hired hand at the castle, of Trosky
“I fix the splintered wheels and axles for the garrison's wagons. I keep my mouth shut and do my work, which is how you survive the winter.”
Things Jan had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
The damp is in my knuckles today. Carved a fresh axle peg for the provision wagon, taking my proper time with it. Edmund cannot find another man who knows how to seat an iron tire, so I sit by the well and let young Alan break his back with the dung fork.
Nota scribaeDictated from an upturned bucket by the well. He paused often to inspect his fingernails.
the feast of St Stanislaus, at None
Robert is whispering in my ear again about a certain heavy bundle at the bottom of my sack. The boy has no patience. You do not rush a good piece of work, and you do not show off new leather when the steward is still hanging thieves. We wait till autumn.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Paid Betty two pennies yesterday to keep my slate sweet at the ale-house in Tachov. A man needs a warm hearth. The others spend their coin as soon as the steward hands it out, but I know how to manage a fiery ale-wife. Just enough silver to keep the cup full.
She barred Kolda last night. You have the right of it, Jan.
You still owe me three groschen, you old goat. Do not think two pennies clears the slate.
Nota scribaeHe smelled strongly of stale beer during the telling.
the Monday after St Benedict, at Sext
The King's brother has Hungarian dogs on the roads, and bread costs twice what it did last year. Let them march. As long as the garrison needs their carts to roll, I have a place to sleep. Men die on the road every day, I prefer to stay near the hayloft.
They burnt a village near Semine. It is no laughing matter.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
Thomas is shouting again, saying the bad well water killed Humphrey during the autumn levy. The fool. We all drank from that same bucket, and we are still breathing. It was the bloody flux that took him in the camp. A grim business, but weeping over a dead man pays no debts.
He was fine until he drank the muddy water! You should have stopped him.
I am not his mother, Thomas. The flux took him, God rest his soul.
He owed me a groschen. He can keep it now.
Nota scribaeHe sighed heavily before speaking, shaking his head at the men across the yard.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You do not even hold the fork, Jan. I have blisters the size of groschen.
A master craftsman must protect his hands, lad. Keep digging.