hired hand at the farm, of Grunta
“I fetch and muck out stalls for Master William. I would gladly take a little silver too.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Terce
My belly is twisting worse than a tied pig. If I could just step out to the roadside for three handfuls of wormwood to brew, the cramps would pass. But Master William is watching the yard like a hawk, and I dare not stop carrying these buckets.
the feast of St Philip and St James, at None
I saw the master parade that rusty old axe to the alehouse today. Gilbert looked like thunder, but he held his tongue. I wish he'd speak up for the both of us sometimes. A man can only take so much, but I haven't the stones to say it myself.
Hold your nerve, lad. Old Ulrich would never have shamed us so, but this is the hand we are dealt.
Nota scribaeThe lad whispered this while looking over his shoulder every few words.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Christ almighty, Easter has come and gone and not a single groschen has crossed my palm. He promised me fair wages, but I'm no richer than when I walked in. I can't leave without a good character, else the bailiff will take me for a vagabond and whip me.
My brother Christopher went for a soldier rather than beg. Dead of the flux now. Don't leave without paper, Thomas.
Aye, Zdenyek. I will bide my time and pray for a miracle.
Nota scribaeHe spoke this to the hay he was pitching, rather than to me.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Prime
I take the long way around the sixth gate now. Captain Walter and his men are always standing there with their swords. I want no trouble with soldiers. A hired hand gets no justice if a man in mail decides to break his jaw for sport.
We are guards, not Cumans, boy. Keep your nose clean and your jaw will remain whole.
He is scared of his own shadow, Captain. Let the lad be.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Sext
Up before the sun, mucking out the master's stalls. My hands are raw and this thin cabbage stew tastes like a wet dog smells. Old Ulrich used to run this place better, or so they say. Still, it's a roof over my head, even if it leaks.
If you spent less time gabbing to scribes and more time shoveling, the stalls would be clean.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the muck heap. The stench was profound.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I saved a heel of soft bread for you, Thomas. It might sit easier than the sour cabbage.
Less weeping about your belly and more hauling, boy. The horses will not water themselves.