digger at the charcoal mounds, of The woodcutters' camps
“I dig the mud so the timber does not drown. And I am the only one here who remembers every penny owed.”
Things Vashek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Avice sent the cart back empty. Not a single barrel of ale from Kolin because Edward and Maurice drank their fill on credit and never paid her. Now we all choke on soot with dry throats. Pay the woman your tallies!
Nota scribaeDictated in great haste, jabbing his finger at the empty cart.
the feast of St John before the Latin Gate, at Sext
Frantishek is at me again to ask the merchants at the crossroads to carry a message to Prague. I am not going to the crossroads, and I do not care about Tobias the stonemason. Stop asking.
It is a simple thing to ask a man on a horse. Ten years is a long time.
Then go stand by the road yourself.
the Thursday of Easter week, at None
Geoffrey wants his heavy iron spade back. He says it is his. I say he owes me ten groschen from that march two winters ago, and the spade stays in my hands until I see the silver.
I told you, the silver went to a priest for old Stislav's soul! You insult a dead man.
By the saints' bones, there was no priest by that ditch, you bald liar.
Let Stislav rest. Both of you.
Nota scribaeThe speaker gripped an iron spade the entire time he spoke.
the second Friday of Lent, at Prime
Hugh the Great and Edward are shouting again over who had the dry wool blanket the night Stislav died of the wet chill. It changes nothing. Andreas took the old man's boots before he was cold anyway.
I never had the blanket. Edward hid it under his pack.
His feet did not need boots in the dirt. Mine did.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
The ground is half frozen and half mud. If I do not dig the trench deep enough, the water will ruin the meiler and none of us get a penny from the mint. And I will not die penniless.
Dig true, lad. We need the burn to hold.
Nota scribaeHe spoke very fast and tallied his pennies on his fingers.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My throat is just as dry as yours, Vashek. She charges too much.
Christ almighty, you count other men's ale like a miser.