hired hand at the yard, of Troskowitz
“I tend the sheep and mend the boots of this yard, aye, and expect a fair wage for it.”
Things Hynek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Terce
Walter is shouting about his felling axe again. Aye. He thinks it is his right to have it back for nothing. I spent good time stitching his worn boots with neat, tight thread. My leather work is worth a pint of ale at the least. The axe sits in my corner until he pays his due.
Nota scribaeHe spat on the floor before speaking, and chewed a piece of straw throughout the dictation.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Master Hugh handed out the seasonal wages today. Or what he calls wages. He bled us for the capons that Andrew claims our dog Colle killed last month. Aye. Andrew ate half those birds himself, I would swear it. We pay for Hugh's cowardice out of our own pockets.
the feast of the Annunciation, at Sext
I found Colle gnawing on some bones behind the barn. Good lad. Andrew came banging on the gate swearing the yard dogs got into his poultry enclosure and slaughtered a dozen capons. Bloody hell. The dog cannot count to twelve, and neither can Andrew.
Master Hugh was furious. Saw him locking the main house tight.
Nota scribaeThe man patted a dirty hound while dictating this.
the second Monday of Lent, at Prime
Hugh told me to move the heavy bulls to the lower paddock. I told him straight, my work is the sheep and the fences. Aye. Let John do it, if he has not lost his wits along with his belongings. I split rails all morning instead.
I did not lose my knife, it fell in the mud! And the bulls nearly trampled me.
the day after Candlemas, at Compline
Winter is a hard thing up in the loft. My back is stiff from the old straw, but I have my bowl of pottage by the fire. Richard moves like a broken cartwheel these days. He winces when he lifts a bucket. I keep my mouth shut. Hugh would sack him if he saw.
God reward you, lad. Lida used to rub my back with goose fat, but she is gone.
Nota scribaeDictated in a low mumble by the hearth.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Give it back, you whoreson! I never agreed to buy you ale for a few clumsy stitches.
They are tight stitches, Walter, and you will stay dry. Ale. Or it stays in the loft.