soldier at the gates, of Kuttenberg
“Answered the levy for silver and only found mud and sore knees. The quartermaster owes us pay and I am tired of waiting.”
Things Wolfgang had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
My belly is rumbling louder than the mint presses. No pay since Ash Wednesday and the cook's oats are mostly water. At least I do not have Adam's terrible rash. I told him he caught it from that cheap tavern girl, but he will not listen.
Nota scribaeThe man spat on the floor and laughed bitterly while speaking.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
Walked all the way to Else's yard to get my shirt mended and she bolted the gate the moment she saw me. I owe her a few pennies, aye, but how can I pay her when the king's men will not pay me? My collar is rubbing my neck raw.
She should extend us credit. Easter has passed and a man needs a clean tunic.
No coin, no needle. You soldiers drink your wages when you have them anyway.
Palm Sunday, at Prime
Some men sit comfortably by the barracks fire wrapped in warm wool that does not belong to them. A heavy cloak we wrapped a poor dead soul in on the Maleshov patrol. I am owed half its worth, plus a share of the three groschen. He knows who he is.
I do not know what you mean. The dead need no wool, but the living earn what they keep.
You owe me my half of the pennies and you know it.
Nota scribaeDictated in a hushed and hurried voice, looking over his shoulder.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Sext
If Claus whines about his old mother Madlen one more time I will throw myself in the river. Yes, she is in a village past Kolin, yes, she needs your wages to eat. We all need our wages! Shut your mouth and let a tired man sleep.
the eve of Ash Wednesday, at Compline
Bitter cold tonight. Makes my knees ache remembering that cursed mud at Martinmas. Poor Franz took the bloody flux because Andrew made him sleep by the draughty barn door. He would have lived if he sat by the fire. Up in heaven there is no cold wind to freeze them.
Franz was a sickly lad and too weak for this life. The door had nothing to do with it.
You put him there to die and you took his pouch. God will judge you.
Nota scribaeHe rubbed his knees constantly while I wrote.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is just heat rash from this stiff gambeson, Christ almighty. Keep your nose out of my business.