smelter at the ironworks, of Grunta
“I keep the bellows breathing and try to keep the young lads from breaking their backs.”
Things William the Greaser had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St George, at Vespers
Christ Almighty, Jitka's debt is due and my purse is as empty as a beggar's bowl. Zdenyek took my padded gambeson and pawned it for his own share of the slate. A month's wage that cost me! Now I have no silver and no war gear for the town muster.
Nota scribaeDictated at the furnaces. The man's hands were black with soot and ruined my good parchment.
the second day of Easter week, at Compline
Young Simon the Bull is bedridden in the shed with a terrible fever. He stood in the freezing rain after a sweating shift. I cannot miss my turn at the bellows or Edmund will dock my pay, but the boy needs water. If a stranger is passing, look in on him.
I will bring him a cup of water before my shift, William. The flux took Jarda, we cannot lose the Bull.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at Sext
I lent my best iron tongs to Claus, and now the bastard claims they were a gift. Without them I am burning my hands at the hot work. Give them back, Claus. They cost me a month's sweat.
You handed them to me and said keep them. A gift is a gift, old man.
Give the man his tongs, Claus. His hands are blistered raw.
Nota scribaeHe swore loudly when speaking of the tongs. I have omitted the worst of it.
the feast of St Gregory, at None
Bread is dearer than last year and the roads are full of soldiers. We eat dark bread and boiled cabbage near the fires, and even that costs too much. Up in heaven there will be no tolls and no Cumans burning the fields.
Aye, the king's brother brings nothing but ruin and hungry mouths.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
Poor Jarda is dead of the flux. He taught me the furnace, and out of pride I led the lads to stand surety for his slate with Jitka. Now he is in the ground and we owe fifteen groschen each. God rest his soul, but his thirst will ruin us.
Fifteen groschen! I will be working until harvest just to pay for ale I never drank.
I owe my own master rent, William. The slate must be cleared by St George's day.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the alehouse. The men were drinking to the dead man's memory.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I had to pay Jitka, William! You signed us all to Jarda's slate. It was your doing.
It was my gear, you whoreson. You had no right to pawn it.