guard at the Kourim gate, of Kuttenberg
“I stand watch at the Kouřim gate and check the country carts. I should never have left the plough.”
Things Andrew had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at None
Erhard is still sulking over two pennies and a bone die he lost fair and square at hazard. He is going out towards Sedletz tomorrow and I only asked if he would carry a word to my mother that I am breathing. He spat and said no. Bloody stubborn mule.
Nota scribaeDictated at the guardhouse. The man rubbed his neck the entire time.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
The spring wagons are rolling in from the country. They smell of fresh hay and grain, and it makes my heart ache for home. I am sick of the sight of blood and the stink of unwashed guards in this stone trap. I wish I was behind a plough.
We all stink, lad. You are no rose yourself.
Some of us stand our ground in the dirt, boy. You only like it when you can run through it.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at Sext
Christopher keeps glaring at me across the guardroom when we eat. He blames me for the line breaking back in the woods last autumn, but it was dark and the mercenaries were everywhere. I could not see a thing. If Captain James hears of this squabbling, we will all hang.
You ran. You broke formation and left me exposed. We left Nicholas and Hugh to the worms because your legs moved faster than your courage.
I heard Hugh calling out, Christopher. I hear him every night in the wind. Do not tell me I do not pay for it.
Keep your voices down before the captain comes from the Italian Court and hangs us all.
Nota scribaeHe spoke very quietly, lest the others hear him over their ale.
the feast of St Matthias, at Vespers
This place is a madhouse. Robert and Paul are ready to draw blades over a brass lamp, and Jan is screaming that Erhard stole his skinning knife. Christ almighty, can we not just sit in peace? My head aches and the ale-wife watered the beer again.
Candlemas, at early dawn
Freezing my toes off on the cobblestones. My mother warned me it was a fool's errand coming to Kuttenberg for silver and glory. There is no glory, only mud, cold, and Germans complaining about the dust. Poor Hugh thought we would be rich.
Mein Gott, stop your weeping. Drink some hot ale and stamp your feet.
God rest your cousin's soul. He was a good lad.
Nota scribaeThe man's teeth were chattering so hard I could barely make out the words.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Give back the die, boy. It was my lucky piece before you swindled me, and I am no messenger.
Just save a penny and pay a proper carter, Andrew. That is what I do for Mary in Prague.