master of a holding, of Malesov
“I have worked this soil for twenty years with my own sweat. Everyone under my roof expects to be fed, but nobody wants to put their back into the plough.”
Things Richard had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St John Before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
My wife Anna thinks she can sneak fine linen out of this yard wrapped in her shawl. I took the bolt and locked it in my heavy wooden chest. If the bailiff wants silver we do not have, I must hold fast to what is woven under my roof. She will not pawn it for her brother's sake.
Nota scribaeHe struck the table with his fist while dictating this.
the eve of St George, at Sext
That clerk Bartholomew says the Easter tax must be paid in hard groschen now, not grain. I spent the last of my silver on seed corn and a new ploughshare. The men will just have to wait for their pennies until the harvest. The earth does not care for a bailiff's lists, and neither do I.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
John and Isabel bicker over the far strip of flax like crows over a carcass. Katherine used to quiet them, God rest her soul, but now they howl all day. I ignore them entirely. I only care that the ploughing is done before dusk. John thinks he is ready to take my keys, but he knows nothing of hard years.
Mother always said I should have the yield from that strip for my dairy work.
Nota scribaeThe man was covered in mud and smelled strongly of the fields.
the Tuesday after Laetare Sunday, at None
Saw Constance whispering with my wife Anna by the fence today. Sweated straight through my rough wool shirt just looking at them. Women have too much breath to spare when they ought to be at the churn. I have commanded Anna to stay in the yard and mend the grain sacks.
Candlemas, at Terce
The damp of the floorboards aches in my bones every morning. Told William and Vashek they get no quarterly pennies today. A farm needs seed corn more than hired hands need coin. They grumbled and complained, but my word is the law in this house. By Saint Wenceslas, I built this place with my own hands.
We worked a hard winter in your hayloft, master. It is not right to hold it back.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I wove that linen with my own hands, Richard! You do not know why I need it.
You are a hard man, neighbour. Be careful what old things you keep locked in chests.