herdsman of Miskowitz, of Miskowitz
“I am the finest driver of beasts in this valley, though my kin treat me like a green boy.”
Things Hugh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
I have the thirteen groschen wrapped in a rag in my pouch. Every penny earned fair from extra work. But I'll rot before I walk into a certain butcher's shop and tell him it was my fault the road was washed out. My late mother's bone beads belong to me.
Nota scribaeDictated very loudly. He crossed his arms and glared at the inkwell while speaking.
the feast of St John before the Latin Gate, at None
Bloody hell, I saw Geoffrey at the alehouse sweeping the floor and sipping water again. Not a single penny spent on beer. A tight-fisted miser. No wonder David Stone's lad Ulrich ran off to Kuttenberg before Lent. I'd run too if I worked for a stubborn mule.
I am saving my coin for a reason, Hugh. Not all of us want to sleep in our brother's corner forever.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Christ almighty, if Yarka or Christine tell me to wipe my boots one more time I will sleep out in the sheep pens. I am a grown man and the best herdsman in Miskowitz, not a child to be scolded over a bit of mud on a threshold.
the Monday before Easter, at Sext
A calf breaks its leg in a washed-out ditch, and suddenly I am a blind fool! The beast panicked. Pure bad luck. But David Stone forcefully snatched my late mother's bone rosary from my very hands as a pledge. Thirteen groschen for ruined veal. A thief, that is what he is.
Prime town veal ruined in the dirt because you were daydreaming. You owe me for the loss.
You shame this family, Hugh. Pay the man and stop whining.
Nota scribaeHe spoke very fast and paced the floor of the nave, refusing to sit.
Candlemas, at dawn
Cold enough to freeze the breath in your throat, but the herd is moving. Nobody keeps the strays in line better than me. Let the older men sit by the hearth, I know my trade and I know my dogs.
Don't boast so loud, brother, the wolves might hear you.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You want the bone beads, boy, you bring the silver and say you were careless. Not a single bead before.
I was not careless! The ditch was pure mud!