guard at the toll-gate, of Bylany
“I hold a halberd that is much too big for me. I try not to get in the way of the older men.”
Things Frantishek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second day of May, at Compline
Benesh and Jezhek are shouting again about that brass lamp. Jezhek still wants ten groschen to give it back. I just... I just look at my boots and stir the pottage. If Jarda the old quartermaster were here, maybe they would stop shouting. I truly wish they would stop.
Nota scribaeHe twisted his fingers in the hem of his tunic the entire time he spoke.
the feast of St George, at Sext
A merchant's cart came through the gate today. I asked him if he saw any Hungarian troops on the road. He just laughed at me. This gambeson smells of wet wool and it is too heavy. I am afraid of dying in a muddy ditch. I am truly afraid.
The Hungarians won't bother with a toll-gate, lad. Come by the oven later, I have a crust that's too hard to sell.
the Wednesday of Easter week, at None
Three carters went east today. I asked Jezhek to speak to them, just to tell Milada I am alive and the Cumans have not killed me. I cannot read or write, I just need him to say the words. He refused. He did it just to spite me, I know he did.
I am not your messenger boy. My own mother Katchka is alone in the west, and you don't hear me begging carters.
You do not have to beg them, you just have to say the words. Just one word.
Nota scribaeHe was near to tears, though he tried his best to hide it from the others.
the feast of the Annunciation, at Prime
It is time for the spring sowing back east. Milada is all alone with my father's debts. I should be there with the plough, not holding this halberd. The bailiff's men gave me no choice at all. I have not seen a single groschen of pay since I arrived. Not one.
the Tuesday after St Matthias, at Terce
They marched me down the road and put me in this hut. My first task every morning is to blow on the embers under the iron pot while the others snore. I do not want to be a soldier. This war over the king is like a storm that dropped me in the mud.
Stop your trembling and get the fire hot. The pottage won't cook itself while you mope.
Nota scribaeDictated upon his arrival at the watch. The boy spoke in a whisper and stared at the floor.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your eyes on the pot, lad, and let men deal with men's business. Christ's wounds, you whine.