master of the farm, of Malesov
“I am the master here, though my wife and the hired hands try to forget it. I keep this land going despite thieves and soldiers.”
Things Adam had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
My wife Alice will not cease her nagging over a tin pitcher. I used it for mixing sheep salve because a master needs proper vessels. Now she says it is ruined. If she wants it so badly, let her scrub the stink out herself. Farm property is farm property.
Nota scribaeHe dictated this with his arms crossed, speaking very quickly.
the feast of St Mark, at Sext
Counted the seed grain again. Christ almighty, the bins are low. Those Hungarian whoresons took a third of our crop and two prime pigs last autumn, and now we must scrape through the hungry spring. But we will sow what we have. It takes a hard hand to keep a farm alive.
Ay, we are all feeling the pinch, Adam. Come drink a thin ale and forget it.
the third day of Easter week, at None
Emma is demanding a sworn character again so she can run off to Kuttenberg. I told her no. I need her labour here, and I will not be left short-handed just because a maidservant thinks she is too good for Malesov dirt.
I have worked my hands raw and you owe me forty groschen. Swear to my character or pay me what is mine.
Bynyek always paid his hands by Easter. You owe me sixty, boy.
Your winter keep settles the debt, John. Eat my bread, do my work.
Nota scribaeHe was pacing the yard when he said this, looking anxiously at a heavy box.
the Thursday after Laetare Sunday, at Prime
At least young William does as he is told without a sneer. The boy is full of some sickbed vow to Saint Barbara, but he works hard enough. I set him to mending the fences today. If the others had half his obedience, this farm would yield twice as much.
Saint Barbara kept the fever from me, master. I must keep my promise.
Ash Wednesday, at Compline
My wife crossed words with Margaret today before the church, and Margaret gave her a proper dressing down. Alice was spitting mad all evening. I said nothing, but I cannot deny it was a fine thing to see someone else on the receiving end of her sharp tongue for once.
Margaret is a proud, wicked woman and I am glad she has fled to Prague! Do not speak of her.
Nota scribaeThe man lowered his voice to a whisper for this part, looking over his shoulder.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You ruined my dowry pitcher because you lack the coin for a wooden bucket. Give it back.
I am the master here, woman. What is yours is the farm's.