guard at the Kourim gate, of Kuttenberg
“I stand watch at the Kourim gate, mate, and keep the beggar scum out of Kuttenberg. When the shift is done, I find the bottom of a pitcher.”
Things Erhard had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
Andrew is at me again to carry some message out to the country. I am not a bloody pigeon, mate. I guard the gate and I drink my ale. If his family needs to hear from him, he can pay a carter to take the word.
Nota scribaeThe man slurred through the dictation and leant heavily against the table.
the Monday after Ascension, at Compline
The ale-wife's slate is rigged, I swear it. But the beer is strong enough to make a man forget the woods near Maleshov. Sometimes the dark still feels like mud and shouting. Poor Sergeant Nicholas. Dog's blood, pour me another.
Drink quiet, lad. You talk too loud when you're in your cups.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Jan was whining about his skinning knife again. I told him on Saint Thomas's day, it is fair plunder. I had to cut myself out of a tangle in the dark while he ran like a frightened hare. He can have it back when I get my lucky die.
I fell back to the treeline as ordered! You stole it off my belt when we were running!
I won the die fair in hazard. Pay the two pennies and it is yours.
Nota scribaeHe spat on the floor after naming his comrade.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at None
Captain James rode past the gatehouse today. Did not look at us, praise the saints. If he ever starts asking the right questions about how the line broke in the woods, he will hang the lot of us. Keep your mouths shut, mates.
The captain cares only for his silver. Just stand straight when he rides by.
Candlemas, at Sext
My luck is fouler than a pig's arse. Ever since I lost my lucky bone die to Andrew over a miserable two-penny debt, nothing goes right. The cards turn against me, the beer is sour, and the wind bites right through my gambeson.
If you saved your pennies instead of drinking them, you could buy it back.
Keep your sermons for your sister, Wilhelm.
Nota scribaeDictated at the lower tavern. He smelled strongly of stale ale.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is just to Sedletz, Erhard. You know why I cannot go myself. Have a heart.
My heart is drowned in sour beer. Leave it be.