hired hand, of Zhelejov
“I haul the sacks, muck the stalls, and do the heavy lifting while the others rest their eyes. I carry two for every one Thomas drops, and I brook no fools in the yard.”
Things William had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Ascension, at None
Thomas dropped another sack today. I carried my two and picked up his leavings. The porridge is thin as water tonight, and the master just watches from the porch, counting his pennies. I remember when Beatrice ran the house. The bread was thicker then, and a man was paid when he was owed.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Drslav was seen on the road today. I saw Thomas sneak into the hayloft the moment he heard the hoofbeats. Coward. I stood in the yard and worked. Let them take who they will, I have nothing but a strong back to give them.
Keep your head down, William. Soldiers only bring grief.
Nota scribaeThe man crossed his arms over his chest for the entirety of the dictation.
the feast of St Gregory, at Prime
Standa is still whining about his pot of mutton fat. I took his freezing mucking shift at Candlemas when he was shivering in the dirt. A fair trade is a fair trade. He can grease his wains with his own spit for all I care.
Ash Wednesday, at Compline
By Saint George, I will rot in hell before I offer a single word of apology to that strutting peacock Maresh. He stomps through the barn, startles the hound, sends my bucket of oats flying, and has the gall to call me a dung-shoveler. Useless garrison-boy.
Keep shoveling, peasant. Watch where you leave your buckets.
I'd rather shovel dung than wear a sword I don't know how to use.
Nota scribaeDictated with much anger. I declined to record the oaths preceding the mention of the saint.
Candlemas, at Sext
Bitter cold this morning. The mud is frozen solid, which at least makes mucking the stalls less of a swamp, though the shit freezes to the shovel. Old Roger is hiding in the hayloft again with his sour wine. I suppose I can't blame him with that crushed hand, but the master's eye is always on us.
My hand aches in the cold, William. Mind your own shovel.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It slipped. The sack was torn before I touched it.
God rest her soul. She knew how to feed working men. And keep your voices down, he'll hear you.