woodworker at the sawmill, of The woodcutters' camps
“I manage the timber and charcoal for the Kuttenberg mint. My word is law under this roof.”
Things Lawrence Field had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Compline
I spent the morning counting the groschen in my strongbox. The yield from the kilns is barely enough for the Kuttenberg mint. I told Jezhek and Ralph to fell twice the timber tomorrow. If we do not meet the quota, we do not eat.
Nota scribaeDictated very slowly. He rubbed his jaw the entire time and stared at the floor.
the Thursday after the Invention of the Cross, at None
Jezhek and Standa almost came to blows again at supper over that wedge of scrub pine on the northern ridge. Our father Lambert was raving with winter fever when he died, he meant nothing by it. Standa works it like it is his, but it belongs to the lease.
Father gave it to his most loyal son. You were there in the room, Lawrence, you heard him speak the words.
Loyal? You spent his last days drinking down at the alehouse while I chopped the firewood!
the morrow of St George, at Prime
I have taken the bag of forged nails into my strongbox. They are needed for the camp. If anyone asks why, it is because I hold the lease here and I say so. A wooden chest for some penniless girl in Kuttenberg is a fool's waste of good iron.
They were my nails, bought with my own saved coin! Mary and I will wed, no matter what you steal from me.
You will eat under my roof and obey my word, lad. We have no iron to spare.
Nota scribaeHe spoke very quietly when he said the last part, rubbing a carved wooden ring on his hand.
the second Tuesday of Lent, at Sext
Bread is dearer this spring than any year I remember, and soldiers are thick on the roads. Joseph is down at the kilns hoarding his pennies under the floorboards like a mouse. He thinks I do not know. Every penny under this roof belongs to the work.
I only want to keep what I earn from the soot, Father. Just a little for myself.
Leave the boy be, Lawrence. He works the fires diligently enough and never raises his voice.
Candlemas, at Vespers
The royal clerk Michael sent word from the countinghouse today. A new decree. All timber for the works must now be delivered fully bound with iron nails. Iron is costly. We will have to find a way to meet this rule or the mint will stop buying our wood.
And how do you expect us to pay for iron, Father? I am already deep in debt to Paul.
Nota scribaeThe man seemed suddenly very tired, leaning heavily against the wall of the mill.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
But what if the bailiff comes with his levy lists while we are out in the woods?
Easy for you to say from the yard, Father. It is our sweat on the saws.