yard worker at Suchdol, of Suchdol
“I am a Kuttenberg boy forced by tavern debts to work for dirt farmers. I am only here to earn my silver and go back to the paved streets.”
Things William had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Ascension, at Vespers
Cabbage and dark bread again at the common table, without a single scrap of meat. I refused to help Alice lift the heavy pots in the hall today. I am a townsperson, not a draught beast for them to work to the bone.
the feast of St Philip and St James, at None
Mabel is begging me again to walk to Tachov with a message for Kubyenka. I am not risking my neck on roads full of foreign soldiers just to soothe a housekeeper's nerves. The man was levied, he will come back or he will rot, my walking there changes nothing.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Terce
Hugh is furious about his helmet and kit. By Christ and all the saints, a man cannot help it if he had to leave some gear with Juliana in Kuttenberg to keep from starving. Her interest is sharp, but I will get it back when I have the groschen.
You pawned my kit to that leech? Get it back before the captain flogs me, you Kuttenberg whoreson!
Nota scribaeHe lowered his voice and rubbed his thumb across his knuckles when mentioning the pawnbroker's ledger.
the second Friday of Lent, at Compline
Sitting at the tavern watching Lettice sneak about to hoard her pennies for candles, while Matilda weeps over Nicholas locked up in the gaol. They are all fools. The ale here is thin, but it is better than smelling the pigpens in the dark.
Keep your eyes off my pennies and pay your own tavern slate, dirt-scraper.
Nicholas is a good man ruined by bad luck. You know nothing of it.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
Maurice the steward came down and declared that any broken tool will be paid for out of our Easter wages. Christ almighty, how am I to pay my tavern debts if they dock me for every snapped wattle fence? The master pays us in dirt.
You break more tools than the wind does because you hold a hammer like a city girl.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard. He spat in the mud after naming the steward.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You are as useless as a wet fire-log, William. Even the pigs work harder for their supper.