saddler, of Semin
“I mend what the soldiers break and the farmers tear. The hides are thin, but my stitching holds.”
Things Adam Ford had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second day of May, at Vespers
The levy took the last thick hide I had for saddles. A man rides up, points at my stall, and takes it for the king's men. Now I sit patching rotten traces for farmer Slavek. A bad harness will kill a man just as quick as a sword, but they don't see it.
the eve of St George, at None
Still no sign of it. I have turned the house over twice and raked the dirt by the stall. If a certain maidservant from next door has swept it into the midden heap without looking, she will answer for it. A pine comb does not sprout legs and walk away.
I never touched your comb, Adam Ford. If you kept your eyes open instead of glaring at everyone, you might find it yourself.
Leave the girl be, Adam. She knows better than to throw out carved pine.
Nota scribaeHe clicked his tongue twice while saying this.
the Thursday after Easter, at Terce
They ask why I am sifting dirt behind the stall. I lost an awl, I tell them. It is none of their business. If folk spent half the time minding their own tools as they do watching me look for mine, the whole village would have sound tack.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
I bought wood from Richard today. The timber is fair, but the man leans on his axe more than he swings it. If Alice did not keep the yard in hand, the whole lot would rot. Still, it boils the pot well enough.
Wood doesn't chop itself, Adam. And it burns the same whether I lean or not.
He swings it when I tell him to. The wood is good.
Nota scribaeDictated at the stall. He picked at his nails throughout.
Candlemas, at Sext
Two winters now since the bad season took Felice. The fever took her, just as it took Sybil. I oiled the half-moon knives this morning. The house is quiet. Too quiet, sometimes. But the stitching must be done.
May God grant her peace, Adam. She was a good woman.
Mother is with the angels now. We carry on, as we must.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My traces aren't rotten, Adam. They just need a bit of thread where the mare chewed them.
They are dust holding hands, Slavek. But I will sew them.