farmer at the estate, of Suchdol
“I do an honest day's work and just want a bit of peace, but my back aches terribly.”
Things Hugh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St George, at None
Christ's wounds, I am sick of drinking my ale from a cracked clay mug. Roger still has my good tin pitcher locked in his chest. He claims it is a lawful pledge for his war gear. I admit I owe him the kit, but the pitcher is a separate matter entirely.
Nota scribaeThe man paused twice to rub his back and sigh.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
The dust in the fields today was enough to choke a horse. I worked until I could no longer see my own hands, while young Adam leant on his hoe and watched. These lads have no respect for their elders, nor for the soil. My bones are too old for this.
My hoe was broken, old man. Would you have me dig with my nose?
Come wash the dust out at the tavern, Hugh. A cup of ale cures an aching back.
Easter, at Prime
We received our Easter wages, but Maurice the steward took most of it for ruined tack. Christ's wounds, that absentee whoreson treats us worse than dogs. Now I have no silver to go to Kuttenberg and pay Juliana for the gear I pawned. I am entirely destitute.
Hush, Hugh! If the steward hears you speak of him so, he will take the rest of your coin.
At least you did not have to face the captain empty-handed at the muster.
Nota scribaeDictated in a low whisper, the man looking over his shoulder constantly.
Shrove Tuesday, at Compline
Tomorrow the fasting begins. I lent my tin pitcher to Roger out of neighbourly charity, so he might have a proper drink at Slivka's tavern tonight before Lent. A man ought to help his neighbours when times are hard and the winter bites.
I thank you for it, neighbour. The ale always tastes far sweeter from a proper tin vessel.
Both of you still owe me for the ale that went into it.
Candlemas, at Prime
Maurice decrees any broken tool this year comes out of our wages. As if we have silver! And that young rat William lost the war kit I lent him to tavern debts. If I show up empty-handed at the muster, the captain will flog the skin from my back.
I did not lose it, Hugh, it was taken from me! I swear on the saints I will make it right.
You will make it right before the muster or I will break your neck, you little rat.
Nota scribaeThe man was so furious he spat upon the floorboards.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It stays in my chest until I see my gambeson, you old fool. A pledge is a pledge.
Christ's wounds, Roger, it is just a pitcher! I will pay a stranger to fetch it back if I must.