guard at the Italian Court, of Kuttenberg
“I stand on the wall, eat my salted cabbage, and wait for coin that never comes. I know how to stay alive.”
Things Walter had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday before Whitsun, at Compline
Still no silver from the new sergeant. I am patching my boots with scrap leather again. The Hungarians are out there somewhere, and half these fools would run if they saw one. I mind my business and keep my sword sharp.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Hynek is shooting his mouth off in the courtyard again about how we should have held the line at Maleshov. If he hadn't been out of position, the line wouldn't have broken. I survived because I know when a fight is lost.
I held my ground! It was you who turned tail while Vashek was still fighting, you coward!
Vashek tripped, you whoreson. There was nothing to do but die with him in the mud.
Nota scribaeHe spat on the floor before dictating this.
the feast of St Benedict, at Sext
Lawrence is still whining that Captain Michael will come back from Prague with our back pay. Michael rode out at Christmas to save his own skin. He is not coming back. We are stuck with a sergeant who fines us for rust.
the Tuesday after Ash Wednesday, at None
Tuma is weeping into his ale again. He claims I ran to save face in the woods. He is a green boy who cried in the mud when the Cumans hit us. I kept moving. That is why I am sitting here drinking, and Vashek is in a ditch.
You left him! He was our shield-mate and you left him to the heathens! You didn't even try to pull him up!
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted twice by the man staring silently into his cup.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
We were ambushed in the woods near Maleshov. Cumans came out of the brush like bloody ghosts. Vashek was too heavy on his feet and went down early. Nothing to be done. We fell back. My boots held together, thank Christ.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My soles are thinner than paper, Walter. We'll be walking on our bare feet by St John's day.
At least the cabbage hasn't run out. Yet.