guard at the Kourim gate, of Kuttenberg
“I stand the gate watch and freeze half to death checking farmers' carts. I was meant for real battle, not waiting with cowards.”
Things Jan had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at None
The wind still blows straight through this stone tunnel like the dead of winter. By Christ's wounds, if Captain James ever paid us a decent wage, I could buy a thick wool cloak instead of shivering by the archway all night jumping at shadows.
Nota scribaeDictated while stamping his feet. He spat twice upon the floor while speaking and refused to look up.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
I saw my skinning knife on Erhard's belt again today. Three groschen that good steel cost me. He swore he dropped it in the dark at Maleshov, but he lies. Hand it over, Erhard, or by Christ's wounds I will take it back myself.
the Tuesday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
Wilhelm sits in the corner nursing watered beer and hoarding every penny. The man starves himself to send coin to his sister in Prague. He is a fool, and he will be no use in a fight if his arms are weak from fasting.
Mary needs the coin more than I need thick ale. Mind your own business, Jan.
Nota scribaeHe stared fixedly at my boots the entire time he spoke.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Sext
These old veterans act so proud, but I know what happened at Maleshov. Robert abandoned the flank first. If he had not broken the line and set the rout in motion, young Hugh and Sergeant Nicholas would not be dead in the mud.
Candlemas, at Terce
Another morning bickering with cabbage farmers over the toll. The mud on their cart wheels is thicker than the gruel we get. I signed on to be a proper soldier, to fight the king's enemies, not to chase beggars away from the Kuttenberg walls.
Reckon we're all sick of the dust and the carts, lad. Let's get a drink at shift's end.
Nota scribaeDictated by the archway. The man spoke with a tight, bitter voice and spat into the street.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Aye, the wind here cuts right to the bone. My own jack is rotting at the seams.