smelter at the Grunta works, of Grunta
“Best lungs and strongest back at the Grunta works, lad! The heat burns the weakness right out of your blood.”
Things Hugh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Lambert was squawking today about inspecting the benches. Let him look, I say! The masters can't afford to lose their strongest smelter just because the day-foreman has a burr up his arse. I do the work of three men, and I reckon that means I run my bench how I bloody well please. Heh heh!
Nota scribaeHe struck the bench he was sitting on so hard the inkwell rattled.
the Feast of St Pancras, at Compline
Milada is a fierce woman, bloody hell she is, but she brews a fine ale to wash the soot down. I told her she has the prettiest scowl in Grunta. She didn't wipe my slate, but she poured the cup full. A man needs his ale after a shift like mine.
Pay your slate, Hugh. She'll lock us all out if you push her too far.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Roger the Bull is still bleating about his tin pitcher. Listen here, lad, I saved your hide in March when you ruined that batch of ore! If Lambert had seen that slag, you'd be begging for work on the roads. I reckon ten groschen is a fair price for a man's silence, and until I see it, the pitcher stays on my bench.
Give it back, you whoreson! It's heavy tin and you know I need it.
Ten groschen, Roger! Or you can drink out of your hands like a dog. Heh heh!
Nota scribaeThe man was swaying slightly and smelled strongly of woodsmoke and stale beer.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Prime
They say there's more soldiers on the roads, making bread dearer. Let them march, I say. Soldiers don't know a thing about a good day's sweat. As long as they don't block the ore carts coming to the works, I'll keep stoking the fires. The heat doesn't care who the King is.
Ay, the heat don't care, but a hungry belly does. My joints ache more when the bread is thin.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Vespers
A bitter frost snapped half the iron at the works today. Christ almighty, what a mess. I had to borrow Andrew's splitting wedge and Hynek's heavy gripping tongs just to keep my hearth going. They're good tools. A tool belongs to the man swinging it, I reckon, and I've still got plenty of swinging to do. Heh heh.
You've had my tongs since the frost! Give them back, Hugh. I can't grip the hot blooms with my bare hands.
Aye, and my wedge too! You've your own bench, go buy your own iron.
Now lads, don't be misers! I'm using them for the good of the works. You'll get them back when I'm done!
Nota scribaeHe laughed loudly and slapped my shoulder, nearly knocking the quill from my hand.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
He said he's docking half a groschen if the slag isn't cleared by Friday. You'd best be careful, old man.
Old man? Christ almighty, lad, I can still haul twice what you can before Sext!