guard at polner's gate, of Kuttenberg
“I stand watch at the gate, keeping the beggars and stray dogs out of the merchant's yard. I mind my own business and keep my boots oiled.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Someone has taken it. I know it was in my pouch last Tuesday, and by Thursday it was gone. My brother Lambert left me that wooden Saint Barbara when the timber crushed him. If one of those tavern wenches lifted it thinking it was coin, by Saint Barbara, I will break her nose.
Nota scribaeHe shouted this while tearing the straw from his pallet. The dust was intolerable.
the feast of Saint Stanislaus, at Sext
If I have to hear Joerg whine one more time about the town levy, I will deafen myself. You threw the stool, lad. Denis wrote your name in the ledger. A few weeks marching in the mud against the Hungarians might finally make a man out of you.
It is easy for you to say! Denis is a spiteful little tyrant who ruins lives with a quill.
He speaks truth, lad. The mud is good for the soul.
the Wednesday after Easter, at None
The damp spring weather is setting into my bones today. My back is stiff as a board and needs stretching, so I took the heavy lifting at the gate. John stood the watch instead. A man must stretch his back or he goes soft.
Thank you, Thomas. The damp is fierce today.
You drank three pints last night, your back is just bruised from sleeping on the floor.
Nota scribaeA transparent falsehood. The older guard's hand was trembling in the damp.
the feast of Saint Gertrude, at Prime
Sebastian is eating oats and water again like a bloody horse. Thirty groschen by Saint John's Eve for Rosa, who is sitting safe in Kolin! No woman in Bohemia is worth starving for, I say. Though I suppose he has more iron in him than the rest of us.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
The wind is biting through my cloak this morning. It makes a man think of the sweating fever. Two winters ago it took Ralph, our old captain. He was a brute who drank too much and broke John's hand for nothing. The world is better without him, by Saint Barbara.
God rest him, though I still feel his mace shaft in my fingers every morning.
Nota scribaeDictated while rubbing his hands together to chase away the chill.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Let it rest, Thomas. You have turned the gatehouse upside down three times already.
I will not rest until I find it, John. A man's belongings are his own.