hired hand, of Grunta
“I keep my head down and work, hoping the King's men do not notice me. I am the only one here who sees the danger we are in.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Vespers
I saw that clerk Tuma riding past the treeline today. Sakra, I know he was looking for me. He has my name on his cursed parchment for the levy. I hid behind the oxen until he was gone. If I had a silver groschen I would bribe the whoreson, but my pockets are empty.
Nota scribaeHe spat on the floor three times while dictating this. I had to wipe my boots.
the feast of St Pancras, at None
Thomas took the master's cart down the stony path like a madman and now the axle is splintered. Frantishek is whining about his crooked shoulder and will not fix it unless Thomas returns his wheel grease. Christ almighty, we are all going to swing for it if the master sees.
I did not break the axle, the stones did. And the grease is mine now.
Let him drive it into a ditch. My shoulder hurts too much to care.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
William spent half the night on his knees in the dirt looking for that wooden dove his late wife carved. I pity the old man, but if he does not sleep, he will be too slow to haul the timber tomorrow. The living need to keep moving before the soldiers catch up.
Klara made it for me before the fever took her. I will not leave it to rot in the mud.
Klara was a good soul who taught me to bake. Leave him be, John, you have a stone for a heart.
Nota scribaeThe speaker spoke very fast and kept glancing out the window at the road.
the feast of St Gregory, at Sext
Isabel served us a thin pottage again. I swear she is hoarding copper pennies under the floorboards instead of buying us decent meat. I would complain, but the woman scares me more than a Hungarian soldier. I just eat my oats and listen for horses.
the Tuesday after Candlemas, at Terce
They put old Father Peshek in the ground. May God rest him, though I barely spoke a word to the man. Thomas is weeping the loudest, not out of love, but because he still owes penance money to the church and hopes the new priest forgets it. Fools, all of them.
He was a gentle soul! The money has nothing to do with it.
He understood our toil and the pain in a man's bones. You have no respect for the dead, John.
Nota scribaeThe man seemed entirely unmoved by the holy father's passing, only anxious to finish speaking.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
He was not looking for you, lad. He was asking after a lost hound.
Keep calling townsmen names and you will catch a whipping. And wash your boots, you tracked muck in my kitchen.