foreman at the charcoal mounds, of The woodcutters' camps
“I keep the meilers burning at Vrchlicko so the Kuttenberg mint has its charcoal. If I did not shout from dawn to dusk, these fools would turn good timber to useless white ash.”
Things Geoffrey had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
Christ almighty, I ask a man to dig one drainage ditch and he robs me. Vashek still has my iron spade. He says I owe him silver from a march two winters gone. I lent the tool in good faith and the whoreson holds it hostage over nothing.
Nota scribaeDictated in a foul temper. The speaker paused twice to spit into the dirt.
the second day of May, at Prime
That bloodsucker Avice in Kolin refuses to send the camp any more ale. Maurice and Edward drank three barrels on credit and now she wants the slate wiped. I owe her nothing and I will not pay for another man's thirst. We are drinking ditch water because of them.
the Thursday of Easter week, at Terce
The spring rains have soaked the timber. These young fools leave gaps in the stacks and the wood is too wet to burn true. I spend half my day fixing their slipshod work before we light the mounds. If the mint complains, it is their heads on the block.
Aye, the wood is soaked through. But shouting at us will not dry it any faster, Geoffrey.
Nota scribaeHe spent a long time counting out small coins while speaking, gripping them tightly.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at None
Frantishek has not stopped talking about sending word to his brother Tobias in Prague. It is all we hear while we haul logs. Tobias has been gone ten years to cut stone. If he wanted to see this muddy camp, he would have walked here by now.
He is my own blood, Geoffrey. A man should know his family still lives, even if he is far away.
We are all sick of hearing about Prague, Frantishek. Haul your wood and be quiet.
Candlemas, at Compline
The wind howls tonight just like it did on that cursed march two winters ago. God rest old Stislav. He was the only decent man we had, before Edward let him freeze on the night watch. I paid a priest good groschen for his shroud, but the loss still aches.
It was not my fault. The wet chill took him, just like it takes many men. Stop laying his death at my feet.
You were a coward and left an old man to freeze in the mud. I will not forget it.
Nota scribaeThe man crossed himself three times before letting me write the dead man's name.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You know full well what you owe me, Geoffrey. Ten groschen for my share of the sack we found. Pay up and you get the spade.
There is no ten groschen. I paid for a burial mass. Keep the spade if you are so fond of digging dirt, you stubborn ass.