collier at camp vrchlicko, of The woodcutters' camps
“I burn charcoal out on the far mounds where it is quiet. If the others left me be and stopped blaming me for their messes, I'd be perfectly happy.”
Things Edward had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at None
Avice sent word she wants coin for those three barrels. Bloody hell, Maurice drank half of it and offered the rest freely. I'm not giving up a single penny of my piece-rate for his debt.
Nota scribaeHe folded his arms tight across his chest while speaking.
the feast of St Pancras, at Vespers
Frantishek has not shut his mouth all day about his brother Tobias in Prague. Christ almighty, we are cutting timber, not writing letters to stonemasons. Stislav never whined this much.
I only want him to know I am alive. No need to bite my head off.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Geoffrey is barking again, trying to say I gave old Stislav the wettest watch on that march two winters ago. It is a lie. The old man drank sour wine. If anyone killed him, it was Hugh the Great hoarding a dry wool blanket.
You fell asleep and you know it. Stop pointing fingers at Hugh.
I earned that blanket. Don't you try to put his freezing on my head.
You let him shiver, Hugh. I saw it.
Nota scribaeHe shook his head violently the entire time he dictated this.
the feast of St Gregory, at Terce
I took the furthest mound today. Better to haul my own water and stack my own timber than listen to Vashek complaining about twenty groschen and an iron spade. Let Geoffrey choke on it.
A spade is a spade, and twenty groschen is twenty groschen.
Candlemas, at dawn
There is frost on the turf roof and the bread is as hard as a rock. Andreas is wearing Stislav's old boots. Bloody thief. Though truth be told, my own boots have holes in the soles, and the mud is freezing.
The dead do not need boots, Edward. The priest said so himself.
Nota scribaeDictated before the sun was fully up.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I offered a cup, not the whole bloody barrel. Pay your share, Edward.
No more ale for the camp until the slate is wiped clean.