hired hand at the ditches, of On the roads
“I dig the heavy clay and mend the fences for wages, hoarding what I can. I just want my own land back.”
Things Frantishek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Pentecost, at Vespers
I counted the rag again last night. I am so close to the sum for the creek lease I can smell the damp earth. If Maresh sells it to another after I ruined my back in these ditches, I will scream. I just need a few more pennies.
Nota scribaeHe kept rubbing a scar on his thumb and muttering numbers while he spoke.
the Tuesday after St George, at None
Edward said the frost would bite the early shoots, and the old man was right. I spent the morning hacking at iron dirt. Bloody hell, my shoulders ache. At least it is honest sweat, not like some fools who drink their wages away.
A cup of ale keeps a man warm, you miserable bastard. You should try it.
The earth remembers the winter longer than we do. Rest your back, lad.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
I saw Edith dragging those flax bundles again today. The girl is going to snap her spine. I would lend a hand, but I have my own quota to dig before the sun drops, and a man must look to his own bowl first.
I do not need your pity, Frantishek. I only need the sun to stay up.
the Thursday after St Gregory, at Terce
The roads are thick with soldiers and the bread costs twice what it should. Every time I see a Hungarian I remember my burning roof. Christ almighty, we are all just trying to scrape by in the mud.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly. I advised him to keep his voice down regarding the king's brother.
the day after Candlemas, at Compline
I lent my best iron billhook to Maresh. It cost me a month of sweat to buy it. He said he only needed it to clear his yard, but I know how men are with borrowed steel. I dare not push him, for I need his favor.
Do not fret, you will have it back by Sunday. The scrub is thicker than I thought.
It has been three days, Maresh. I need it for the hedgerows.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Show me the coin, Frantishek. The ground does not wait for a poor man.