hired hand at the castle, of Trosky
“I pitch bloody hay all day and try to teach these lazy whelps how to work.”
Things Gilbert had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second day of May, at Compline
My shoulders are killing me. I swept the whole bloody yard myself while the young lads stood around. Going down to Tachov to pay my slate at Betty's before I lose my spot by the fire.
Nota scribaeDictated with many heavy groans and scratching of the beard.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
Saw Alan sleeping in the sun today. Typical. Boy can sleep through anything. Pity he could not stay awake the night poor Humphrey's fever spiked during the autumn muster. Could have fetched help instead of snoring.
Christ almighty, Gilbert, let it rest. I was dead on my feet from digging the latrines.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at None
Ten years ago we got proper meat and thick stew. Now this new steward feeds us watery slop. Probably skimming the groschen to pay the king's ransom, or just lining his own bloody pockets.
Aye, the bread is mostly sawdust these days. Hard times.
Nota scribaeThe man spat on the ground after speaking.
the feast of St Matthias, at Vespers
Robert has the brass neck to complain about his boots leaking. I told him he should be glad he has boots at all. Poor Humphrey died of the bloody flux because Robert lost his spare boots in the mud.
The mud was up to my knees, you old fool. The boots were sucked right off the pack.
Candlemas, at Prime
Edmund is off to Jicin for horses, so the yard is a bloody mess. I am the only one doing any real work. Hauling myself out of the damp hayloft at first light while the rest snore.
You make enough noise groaning when you stand up to wake the dead, Gilbert.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Make sure you bring coin, old man. I do not pour for charity.