hired hand at the mill, of Podseminsko
“I haul hundredweights of grain until the wheel stops, and I keep my mouth shut. A man does his work and minds his own business.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Margery keeps looking at the floorboards in the loft when she thinks I am not watching. She asks about old parchment. I do not have what she is looking for. By Saint Peter, a man's belongings are his own, and I keep nothing that is not mine.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed his thumbs together fiercely while speaking this.
the feast of Saint John before the Latin Gate, at None
More of Sigismund's riders on the road today. Every time they pass, the bread gets dearer and Agnes looks at the ledger with a sharper eye. I am hauling double the sacks just to make sure I am not turned out onto the road with the beggars.
You are hauling half what I haul, lad. Stop your boasting before your spine snaps.
the second day of Easter week, at Sext
William is acting the foreman again just because we had to shift fifty sacks before mass. My back feels like it was beaten with an iron bar from the damp, but I carried ten more sacks than he did, and I did not complain once.
We all saw you limping to your bowl of pottage, Thomas. Pride feeds nobody.
Nota scribaeThe man winced when he sat down on the bench.
the Friday after Saint Gregory, at Prime
Andrew dared to bring up Saint Michael's feast again this morning at the hoppers. I was not asleep by the wagon wheel. The woods were black as pitch and freezing. The soldiers killed Benesh, not me, and by Saint Peter I am sick of carrying the blame.
Candlemas, at Compline
The loft is freezing, the flour dust is thick enough to choke a horse, and William snores like a dying pig. I fed the dogs and checked the mill doors. I just want to lie on my straw and sleep until Agnes counts out the wages.
If you do not like my snoring, go sleep out in the snow with the dogs.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You are a stubborn mule, Thomas. If you do not give it back to be burned, I will tell Agnes.
Tell her what? That I have empty hands and a sore back? Go back to the bakehouse.