Lord's huntsman at the vidlak ponds, of The gamekeepers' lodges
“I am the lord's huntsman for the Vidlak woods, keeping the deer from peasant snares and trying to keep my own bowstrings dry.”
Things Lawrence had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Friday before Whitsun, at Vespers
William's cough sounds like a death rattle in the night. Christ almighty, the damp in this lodge is a killer. I sent word to Steward Robert again for a carpenter, but the tight-fisted whoreson says the war took the coin. If my boy takes lung fever like his mother, the lord can watch his own bloody deer.
Nota scribaeDictated while patching the thatch with mud. He made me strike out two fouler names he had for the Steward.
the feast of St Pancras, at Compline
Hauled two Zhelejov men to the bailiff today for setting snares. Five years ago I might have looked the other way for a starving farmer, but my charity is rotted clean through, much like my roof timbers. You steal from the lord's woods, you sit in the stocks.
the Tuesday after St George, at None
Three good yew bow-staves warped to useless twigs, and half my fletching feathers turned to mush. God's wounds! I moved Zlata's heavy chest again to save her shawl from the drip. How am I to shoot a poacher or a wolf when my strings are as slack as a dead man's jaw?
The estate will replace the staves when the Cuman threat is passed. Until then, use your spear, huntsman. We all suffer in these times.
You suffer from the comfort of the inner keep, Steward. Come sleep under my roof and tell me of suffering.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Went down to the Apollonia rocks to clear out the winter brush. This was the time of year Zlata loved best, before the heat came. Ninety-nine was a bitter winter, and the silence in the lodge still rings in my ears. Memento mori. At least she has a dry roof in heaven.
I made a new wooden cross for her, Father. We can place it when we check the upper traps tomorrow.
Nota scribaeHe paused a long while after speaking his wife's name, rubbing at his knees.
Candlemas, at Terce
The spring thaw is starting and the roof is leaking right over the hearth again. William and I spent the morning shifting buckets instead of tracking. I petitioned for men to fix it, but I hear there are soldiers on the roads, and the castle won't spare a single groschen for wood.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I am fine, Father. It is just a tickle from the morning mist. Let it be.
A tickle doesn't bring up phlegm the colour of old bark, lad. Keep near the fire tonight.