the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Hugh still hoards the timber in the upper keep while we rot. I woke up soaked again. If I do not get a dry shingle over my head soon, I am taking a hammer to his storehouse myself.
Nota scribaeHe clenched his fists so hard I thought he would strike me.

Amen to that, Andrew. My boots haven't been dry since Easter.
Keep your hands off the lord's wood, guardsman, or you will lose them.