soldier standing watch, of Suchdol
“I stand in the damp air and wait for my shift to end so my leg will stop throbbing.”
Things Francis the Lame had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Ascension, at None
The man holding the lease says his cousin wants it by midsummer. I have the pouch here under my tunic, I feel its weight every hour, but it is not enough. A man cannot swing a halberd forever when his leg gives way in the damp. I need to pour beer, not bleed.
Nota scribaeThe man kept patting his chest as he spoke, looking nervously at the door.
the feast of St Philip and St James, at Vespers
The wind today comes straight from the north and bites into the old spear wound. Bynyek and Osbert had to help me haul the firewood up the steps. Christ almighty, the wood is wet enough to drown a fish and it burns like damp moss.
At least the smoke keeps the flies away, Francis. Drink your ale and let us worry about the wood.
Nota scribaeDictated between grimaces of pain.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
The quartermaster gave out bread today that could crack a heavy blade. I spent the morning grinding the notches out of mine and wondering if I should try the wheel on this loaf. We hear there are Cumans on the road to Kuttenberg. Let them eat this bread, it will slow them down.
If they come, keep your shield high. I will watch your right side.
I know it, Godfrey. Just do not step on my bad leg.
Laetare Sunday, at Sext
They say the Pope wants all our days written down. Well, let His Holiness read that my boots leak and the leather armor is cracked again. I have no grease left. If the Lord judges me by how much I stood in the mud, I am going straight to the angels.
Nota scribaeHe was reluctant to speak at all, saying the Pope had no business with his boots.
the Tuesday after Ash Wednesday, at Terce
Found two pennies dropped near the stables. Every bit goes into the pouch. Bynyek saw me pick them up and did not say a word, bless him. A farm is a dead thing when the rot takes the barley, but an alehouse just needs thirsty men.
I saw nothing, Francis. And when you pour your first beer, I expect it free.
The first one is yours. After that, you pay like the rest.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You will get there, Francis. Keep your head down and take what falls from the cart.
If that cousin shows his face, we could always have a quiet word with him in the woods.
No woods. I want this done honest, or as honest as coin gets in Suchdol.