vineyard worker at Lorec, of Lorec
“I work the vines at Lorec and try to keep my head down. A man needs steady nerves to manage both the dung baskets and the shouting in the loft.”
Things Andrew had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The vines are taking well. I wiped my hands and looked out over the slopes today, thinking of Master Stislav. He knew how to treat a man without making him feel like a mule in a harness. We just need to keep our heads down and work.
the second day of Easter week, at None
The Easter wages are paid at last. I bought myself some decent leather gloves so my hands do not freeze hauling the dung. Perhaps I will find a draught of ale in town that does not taste like vinegar. Praise be for a quiet day.
Do not spend it all on drink, Andrew. There is work tomorrow.
Nota scribaeDictated near the press-house. He counted his coins twice while speaking.
the Wednesday before Easter, at Compline
Godfrey started shouting again about the wagons and the snow two winters back. He says it is my fault a man was lost. It is not true. We all ran when the fire started. A man's fate is God's business, and I cannot bring the dead back.
You know what happened, Andrew. You were there when the line broke.
We were all there, Godfrey. Let it rest before the bailiff hears you.
Andrew is right. We ran because we had to.
Nota scribaeHe spoke softly, but his hands were trembling as he wiped them on his trousers.
the first Sunday of Lent, at Prime
I said a prayer at the cross for Mikesh this morning. The lads were bickering over breakfast, but I stayed quiet. Joan's pottage is thin, but she lost her brother, so I leave her be. I just want to get through the day without a quarrel.
Candlemas, at Terce
A bitter cold morning. I was up before the others stopped snoring in the loft, packing dung around the roots on the lower slope. Frantishek swore he was going to walk to Sedletz today, but I see him huddled by the press-house fire.
The roads are too frozen for a pilgrimage, Andrew. Even the Lord rests in the cold.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Stislav had a steady hand. The new men only see the yield, not the sweat.