hired hand at the farm, of Suchdol
“I do the labour of three men here. It is my sweat keeping the roof from falling down.”
Things William had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at None
Isabel is screeching again about her tin plate. By Saint Martin, I found it in the slops and I cleaned it. If she wanted to keep it so badly, she should not have thrown it away. It makes a fine scraper for the spring mud on my boots.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was loud and rapid. He crossed his arms tightly the entire time.
the week after Easter, at Vespers
Robert is making a right racket again about back wages. The master's lockbox is emptier than a beggar's belly. A loud mouth doesn't put silver in the chest, it just gets you turned out on the road. Keep your head down and pitch the muck.
the second day of April, at Prime
That blind drunkard Baldwin tipped a whole cartload of turnips into the deepest mud on the road. Now the whoreson blames me, saying I loaded it poorly! By Saint Martin, I loaded it true. I expect an apology, though the coward ran off to Prague.
You stacked them like a blind man stacking stones, William! The axle groaned before we even passed the mill!
You drove it into a rut deep enough to swallow a cow, you absolute fool!
Nota scribaeHe spat heavily into the dirt after saying the carter's name.
the Monday of Lent, at Compline
The bread gets dearer and the pottage gets thinner, but the beasts still need fodder. Master John paces the yard fretting over the crops, while Robert Coleman sits next door with his strict ledgers and too much coin. I want nothing to do with that sour merchant.
My ledgers are strict because I am not a fool. Keep your eyes in your own yard, hired hand.
Candlemas, at dawn
My hands are blistered raw from this rough pitchfork, but the beast stalls are clean. Lidka, God rest her, used to say hard work keeps the devil away. She died of the shaking fever three winters ago, but I wish she was still here.
Nota scribaeHe dictated this before the sun was fully up, stamping his feet against the bitter frost.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You thieving whoreson! You took it from the washing tub because I wouldn't pour your ale. Give it back!
A plate in the slops is slops. Find a wooden trencher like the rest of us.
Stop barking, the pair of you, or you will both eat off the bare table.