vineyard worker at Lorec, of Lorec
“I work the vines at Lorec and have done since before these lads had hair on their chins. I keep the soil honest, even if the overseers care nothing for it.”
Things Zdenyek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at None
I saw Administrator Jerome talking with the bailiff's man today. They were looking right at the press-house. By Saint Wenceslas, I am too old and stiff to hold a spear against a Cuman horseman. I have a few pennies saved in a rag. If I knew whose palm to grease, I would empty it before dusk.
Nota scribaeThe old man was shaking. He spat thrice upon the ground before speaking.
the feast of Saint Philip and James, at Vespers
Frantishek is complaining about his knees again. I told him he should have thought of that before he swore to walk barefoot to Sedletz. You do not bargain with the Almighty and then forget the bill. Take your boots off, lad, before God strikes you down proper this time.
The roads are mud and flint, Zdenyek! The Lord knows my joints are bad.
The Lord also knows a broken vow. The abbey gates are always open to the penitent.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Prime
The young lads are at each other's throats again in the loft. Thomas is shouting at Julian about the snow two winters back, and Tuma is muttering in the dark. I took my bowl outside to sit on the bench. I have no time for their bitterness when the vines need tying.
I told Thomas there was nothing we could do for Mikesh! The line was broken.
You broke it, you coward. You left him to the soldiers.
Leave it be, both of you. You're waking the whole yard with this shouting.
Nota scribaeHe paused to rub his knuckles for some time before finishing.
the third Sunday in Lent, at Terce
Joan's pottage is thin today, but I ate it without complaint. I remember her brother Mikesh. He was a steady worker, and she carries a heavy grief for him. The rest of these boys could learn from his memory, instead of hacking at the branches like they are chopping firewood.
You are kind to say so, Zdenyek. I will find a bit of fat for your bowl tomorrow.
Thin pottage is thin pottage, no matter who died in the snow.
Nota scribaeDictated while the man wiped a pruning knife on his breeches.
the morrow of Candlemas, at dawn
Up before the sun to check the ties on the slopes. The new overseers only care about how heavy the baskets will be come autumn. Master Stislav taught us the proper way. I try to show the young ones how to cut so the vine does not bleed, but they pay no mind.
The yield is what pays for your pottage, old man. Mind your ties and let me worry about the harvest weight.
Blood of Christ, the vines will yield nothing next year if you let these fools butcher them now.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your head down, Zdenyek. Maybe they just wanted to talk about the yield.
If they take you to the army, who will teach us to prune without bleeding the branch?