hired hand at the timber racks, of Grunta
“Chopping wood for the main house is a young man's game, but I do the work of three men while the rest drag their feet.”
Things Robert had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday after Saint Mark, at Vespers
By Saint Wenceslas, I am tired of asking. Matilda still has my work axe. I gave it to her out of pity before Lent, and now the stubborn maidservant claims I owe her ten groschen for mending shirts and ale. I will gladly pay someone to fetch it back so I do not have to hear her squawk.
Nota scribaeThe man waved his hand at me twice while dictating this. He smelled strongly of stale ale.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Andrew is pale and useless today, doubled over with stomach cramps. He says it was bad pork at the feast, but I reckon it is God's punishment for hauling logs on a Sunday. I told him to drink more ale and drown the pain, but the fool just groans in the dirt.
Christ almighty, my guts are on fire. Have some mercy, my head is spinning.
the Wednesday before Palm Sunday, at None
The yard has gone to shit since George marched off with the levy to Kolin. Mistress Lida still expects the same amount of wood stacked, lying up there in her bed hoarding her silver like a crone. The young ones like William are lazy whoresons, and I have to do it all.
I miss George's steady hands around here. And his heavy fists when William gets mouthy.
Nota scribaeHe paused to spit into the dirt when naming his mistress.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Sext
I told Matilda again to find a carter heading for Prague. I need to send word to my brother Standa that I am not in the ground yet. I have not seen his face since the year ninety-nine. The stubborn girl flatly refuses to ask around the market for me.
Standa has likely forgotten you entirely, Robert. Stop badgering me about it and do your own errands.
the eve of Ash Wednesday, at Prime
My bones ache in this cold. I lent my best splitting axe to Matilda this morning so she could chop the kindling for the morning fires. A moment of pity for the girl, though I know I will regret it. My back is too stiff to swing it today anyway.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the timber racks. The morning was indeed bitter cold.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Pay your tavern tab and the ten groschen, and you shall have it. Not a penny less, old man.
I could fetch it back for you tonight, if you buy me a drink.