hired hand at west farm, of Outlying farms
“I turn the soil and mend fences for William, and try to keep my head down. A man like me just wants to do honest labour and be left in peace.”
Things Roger had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Friday before Pentecost, at Vespers
My stomach turns every time I think of Sunday. Father Paul says my name will be read out in church for the tithe arrears. I rub my hands raw on my tunic just thinking of the whole village staring. If only the master had paid us our wages, I could settle it.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed his palms against his tunic the entire time he spoke.
the Tuesday after St Mark, at None
Nicholas paces the yard and shouts about that mare. I wish he would just accept the loss and keep quiet. Shouting brings nothing but spit and trouble to the west farm. Better to just endure the labour without complaining.
Sakra, Roger, a man cannot just let himself be robbed! Keep your head down if you want, I won't.
the second day of Easter week, at Terce
I saw Walter on the road and crossed myself, and went the other way. He made a vow to walk barefoot to Sedletz last year and broke it. A man who breaks a vow to God will bring divine punishment down on anyone standing too close.
The beasts needed tending, you fool! The Lord knows I had fences to mend.
Nota scribaeDictated softly. He kept looking over his shoulder.
the feast of St Gregory, at Sext
My hands are blistered from the spring turning, but I can endure it. We had a bowl of thin pottage at midday. I wiped it clean with my fingers. It is hard work, but God sees it. I just wish I had a little silver to show for it.
the Monday after Candlemas, at Compline
William was counting his takings by candlelight in the master's house. I stood outside in the cold wanting to ask for an advance on my wages, but my nerve failed me. I went back to the shed so as not to wake Geoffrey.
You should have knocked, lad. Though I would have told you no.
Nota scribaeThe man stumbles over his words when pressed.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
He has not paid me either, lad. It is a bitter thing to work for naught.
The soil yields what it yields. I cannot pay what I do not have, Roger.
The Lord's church requires its due, my son. It is not done to shame you, but to save your soul.