farmer of Lorec, of Lorec
“I keep the vines straight and the flax bundled, and ask to be left alone. Hard work is all a man can trust.”
Things Godfrey had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Compline
That young lord Thomas of Bohunowitz sent his man again for my flax and straw. I told him plain, I need the straw for my own roof before winter. If his master wants dry thatch for some gentleman's folly, he can bring ten groschen. Not a copper less.
Nota scribaeDictated while holding a pitchfork. I did not record the curse he laid upon the nobility.
the feast of St Pancras, at Sext
The wooden stakes in the upper rows are rotting. I am glad Oswald Petzold came down from Kuttenberg to bring new ones. He knows his trade and keeps his mouth shut, which is more than I can say for most men in this village.
They are good ash wood, Godfrey. They will outlast us both.
I could have cut you some stakes, you didn't have to pay a town carpenter.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
I sat in the alehouse today and had to look at Paul and Andrew drinking like honest men. Every time I close my eyes I see the Cumans hit our line, and them breaking. Maresh died in the mud because of them. I want them to admit it, bloody hell.
Christ almighty, Godfrey, let it rest. It was horsemen against foot. We had no chance.
You were just as scared as we were. Nobody could have saved him.
You ran. You ran and left him.
Nota scribaeThe man spat on the floor after speaking these names. The tavern keeper made him wipe it up.
the Wednesday after St Gregory, at Prime
Saw young Adam crossing the lower fields before the sun was fully up, carrying a sack that dripped blood. The lords will hang him if they catch him shooting their birds. But their laws are dog shit, so I said nothing and went back to weeding.
It was just a sack of old rags, Godfrey. Nothing for anyone to fret over.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
Woke up in the dark again with my hands curled up tight, dreaming of Hungarian steel and the mud. It is freezing in this hut, and the bread is stale. If the Lord is reading this, I hope Maresh has better food in heaven.
Amen to that, lad. We'll pour one out for him.
Nota scribaeHe asked if the Pope's book could be sent to heaven. I told him it goes to Rome.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Ten groschen for common straw is highway robbery, you stubborn dirt-scratcher.
Then find another roof to strip, my lord.