catchpole of Horany, of Horany
“I'm a catchpole, God help me. Swore the oath thinking I'd make a few groschen and be on my way, but here I stand in the mud.”
Things Jarda had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
That thieving bastard Casper sits in the Italian Court by a warm fire while we freeze. Thirty groschen they owe me! I sent word again today asking for my discharge papers, but I know he just throws them in the hearth. My father Bynyek always said the lords would bleed a man dry. I should have listened.
Nota scribaeHe spoke so fast I could barely follow, rubbing his neck the whole time.
the second Tuesday after Easter, at None
Philip wants me to help him patch the tollhouse roof with mud. Half the thatch blew off in the gale. I told him no. Sakra, if we fix it, it means we accept we're staying the winter. Let him steal shingles from the Kuttenberg yard if he likes, I'm not lifting a finger for a town that won't pay me.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
A carter spat at me today over a two-penny toll. My halberd is heavier than I am and I haven't had a proper night's sleep since I took the oath. They told me I'd be discharged by the Assumption. Now the captains have locked the muster rolls because of the King and his brother.
That's the job, Jarda. The sooner you learn to let the carters curse without taking it to heart, the easier it gets.
Nota scribaeThe man's boots were caked in mud, which he tracked across my floor.
the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, at Sext
Just ate my bowl of cheap pottage sitting on a stump. The wind bites through this cloak like a wolf. Old Bynyek warned me never to swear a town oath or take a lord's coin. A fool I was not to heed him. We're just waiting for silver that will never come.
Your father raised a complainer. Eat your pottage and get back on the road.
Candlemas, at Terce
Swore the oath today. They promised steady coin and said the levies would be sent on their way by the Feast of the Assumption. Just a few months of watching the road and I'll have groschen in my pocket. Praise Saint George, it's better than digging.
Nota scribaeDictated eagerly. He does not yet know the town council.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The clerk doesn't care about your papers, lad. He doesn't even read my petitions for the roof.
The muster rolls are locked by order of the council. Your complaints are noted and filed.