hired hand at Trosky, of Trosky
“A smart man makes his own luck in this miserable yard. I keep the wheels turning and my head down.”
Things Ralph had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Terce
If a man happened to find a heavy silver trinket in the mud last autumn, and wanted to trade it for good groschen, who travels the roads lately that does not ask too many questions? Thomas keeps jumping at shadows and whining about the steward. I tell him a quiet mouth keeps a whole neck.
Nota scribaeThe man jangled a pouch of coins the entire time he spoke. Most irritating.
the Wednesday after Easter, at None
Young Alan is crying to the whole yard about a pot of rendered sheep fat he gave me on Saint Matthew's day. A gift is a gift, lad. My wagon wheels sing a sweet song now, and a three-penny pot of grease is a small price for my friendship.
the feast of Saint Richard, at Sext
I found a perfect patch of shade past the Nebakov mill. Let the horses graze while I rest my eyes. Much better than listening to Edmund bellowing in the yard. Robert and Jan know how to live, taking those fine riding boots off that mercenary captain was proper work. The rest of this yard are weeping women.
Aye, my feet are right warm, and the captain was too drunk to notice.
the third Sunday in Lent, at Vespers
I am still out two pennies from Humphrey's wager. The bloody flux took him, but he could have left my coin on his stool. And he might still be breathing if Alan had not gambled away the squad's purse instead of fetching a barber-surgeon. The boy has blood on his hands and an empty head.
I thought I could double the purse! We did not have enough for the surgeon anyway!
Let the dead rest, Ralph. Humphrey has nothing in his pockets now.
Nota scribaeHe spoke in a very low, smooth voice, though the words were harsh.
Candlemas, at Prime
Up before the sun to claim the best draft horses for the grain run. The early bird gets the strongest beasts, and leaves the sway-backed nags for the slow-witted. It is a biting cold morning, but sitting on the wagon box beats mucking out the stables for Edmund any day.
You pushed me into the mud to get that grey mare, you bastard.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
For Christ's sake, Ralph, shut your mouth before they hang us both! We should bury it in the woods!
Bury your head in the hay, Thomas. I am finding us a merchant.