hewer at rabstejn camp, of The woodcutters' camps
“I have been swinging a broadaxe longer than half these lads have been alive. I reckon I know how to look out for myself.”
Things Bartholomew had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Terce
I am trapped in this clearing and entirely sick of eating nothing but thin oat gruel for every meal. Otto has not sent the supply cart and the flour bin is empty. I reckon I would gladly pay a stranger to fetch me two proper loaves of baked bread from Kuttenberg, but my ankle will not bear my weight.
Nota scribaeDictated from a stump. He rubbed his ankle the entire time he spoke.
the feast of Saint Pancras, at Sext
Some young fools have no sense at all. William has been leaving certain fine saws right out in the open where anyone walking the forest road might see them. If the bailiff or Otto comes up here and finds what does not belong to us, I reckon we will all end up in the pillory. Put the tools away.
the second Tuesday after Easter, at Vespers
I have no patience for a man who speaks ill of the dead. Jan is a steady worker and his brother Martin was a strong hewer before that branch came down on him. Robert is a miserable drunk who only runs his mouth because he knows he broke his vow to Saint Barbara to walk to Sedletz barefoot.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at Compline
Otto docked our pay again. That skinflint sits safe in his room at the Italian Court and never visits the mud himself to see the work. A surveyor's wagon lost a wheel on the road and was left unguarded. I reckon we took what we were owed. I found a good coil of rope.
Nota scribaeThe man spoke very slowly and lowered his voice so the other woodcutters would not hear the part about the wagon.
the Thursday after Candlemas, at None
We dropped four big pines today to shore up the Kuttenberg mines. Jan and Richard pull the crosscut saw well enough, but my bones ache before I even stand these mornings. Twenty years of this work makes a man tired. The wind is biting cold and we only have one iron pot over the fire.
Aye, the cold gets into the joints and stays there until spring. The gruel does not help.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You could eat that salted pork you kept for yourself, you old bastard. You promised me half.
I reckon I do not know what pork you are talking about, lad. Mind your own belly.