hewer at the Horany works, of Horany
“I am a responsible man who pays his way, Lord knows, and I only want my proper kit back.”
Things William the Gob had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
The bailiff is due any day now for the muster and I am a dead man. Lord knows I am! I told Thomas I need my padded jack back from that grasping Kuttenberg widow, but the fool has no coin. If the bailiff sees me without my registered kit, I'll be flogged raw.
Nota scribaeDictated in a great rush. The man wiped his filthy hands on his tunic no less than four times while speaking.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Carried three heavy buckets from the well for Isabel this evening. She still looks terrible pale from the winter sickness, Lord knows. Thirty men in this timber hall tracking in mud, she has enough to sweep without hauling water too. A responsible man does his part.
You are kind, William. The water was a blessing for my aching back.
And yet you still left your filthy boots right in the middle of the aisle, you great lump.
the feast of Saint Richard, at Prime
Twelve hours in the dark breathing rock dust, side by side with a man who robbed me blind. Thomas had the gall to ask for a sip from my flask. Lord knows I should have cracked him with my iron pick, but Martin was watching the tally.
Robbed is a strong word for a simple pledge, brother. You know Agnes charges fierce interest.
Less whispering, more hewing, the pair of you.
Nota scribaeThe man spoke this in a whisper, constantly looking over his shoulder toward the counting house.
the Tuesday after Saint Gregory, at Sext
Bread is dearer again. Lord knows how a man is supposed to save his coin with the King's brother bringing hungry soldiers down on the roads. I keep my purse tucked tight in my breeches at night. Can't trust half the lads in the fraternity house.
No one wants your few pennies, William. We just want you to stop snoring.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
It has been weeks since the militia drill and my twelve-groschen jack is still not back on my peg. Thomas finally admitted he pawned it to the widow Agnes to pay an ale-wife! Lord knows what I will do. That was an entire month's wages gone.
It was just a few pints, William! I'll get it back before spring, I swear on my mother's grave.
Do not swear on the dead, Thomas. It brings nothing but sorrow.
Nota scribaeHe was very distressed and asked if the Pope's book might compel the return of a pawned jacket. I told him no.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Calm yourself, Willy. I'll win a few hands of dice tonight and fetch it from Agnes tomorrow.
Lord knows you said that on Saint Mark's day too! You will see me ruined.