hired hand at the mill, of Danemark
“I haul sacks and sweep flour until my back breaks. Fifteen years I have kept my head down, and I am still here.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
Saw armed men on the Kuttenberg road again today. Hungarians by the look of them. I shoved the good iron hammer and the copper pennies under the loose floorboard in the main workshop. Christ almighty, if they come down the valley, they will burn us out.
Nota scribaeHe spoke in a whisper and kept looking at the door.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Terce
Slipped on the slick stairs today and near broke my neck on a flour sack. It is a sign. I swore to Saint Barbara I would walk barefoot to Sedletz and give a month's wages if the fever spared me, and I never did. Heaven is coming for its due.
Baldwin should put new steps in. It is not the saints, it is rotten wood.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at None
My lower back is screaming from the river damp. Sat by the water race for my soup and could hardly stand up after. Swept the boards clean before dusk, though. A little flour in the pouch for the hired men will not hurt Master Baldwin's heavy purse.
I will be checking the weights on the morrow. See that the floors are clean.
Nota scribaeHe showed me the pouch. I told him the Lord sees all theft, however small.
the first Friday of Lent, at Prime
Master Baldwin came from his fine stone house to check the ledgers. Looked right through me, he did. I stood there like a stone so he would not dock my pay. I still owe Agatha for the ale she gave me when I was sick, and now she is in Prague.
He walked past my collapsed roof and did not say a bloody word.
the morrow of Candlemas, at dawn
Woke before the sun and the outbuildings are freezing. The water wheel sounds louder when the air is cold. Fifteen years here and it never gets easier to pull breath in the morning. Saint Barbara protect us from another bitter freeze.
My lean-to is worse. I woke up with frost on my boots.
Nota scribaeDictated while shivering.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
We should take the hammer to them, Thomas. I am not running.
Keep your voice down, lad. A dead hero does not eat bread.