My existence is framed by two unmoving realities: the cold soil beneath my worn boots and the divine chime of the distant bell that summons my spirit. It is a harsh song, this life, marked by sharp pains and the perpetual weariness that settles in my bones, but I hold these truths in my heart as firmly as I grasp the wooden handle of my flail.
On the Unshakeable Order of God
I believe in God the Father, the Almighty, whose will is the unshakeable foundation upon which this world and its society are built. My place, within these rough wattle and daub walls and upon this meager copyhold land, is not the result of chance. It is, rather, a sacred design. The Lord, in His infinite wisdom, has appointed the gentry to dwell in their distant stone Manor and to rule, just as He has appointed us, the tenants, to endure the relentless toil of the field. This is the Divine Order, and I know with quiet certainty that to rail against the hierarchy on earth is to commit the sin of rebellion against the will of Heaven itself. My truest piety is not found in the Latin words of the priest, which often drift past my ear, but in the honest sweat that stings my eyes. I accept that the fiery ache in my back is my sacred toll, a purifying penance that brings me closer to the profound humility of Christ. Every hardship, from the devastating thin cough of my Elara to the sight of the dry, cracked earth, I view as a test, a stark reminder that earthly prosperity is fragile. My faith, therefore, is my only true shield against the chaotic whims of the weather and the relentless threat of sickness.
On Honor, Labor, and Justice
My worth as a man is never measured by the fleeting silver coin I manage to keep, but solely by the integrity of my hand and the strength of my word. I believe profoundly in honor. To give the Lord my full, honest measure of labor, even during the hours of customary service on his richer soil, is simply to keep my soul clean. My copyhold is more than just a piece of paper; it is the physical testament to my father's honesty and the surety of my own unbroken word. This devotion to integrity extends to the marketplace, where I believe that honesty is its own reward, a quiet virtue worth more than any small, dishonest gain. I pray that my heart will always possess the wisdom to separate the grain from the chaff in all my intentions and dealings. I am fully aware of the sting of the manorial court, where the gentry's judgment is often bought and sold with cold calculation. Though the injustice is a constant burden, a source of deep resentment, I consciously choose humility over bitterness, trusting that the ultimate justice will be meted out not by a stone-hearted steward, but by the compassionate hand of my Lord on Judgment Day.
On Family, Community, and Enduring Hope
My deepest purpose is not defined by the borders of the field alone, but by the security and solace of my own hearth. The love I hold for my kin—for Agnes, for William, and for Elara—is the deepest sacrament I will ever experience. The low, constant whirr of the spindle is the holy sound of our survival, the very economic engine that Agnes and Mary power through their devotion and thrift. I believe, too, that the communal cheer found in the evening sanctuary of the alehouse is not a sin of idleness, but a necessary grace—a shared shield of solidarity that fortifies my spirit for the cold duties of the morning. It is a temporary solace that acknowledges our shared human condition. Above all, I hold to hope. I see it brilliantly reflected in William's young strength and his quiet gaze, a powerful, unspoken promise that the cycle of life is far stronger and more persistent than any debt, any drought, or any lord. My ceaseless labor ensures that life will endure, just as God intended for His faithful servant.
No comments:
Post a Comment