farmhand of Zhelejov, of Zhelejov
“I shovel the master's dung and fix his broken fences. A man's belongings sprout legs and walk away here if he turns his back.”
Things Andrew had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Compline
My good wooden comb is gone. I put it right there in the hay and now it is gone. Someone took it out of spite, I know it. First my nails and now my comb. Soon they will steal the shirt off my back while I am wearing it.
Nota scribaeHe said this very fast and wrung his hands the whole time.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
That miserable old Prokop is threatening to call the bailiff. Adleta's hound Cernik killed two of his laying hens, and now there is hell to pay. I pity Adleta, but I am not paying a single penny for those dead birds. I have no pennies to give anyway.
the feast of St Gregory, at None
I bought a sack of good Kuttenberg nails from a tinker for three groschen. I worked extra hours for that coin. I lent them to Jan to fix a bed, and he gave them to Otto for some boots! Give them back, Otto. I am sleeping on broken boards.
I owed Otto for the winter boots. A debt is a debt, lad.
They are my nails now. Stop crying about it or I will give you something to cry for.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard. The master yelled at him to get back to the barrows.
the Wednesday after St Valentine, at Terce
The frost makes the yard a sheet of ice. I slipped twice hauling manure from the stalls to the midden this morning. I curse these beasts. It is the work of two men, but I only get the wages of half a man.
Less complaining and more hauling, Andrew. The midden will not fill itself.
Candlemas, at Prime
Constance packed up her pots and left for Kuttenberg today. Now Francis says he bought her slate and is docking our spring wages. I barely drank a single pint of her warm ale last winter! I am paying for the thirst of Jan and Otto. I feel utterly cheated.
She was the only comfort we had in the bitter cold. Curse her for selling the slate, though.
Nota scribaeThe boy seemed close to weeping over his wages.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Nobody wants your lousy comb, lad. The rats probably made a nest of it.