overseer of the far strip, of Kuttenberg
“I run this household and work the land my father left me. Let any whoreson dispute it.”
Things Heinz Marsh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
My fool of a grandson William thinks he can marry Emma, a common tanner's daughter. His father Nicholas is a nobleman now, and I'll not let this boy drag the Marsh name back into the mud with the peasantry. He is a blind idiot.
Nota scribaeThe man shouted so loudly my ears rang for an hour.
the Wednesday after Easter, at Sext
That bastard Claus sat at my table eating Easter mutton and didn't hand over a single groschen. He swore he would pay back the silver I gave him in the winter of ninety-nine by the feast. He calls it compensation for the land. I call it theft.
It was my half of the inheritance, Heinz! You stole the best soil while I wept for our father.
I will beat the coin out of you if I have to, brother.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
The ground is finally thawing out on the far strip. Had to scream at the hired hands to get the clods broken properly. Kurva, if I do not stand right over them, they lean on their spades like they are dead.
There is no need for such anger, Heinz. The earth will yield in its own time.
Keep your soft words for the alehouse, John. I need strong backs, not prayers.
the feast of St Gregory, at None
Claus brought up the land again today. Father Peter gave me the far strip on his deathbed because he knew I had the stones to work it. Claus was too busy weeping to hear it, and now he wants to drag the bailiff into it. Let him try.
He mumbled his last words and you twisted them! He loved us equally.
Nota scribaeHe pounded his fist on the table until his ale spilled over the parchment.
Candlemas, at Compline
Too bloody cold to do anything but check the locks on the sheds and count the iron tools. The winter of ninety-nine was worse, but my bones feel the chill more now. Alice is complaining about her back again, as if the rest of us do not ache.
If Geoffrey the carter had not dropped me from the wagon, my back would be sound. You have no pity, grandfather.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
She is a good Christian woman, grandfather, and I will not hear her spoken of like dirt.
For once the old man is right. You will forget the tanner's yard, William, or you are no son of mine.