labourer on the new roads, of Kuttenberg
“I clear brushwood so carts can pass, and fight for what is mine. No man steals my soil and sleeps easy.”
Things Anthony Fair had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Compline
Standa Lane and Reginald Wright are weeping in the alehouse again over Peter the clerk's muster list. God's nails, such cowardice. Let the Hungarians come, I say. They won't take a man with an axe in his hand clearing the king's roads. I have real battles to fight, by the creek.
Nota scribaeHe spat on the floor of the alehouse as he said this.
the feast of the Ascension, at Vespers
Tuma Mason cracked his bones on the scaffold today. I heard the snap. Now he's drowning it in ale like a fool instead of marching up to David the foreman and demanding his due. The foremen cheat us, they dock our pay, and Tuma just drinks. A man must stand up for himself!
Aye, sensible enough. Why walk miles to beg David when you can sit?
Nota scribaeDictated loudly outside the tavern.
the Monday after St George, at None
I went down to the far strip today. By Saint George, my brother Hynek has planted oats right over the line! That rich soil by the creek is mine. Father Nicholas left it, and it's mine. I shouted across the furrow that I'll drag the bailiff down to measure it.
You are blind as a mole, Anthony! Father meant for me to plant there, the line was clear enough before you trampled it.
Thief! I'll see you before the bailiff!
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Prokop Little won't stop whining about the leaky roof Walter charges him for. Bloody hell, fix it or sleep in the rain! I've been hacking stubborn roots since dawn and my hands are raw. I don't want to hear about a few drops of water when I'm drinking my ale.
You try sleeping in a puddle, Anthony. Walter is a stingy bastard.
the second Friday of Lent, at Sext
Gilbert Smith has everyone worked up over a stolen brass lamp. I had to laugh. The boy claims he does it out of grief for Svatava, his late mother. Bah. I wouldn't trust him with my own copper, but at least he doesn't steal his own brother's land by the creek.
My mother's memory is sacred, Anthony! You know nothing of grief.
Leave your brother alone, Anthony. I gave you both enough to work.
Nota scribaeThe man was eating a dry crust of bread while dictating.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Easy for you to talk big, Anthony. You don't have Peter eyeing your name with a quill in his hand.
The Cumans won't care about your axe, you fool.