farmer at Lorec vineyard hub, of Lorec
“I am a working man trying to keep my land and my neck. The young fools around me will be the ruin of us all.”
Things Walter had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Tuma keeps looking at the floorboards where my bed is. By Christ's wounds, if that young fool drinks too much ale and opens his mouth about what we brought back from Suchdol, the bailiff will hang us both. We wait until the roads are safe, as I told him.
Nota scribaeThe man crossed his arms tightly and whispered the middle part.
The third day of May, at Prime
I only borrowed enough to cover my hearth tax after the damp ruined my sack of seed corn. Now Paul has hoed four strips of my leasehold instead of the two we agreed on. He is stealing my land, and Maresh calls it usury and bars us from confession.
The Tuesday after Easter, at Sext
Paul glares at Julian and Godfrey every time we eat our pottage. He still weeps over Otto. By Christ's wounds, the boy was quiet and had no business holding a spear in the levy. The line broke, men died. Nursing a grudge will not bring him back.
We did what we had to when the Hungarians charged. Poor Otto was just slow.
Amen to that. Up in heaven there are no Cumans to run from.
Nota scribaeDictated before he scraped his iron pot clean.
The feast of Saint Gregory, at None
The ground is like iron today. I spent the whole morning hacking at the master's slopes and my arms ache fiercely. A man's own boots and his hoe are all he can trust in this world. And a hot fire, if the foreman ever lets us stop.
The soil will soften when the rains come, old man.
Candlemas, at Prime
A deep frost has taken the cellar. I went down to check my sack of seed corn and the damp has rotted the whole lot. I am short for my winter rent. I will have to swallow my pride and speak to Paul about a loan.
A bad winter for us all, Walter. The damp took my onions too.
Nota scribaeHe spat on the ground after saying the younger man's name.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A man gets thirsty, Walter. A pouch does no good buried in the dirt.