hired hand at the works
“I am a steady man who does his shift and keeps his head down.”
Things William had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The spring mud is heavy this year. I keep my left hand tucked in my apron so the chill does not bite it, but it throbs all the same. We had to carry a great oak log today, just me and Hynek. I took the lighter end, claiming the mud was slick. I pray Andreas did not look down from his counting house.
Nota scribaeHe kept his left hand hidden in his belt the entire time he spoke.
the eve of St George, at Compline
Hugh was sifting through the damp sawdust for an hour today, looking for the sheep bone pendant his late mother Bozhena gave him. I helped him search near the stacking piles until the light failed. We found nothing but wood lice. I worry the boy will drop a heavy plank on his foot if he keeps his eyes on the dirt.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
I walked past the wayside cross and said a prayer for Alan. It has been a long time since he marched away with the Kuttenberg levy, and the hauling is bitter work without him. The King's half-brother has much to answer for, taking the best backs from the river and leaving us to do the work of four men.
Aye. And Andreas still expects the same timber cut as when Alan was here, the tight-fisted bastard.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at None
My grip failed me today on the cutting floor. A slick elm branch slipped right through my fingers. I blamed my old leather gloves, said the mud had frozen them stiff. Hynek shouted at me to mind my footing, but the master's door stayed shut. I must bind my wrist tighter tomorrow. A hired hand who cannot haul will surely starve.
I bought a thicker strip of linen from the market. It will hold.
Nota scribaeHe asked me to write this quietly, looking over his shoulder toward the stairs.
Candlemas, at Prime
The frost is deep and the lodging house is draughty. Hynek complains of the cold but refuses to spend three pennies on fresh straw to mend the thatch of his shed, just to spite the master. It is a foolish pride that invites a lung fever. I drank my thin beer and kept near the hearth. The winter aches enough already.
I will not pay to fix another man's roof! If Andreas wants dry timbermen, he can pay for the straw himself.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Slick mud or not, you pulled your weight, old man. That miser Andreas can sit in his tower and rot for all I care.
Less talking in the yard, more hauling. The waterwheel is fouled with mud again.