while the slackers sleep, and cursing the day he took over this lease.
Come inside and eat your pottage, husband. The cold will settle in your bones.
Nota scribaeThe man shouted this while chopping a side of pork. The ink froze in my pot shortly after.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I scrubbed the pits, master. But the roof on our shed is rotting through and my bedding is soaked.
Sleep on the floor then. There's no groschen for timber until the Kuttenberg tithe is paid.