hired hand, of Troskowitz
“I mend the fences and haul the wood at Krejciho dum. Without me, the yard rots.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second day of May, at None
Saw Richard Bell nursing one cup of thin ale all night at the tavern again. Sakra, a man should drink properly, not sit there saving every groschen for Lambert's yew crossbow. What does a lute player want with a crossbow anyway? Better to buy new boots.
the eve of St George, at Prime
Young Richard is still brooding around the yard without saying a word. Sakra, if a lad wants his fine iron drawknife back, he ought to have the spine to ask for it. Until then, I have wagon shafts to patch, and tools belong in the hands of the man using them.
It cost me a month's wages. You asked for it for one afternoon.
And the afternoon work is not finished. Would you rather keep it wrapped in an oily rag?
Nota scribaeDictated while holding the drawknife in question.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Vespers
The wind is getting through the roof of the outbuildings again. I spent the afternoon hammering loose shingles. It is a thankless task keeping Krejciho dum standing. I am getting too stiff for this damp, but if I stop, who will haul the wood?
Ay, the damp gets into your bones. Have some hot broth before you sleep.
the second week of Lent, at Terce
Rose is still turning the straw inside out looking for her mother's yellowed bone comb. We searched the muck for hours, sakra. I reckon she needs to accept it is gone. She'll wear herself down to nothing looking for it.
It was all Cecily left me. I know it must be in the straw somewhere, Thomas. I just have to look harder.
Nota scribaeHe muttered something about pigs after I finished writing.
Candlemas, at Sext
The yard fences are rotting through again. Fetch the water, chop the wood, mend the fence. The same work every day since before the soldiers came. A man works his hands to the bone to keep this place from collapsing into the mud.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My groschen are my own, Thomas. When Lambert returns at Whitsuntide, I shall be ready. A man must look to his defence in these times.
You'll shoot your own foot off, you fool.