hired hand at the works, of Kuttenberg
“I fell off a scaffold and bruised my leg, but I'll be back at the gates soon enough.”
Things Bartholomew had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Christopher keeps bringing me water like I'm a dying dog. I'm telling you, the bone ain't broke, it's just badly bruised. A few more days resting in the dark with some ale and I'll be back catching Foreman Lawrence's eye.
Nota scribaeHe spoke with a wet cough. His leg smells of corruption, though I held my tongue.
the Monday after Ascension, at None
Asked Vashek Cook again to take word to my sister Edith when his cart heads east. He looked at me like I was shit on his shoe and walked on. Kurva. If I could stand, I'd break his jaw.
I am not a messenger for every drunkard who crawls out of the dirt.
The cook has no heart, Bartholomew. We lost everything to those fires, and they do not care.
the third day of Easter week, at Compline
My hands are raw from the spades. Foreman Lawrence docked Johannes today just for holding a bent pick. Bloody hell, that man would dock a dead labourer for burying himself with a royal shovel.
He makes his own rules, and we pay the groschen for them because we must.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the gates. The man smelled strongly of cheap ale.
the Tuesday after Palm Sunday, at Sext
Lambert is still whining about that stallholder Joseph and a broken fence. Christ almighty, man. King Sigismund's soldiers burned whole families alive and scattered the rest of us, and you're crying over a stray pig.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
Drank too much last night trying to sleep through the cold. Still, better to be alive and working the trenches than caught by the Cumans. Praying Edith found a safe roof.
We'll catch Lawrence's eye today, Bartholomew. Keep your chin up.
Nota scribaeThe man wept slightly at the end, though he blamed the wind in his eyes.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You are burning up with fever, Bartholomew. Drink the water and let me fetch a barber.
Mind your own shift, lad. I ain't starving in no gutter.