vineyard worker at Lorec, of Lorec
“I tie the vines at Lorec and do not run from hard work. Or from a fight, unlike some cowardly bastards who sleep near me.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Frantishek is making excuses again. He promised God he would walk barefoot to Sedletz if he survived his fever, but his boots are still firmly on his feet. Bloody hell, if you make a vow to the Lord, you keep it. Mikesh never broke a promise in his life.
the eve of Saint Mark, at None
My knees are damp and my hands are bleeding from tying these bloody vines to their stakes. Master Stislav understood the work, but these new men only care about the yield. And Joan's pottage is nothing but water and cabbage lately. I pity her, but a man cannot work on water.
the third day of Easter week, at Compline
The Easter wages are paid and they are a joke. Barely enough to buy a decent pair of boots and a jug of sour ale. I was drinking in the loft and told Julian to his face he is a coward. He had the strength to hold the line two winters back and he ran.
The line was broken, Thomas! The wagons were burning and we were overrun. You would have died too if you had not fallen back.
I did not drop my spear and bolt like a frightened sheep, you bastard.
Nota scribaeDictated in the loft. He jabbed his finger at my chest so hard I dropped the ink.
the Monday of Lent, at Terce
Every time I look at Tuma I see Mikesh bleeding out in the freezing mud. Tuma dropped his spear the second the skirmish started. If he and Julian had stood their ground with me and Andrew, the line would have held. Mikesh would be eating Joan's pottage with us today.
Leave it be, Thomas. It was two winters ago. The Lord took him, not me.
It was a bad day in the snow, lad. But shouting at Tuma will not bring Mikesh back to the press-house.
Nota scribaeThe man was shouting loudly. Several others in the yard asked him to hold his peace.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
Woke up freezing in this bloody loft. The smell of unwashed men is enough to wake the dead. I climbed down the ladder and almost kicked Joan's dog. The roads are full of Sigismund's Cumans and the chill in the air reminds me of that baggage train. Sakra, I cannot sleep for remembering it.
The winter is hard on us all, Thomas. Get to the slopes and the work will warm your blood.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The roads are thick with mud and Hungarian soldiers, Thomas. God knows I will make the walk when the mud dries.