master blacksmith, of Sigismund's camp
“I make sure these bloody wagons hold together and the horses stay shod. It is hard, honest work.”
Things John Tanner had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Ascension, at None
This damp spring air is chewing on my spine. I would give a week's coin for a hot bowl of pottage, but I refuse to step foot in the canteen if Ernest is there. I will eat cold rations until I die before I apologize to a kitchen hand.
Nota scribaeHe leant heavily on his hammer the entire time he spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Walter dropped a heavy rasp this morning. His left hand goes numb in the cold, ever since that timber cart broke us both. I set him to hauling coal instead. Nicholas didn't notice, thank God. That armorer worries too bloody much about the levy.
I notice more than you think, John. But as long as my plates aren't dented, I won't say a word.
Thank you, master. The cold is a cruel master to my fingers.
the Monday after St Benedict, at Sext
Tore my tunic hoisting pig iron. Last year, Zlata would have stitched it up and brought us cold water. God rest her soul, the bloody flux took one of the few good ones. Now I look ragged enough for the camp bailiff to throw me out to beg.
She was a gentle soul. The copper ring I made for her nameday was buried with her, I hope.
Nota scribaeHe crossed himself clumsily with a soot-stained hand.
the feast of St Thomas Aquinas, at Vespers
Forged a dozen wagon tires today. My massive arms do the work my arse of a back cannot. If I ever lay eyes on Lawrence, I will crush his skull in the vice. Fleeing his debts and leaving us to pay the surgeon from our own pockets.
I spit on his name. My hand still aches when the wind turns.
Candlemas, at Compline
Another freezing night. My stomach is rumbling louder than the bellows. I haven't had a proper hot meal since St Martin's, because that clumsy arse Ernest barged into my good shoulder and ruined my roast pork. I am too proud to beg him for peace.
I didn't barge into you! Your grip failed you, John. Admit your hands are giving out.
My grip is strong enough to wring your bloody neck, you whoreson.
Nota scribaeDictated from the floor of a draughty shed. He smelled faintly of rust and old sweat.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Suit yourself, old man. More hot food for the rest of us. If your grip wasn't so weak, you'd have had your pork on St Martin's.