washer of ore, of Grunta
“I wash ore in Grunta. I keep my head down and never look for trouble.”
Things Ralph had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
John caught me by the washing pans again about his brother Daniel in Prague. I looked at my boots and told him my knees are too swollen for the road. I wish he would find a real messenger. I am not walking to Prague.
Nota scribaeHe mumbled this so quietly I had to ask him thrice.
the feast of St Florian, at None
The younger lads complain about the freezing water, but I outlast them all. The stream bites at your joints, but you just have to bear it. I wash the stone and I count the water, nothing else.
You count the water but you cannot count my baskets, is that it?
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Sext
William is still furious about the tally. He says Lambert cheated him of three baskets and wants me to speak to Master Jacob. I saw what I saw, but I am not saying a word. A foreman's wrath is not worth the groschen.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Prime
Woke up shivering. The roof of my shed is leaking again and my boots are sodden. At least there are no soldiers down by the stream today, just the usual mud and stone. I drank my ale and went to work.
Candlemas, at Compline
Lambert was shouting at the hewers all day. Some say he is always worse in the winter because it reminds him of when Klara died of the fever. I pity him, but from a safe distance. I kept my head down.
He is a hard German bastard, wife or no wife. We all suffer for his temper.
Nota scribaeDictated while rubbing his hands together by the fire.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is just a walk, Ralph. Daniel needs to know what happened to the house.