guard at the Kolin Gate, of Kuttenberg
“I stand watch at the Kolin Gate and catch the smugglers the others miss. I hold my ground, unlike some frightened rabbits I could name.”
Things Bartel had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
Caught another carter with groschen sewn into a sack of oats today. I pointed him out the moment he reached the gate. My eye is sharp, no matter what that little rabbit Geoffrey chatters about. If the bailiff had sense, he'd pay me double and send the rest of you home.
The third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Grinding this miserable sword again. The Kuttenberg armoury issues us rusted iron that wouldn't cut butter. A man needs a sharp edge. The Hungarians use halberds and axes, and they don't stop for a dull blade. My hands are steady, I just need a proper weapon to fight them.
You grind that blade to nothing, Bartel. A sharp sword will not help you if you run.
Nota scribaeHe spent two hours at the whetstone before he came to dictate this, and his hands were shaking.
The Friday after St Gregory, at Terce
I will say it again so it is written down. Standa left the gap in the line. The captain put us in the freezing mud, aye, but it was Standa who was too slow to react when the charge came. That is why young Martin was surrounded. I held my flank.
You loudmouthed liar. You broke first and left the boy to die in the mud. Do not put your sins on my back.
It was your flank, Bartel! We all saw you fail to secure it.
Nota scribaeHe shouted this loudly enough for the whole guardhouse to hear, pointing his finger at the wall.
The second Sunday of Lent, at Prime
Nicholas is whining about his sister Rosa in Prague again. Wants a messenger. I told him he should be grateful she is safe behind walls. With Sigismund's whoresons marching around the country, no road is safe. You hold your gate and you survive, that is what matters. Keep your eyes open.
Candlemas, at Sext
The priest says we must record our days. Fine. Today I ate thin pottage that tasted of dirty water, then stood at the gate while Mathes and Johannes argued over who killed Leonard. I mind my own business. I catch the toll-dodgers and keep the gate. The rest is noise.
If Johannes had not ordered the retreat, Leonard would still be drinking with us. It is not noise, it is blood.
Nota scribaeDictated grudgingly by the brazier while the others were fighting.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Your eye is sharp for grain sacks, Bartel. Pity it wasn't so sharp for the Hungarians flanking us at Sedletz.
Shut your mouth, lad, before I shut it for you. You know nothing about battle.