hired hand, of Grunta
“I work the fields at the first gate. I know every stone in this yard.”
Things Gilbert had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Still not a penny of my wages, and the boy struts around the yard swinging my own axe. Sakra, I would give my last boot to see him humbled. He says the merchants pay poorly, but his character is poorer.
Nota scribaeDictated by the fence. He grunted thrice before speaking.
the feast of St Stanislaus, at None
Saw Walter Welvara and his man Andreas down by the sixth gate looking tired. The Kuttenberg magistrates are delaying their pay, too. Seems no man gets his silver in this wretched spring. At least soldiers have swords to complain with.
A sword does not feed a belly, Gilbert. We wait like everyone else.
Better to wait for silver than wait for the bailiff to drag you to the wars like my brother.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Twenty years I served old Ulrich faithfully. Now he is two winters in the earth, and the farm is run by a boy who rests his hands heavily on his belt and barks about grain he never sowed. Mending the lower fence today.
He is trying his best, Gilbert. The weather has been hard on us all.
Nota scribaeThe man spat on the ground after naming the old master.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Terce
The lad Thomas is sick again from the thin pottage. I told him to sit by the trough, but the boy made him carry on weeding. A master who works his hands to death ends up with weeds for a harvest.
My stomach is turning, but I can manage. Thank you, Gilbert.
Candlemas, at Sext
Winter is breaking, but my patience broke first. The boy took my rusty axe to clear brush and will not give it back, claiming I broke his cracked iron plowshare. A free man owns his own tools. Sakra, I am no serf.
It is a fair pledge for the damage you did. Stop your moaning and get back to the grain.
Nota scribaeWritten down at the barn. He crossed his arms and stared down his nose the entire time.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The plowshare you broke cost more than your rusted iron, old man. Get back to the fences.
Keep your head down, Gilbert. The cabbage is bad enough today without him yelling.
Sakra, lad, someone has to tell him he does not know a sickle from a scythe.