hired hand at the workshop, of Malesov
“I sweep the shavings and fetch tools for the master, keeping my head down.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Ascension, at Terce
James is back from Kuttenberg. Christ preserve us. I counted my pennies under the floorboards three times this morning. I pray it is enough to keep my name off his cursed parchment. Let the brave men go rot, I only want to stay here and sweep the shop.
Nota scribaeThe lad was wringing his hands the whole time he spoke. I could barely hear him over his muttering.
the feast of St Mark, at None
Saw John the catchpole trip over his own boots in the yard again today. His cudgel is polished bright with tallow, but he walks like a blind sheep. And they give him a badge. Christ preserve us.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
The master had me patching wheels all through the holy days. My hands are black with grease, but it keeps me out of the alehouse where the old hired hand is drinking his wages away. Father Edmund will have his hide for those unpaid tithes.
Leave the old man be. We all have our cross to bear, yours is just a cowardly streak.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Prime
More troops marching down the road today. I hid in the back with the tools until they passed. God's wounds, if they drag me off to fight the Cumans I will be dead in a week. The levy is a death sentence.
Nota scribaeDictated from behind a pile of timber. He refused to come out.
Candlemas, at Sext
The Pope's men want us writing our days down. Very well. I swept the shop. I fetched the iron. I minded my own business and I bothered nobody. Write that down and leave me be.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If you have coin to spare for the king's peace, bring it to the bailiff's house by Sunday.