gatehouse guard, of Kuttenberg
“I am wasted standing by a gate chasing beggars when I have the eye for a lord's retinue. Still, the coin keeps me in ale.”
Things Joerg had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The Friday before Whitsun, at None
Saw that whoreson clerk Denis crossing the square today. He looked right at me. I know he still has my name in his bloody ledger from that tavern brawl. If they call a levy to fight the Hungarians, I swear I feel an ague coming on.
Nota scribaeDictated quickly. He spat thrice upon the floor while speaking of the clerk.
The feast of Saint Stanislaus, at Prime
Bloody hell, Thomas woke us all before the bells even rang, turning over the pallets like a mad dog. He lost that wooden Saint Barbara his dead brother Lambert carved. I never touched the thing! Who takes a saint to a tavern anyway?
The Tuesday of Easter week, at Vespers
Sebastian is ruining the feast. Will not throw a single copper on the dice, will not buy a round, just sits there hoarding his groschen for that Rosa in Kolin. I told him he could find a willing maid in the alley for a penny, but he is a miserly bore.
Rosa is worth ten of your alley maids, Joerg. I will not squander my bride-price.
Nota scribaeThe guard was rolling dice in his hand the whole time he spoke.
The third Tuesday in Lent, at Terce
A passing carter tried to give me lip about the toll. I showed him the pommel of my blade and he shut his mouth fast. I have the swing for a lord's bodyguard, truly. Not like some of the old cripples they keep on the gate here.
I heard that, Joerg. Old Ralph ruined my hand, but I can still box your ears.
Big talk for a boy who guards a wooden door.
The morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
Christ almighty, the draught in this gatehouse is enough to freeze a man's arse to the stool. Stood watch for ten hours shifting my feet just to keep the blood moving. The bread is stale and the pottage is thin as piss.
It was colder in the Saint George shaft, lad. You know nothing of the cold.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted by a fit of shivering.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You look pale enough, lad. But the army needs men, not maids.
Shut it, John, you cannot even buckle your own belt these days.