watchman at the Ceska gate, of Kuttenberg
“I am a watchman who stands on the cobbles waiting for wages the bailiff never brings. I know the difference between a real threat and a drunk apprentice, which is more than I can say for some.”
Things Frantishek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the feast of Saint Boniface, at None
Still no silver from the bailiff. Easter is a memory and we are owed for three weeks of standing in the cold. The ale-wife says her slate is full and her patience will not last until Saint John's day. If they turn me out to starve, I will take the heavy iron locks from the gate and sell them to a smith.
the Wednesday after Saint George, at Vespers
Franz is weeping to anyone who will listen about his dagger. He left it lying on the guardhouse bench like a fool. A man who forgets his blade does not deserve to carry one. It cuts my hard cheese just fine, and I will not hand it back to a coward just so he can pass the bailiff's inspection on Friday.
You stole it! The bailiff will sack me if I stand watch empty-handed, and you know it!
He has a point, Frantishek. It is his knife.
Keep your mouth shut, Maurice, or I will use it to cut your bread next.
Nota scribaeDictated while he was slicing a block of sharp cheese. He waved the knife at me.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Easter is passed and the bailiff gave us nothing but breath and empty promises. Oswald and Maurice have not stopped bickering since dawn about whose boots are wetter. Saint Wenceslas give me strength. At least Tuma stands his watch quietly, working through a broken back that bends like an old bow.
If Maurice would not kick the water bucket over, my boots would be dry.
Complaining will not dry the leather, lads. Just stand the watch.
Nota scribaeThe man was rubbing his temples throughout the dictation.
the Tuesday before Laetare Sunday, at Sext
Checked carts of turnips this morning. The mud is thick, the farmers curse the toll, and I curse the cold stones of this archway. Franz is talking about his sister Lidka in Prague again, claiming she will send him silver to buy a proper sword. The boy lives in a dream. She forgot he existed three winters ago.
She has a good position in a burgher's house! You will see when the coin arrives.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
A bitter wind off the road tonight. It makes my bones ache. Stood looking at the dark trees and thinking of the thick mud on the eve of Saint Martin. The younger boys still look sideways at me for giving the order to fall back to the wagons when Martin fell bleeding from the neck. You cannot form a line in the dark when the nerve is broken. I did what I had to do.
We ran like whipped curs, Frantishek. We left him in the mud.
We survived. Martin was dead before he hit the ground.
Nota scribaeHe stared into the fire for a long time before speaking, measuring his words.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Aye, my belly is rumbling so loud the carters can hear it on the road.
Go chew on a turnip, Hannes. It is all we are likely to get.