harness mender and hired hand, of Trosky
“I mend the garrison's harnesses and keep my head down. My stitching is fine enough for a master saddler, if anyone bothered to look.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Compline
I told Ralph again we need to take that thing we found at the autumn muster and put it in the dirt in the woods where nobody can see it. It does us no good. Every time the steward looks at me I feel a rope on my neck. I want it gone.
Nota scribaeDictated in a whisper behind the stables. The man rubbed the back of his neck so hard I thought it might bleed.
the Tuesday after St John before the Latin Gate, at None
Spent the whole morning rubbing rendered fat into a cracked breastband. Beautiful stitching, tight as a drum. Then John starts bellowing about some nonsense and knocked my bucket over. Can a man not do honest labour in peace without a loudmouth ruining it?
the Thursday after Easter, at Vespers
Freezing in this cursed hayloft again. The other lads are off to Tachov to sit by Betty's fire, but I am still banned until I find four groschen for that broken bench. Four groschen! A man could buy a flock of geese for that. Christ almighty, it was only pine.
It was good oak, Thomas, and you smashed it to splinters. Pay the woman.
And I will have the silver in my hand before you so much as look at my hearth again, you whoreson.
Nota scribaeHe sighed heavily after saying this, guarding his sack tightly.
the second Wednesday of Lent, at Prime
Woke up thinking of Humphrey. Poor lad. He was not made for the army camps, but he did not have to die of the flux in the mud. If Jan had not fetched stagnant water from that foul well, he would still be here. I do not care what the others say. Bad water kills.
Candlemas, at Terce
The wind today goes right through a man's bones. Edmund has us hauling grain from the lower store, treating us grown men like green stableboys. At least the work keeps you warm, but my back is killing me. Bloody soldiers on the roads making everything harder for honest folk.
Aye, my hands are blistered raw from the sacks. A miserable day.
Could be worse, you could be out in the mud like Richard.
Nota scribaeDictated while resting against a grain sack. He avoided my eyes the entire time.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your nerve, you stupid bastard, before someone hears you. What we found is ours.
Found what? A rusty spur? You two are always muttering in the corners.