timber yard hauler, of Kuttenberg
“I haul pine for the mines and wait on word from Brod. A man just wants steady work and his family safe, but instead I get splinters and thieving neighbours.”
Things Lawrence Wood had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at None
Still no sign of Ludwig from Prague, and the Hungarian soldiers took another wagon today. We stand around the yard like fools with no master to open the pay box. If my uncle in Brod is seeing these mercenaries too, God preserve him. The unpredictability of it all is maddening.
the eve of St George, at Vespers
Tomorrow is the muster and I am shivering in my shirt because Wolfgang the thief pawned my iron-studded jack to Ursula. I lent it to him for the cold watch, and he trades it for his dice debts! If the bailiff flogs me tomorrow, I will curse Wolfgang with my dying breath.
I was desperate, Lawrence. Ursula would not stop shouting at me in the street. I meant to win the coin back and fetch the jack for you.
Your wicked nature has doomed me. The bailiff has no mercy for an unarmoured man.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed his hands together nervously the entire time he spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
I asked Veit again to carry word to my sisters near Brod, and again he claims his road goes only to Kolin. It is all the same dirt! I have heard nothing since Advent and my heart is heavy with fear of the soldiers burning them out. A man cannot work with this dread.
For the hundredth time, Lawrence, Kolin is north and Brod is south. I cannot walk two ways at once.
the Wednesday of Lent, at Sext
Hauling pine is hard enough without Nickel and Edward treating each other like lepers. They smashed the handcart axle just after Candlemas and have not spoken a word since. The yard is tense. At least nobody asks to borrow my lifting hook. I would sooner part with my own eye.
If the old goat hadn't pushed it into the mud rut, the axle would be fine. I am not saying a word to him.
Nota scribaeHe refused to let go of a heavy iron hook while dictating.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Compline
A wicked cold wind tonight. I took pity on young Wolfgang and lent him my new padded jack for his night watch. It cost me nearly every groschen I had saved for the muster. I pray he brings it back by morning, for my bones are aching from the logs and the chill.
You are a trusting fool, Lawrence. Wolfgang owes coin all over town.
Nota scribaeDictated at the alehouse. He was drinking thin beer and sighing heavily.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Ludwig is a fair master, but keeping us waiting until summer is poor work. Keep your eyes on the timber we do have left, Lawrence.