hired hand for the church, of Suchdol
“I mind my own business and do the heavy lifting while the older blokes lean on their spades. It wasn't me who broke the cart, and I never look for trouble.”
Things William had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The wind is tearing at the stable thatch and I am frightened it will blow the roof apart. I spent the whole morning checking the beams. If Peter the steward sees what is up there, I am a dead man. It is not my fault the wind blows so hard.
Nota scribaeHe kept looking up at the roof while he spoke, wringing his hands.
the second day of Easter week, at None
Walter is a whoreson liar. I found that rusty axe abandoned in the yard, ruining in the damp. I only picked it up to finish his chores because he was shirking. Now it is locked in my chest in the tack room and I will not give it back until he admits he left it.
I lent it to you on Saint Martin's day for kindling, you bloody thief. Unlock that chest or I will break it open myself.
the feast of Saint Benedict, at Terce
I ate my thin pottage on the porch step today, away from the others. They leave the worst of the muck for me to shovel. I sweat over the woodpile from dawn till dusk while they do nothing. It is an honest living, but I am tired of being blamed for everything.
At least you are not hauling dead dogs, lad. Eat your pottage and keep your head down.
Nota scribaeDictated by the woodpile. The shovel he held was suspiciously clean.
the Monday after Saint Matthias, at Sext
Walter keeps looking at me across the yard. I know what he is thinking about the autumn levy and the river crossing, but it wasn't me! I swear on the Virgin the heavy cart pulled the rope taut until it snapped. No man alive could have held it. We should just forget it.
You panicked and dropped the lead rope to save your own miserable skin. Ulrich drowned because of you.
Candlemas, at Prime
The ground is frozen solid and hauling water from the well before dawn is cracking my hands. I swept the yard before Peter emerged from the priest's house, but he still looked at me as if I had stolen the church silver. I did not do anything wrong.
Not the church silver, William. Just the silver from the burned toll-house. Give me my half.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If you are so frightened of the wind, William, give me my half of what is up there and I will keep it safe.
I do not know what you mean, Robert. There is nothing up there but old straw and rat droppings.