hired hand at the bakehouse, of Miskowitz
“I haul grain and chop wood for master Walter. My back aches something fierce, but I still do my share.”
Things Edmund had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The spring rains are coming right through the roof of Sybil's shed. I would mend it myself, but Vitek the wright is still off at the war, and my back is too stiff to climb. She is soaked to the bone in there.
Nota scribaeDictated while the man rubbed his lower back heavily with his right hand.
the second day of May, at Terce
Hauled six heavy sacks of wheat from the carts before the bells rang. By Saint Lawrence, my left hand would not grip the last one properly. If Walter catches me limping around the yard, I will be begging on the road before the snows come.
You dropped good rye in the mud yesterday. Watch your feet, old man, or I will find a hand who can stand straight.
I will move the rest of the sacks when he goes to the tavern, Edmund. Go sit by the fire.
the Thursday of Easter week, at None
Walter and Roger Fisher are at it again over that torn canvas awning at the market. Grown men bickering like geese over a bit of cloth from last Michaelmas. If Roger spent less time fretting over his mother in Prague, he might fix his own stall.
Keep my mother Martha out of your mouth, you broken fool. There is sickness everywhere and Walter owes me for that canvas.
They give me a headache with their shouting. I have ledgers to balance.
Nota scribaeHe grunted heavily when standing to take his leave.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Prime
Grain is dearer now with all these soldiers tearing up the roads. Margery is counting every penny and groschen. The flour dust makes me cough, and Terri the yard dog gets nothing but stale crusts for his supper.
We all must tighten our belts, Edmund. The rye does not grow on trees, and Walter took Sybil's linen to pay for the spoiled batch.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
Three winters now since old Peter went into the churchyard dirt. He was a fair master. When that cursed wheel slipped and the cart crushed my hand against the wall, he paid the wife who tended my fever. Men are not made like that anymore.
My father was too soft with his coin, and I am the one left to make the bakehouse turn a profit.
Nota scribaeThe man seemed tired and stared at the floor while speaking.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is freezing, Edmund. And Walter will not spare a single penny for a new board to keep the rain off me.