guard at the Ceska gate, of Kuttenberg
“I keep the peace and inspect the carts. It is honest work, and certainly better than being out on the bloody roads in the dark.”
Things Oswald had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Terce
Maurice still says I pointed Leonard into the dark woods when the mercenaries ambushed us on the eve of Saint Martin. Holy Virgin, I did no such thing! Maurice was the one who called out to him. Leonard just kept running and vanished. I will not take the blame for a man who chose to run into the trees.
Nota scribaeDictated in a rush. He crossed his arms over his chest when the butcher's boy walked past.
the feast of St Pancras, at Vespers
It has been long since Easter and the bailiff still has not paid our wages. I owe the cobbler for my boots and he glares at me every time I walk down the lane. If the silver does not arrive soon, I do not know how I will keep him from complaining to the captain.
Aye, I am drinking watered ale on credit myself. The town owes us our groschen.
Hide in the guardhouse when the cobbler walks by. It is what I do with the baker.
the Tuesday after St George, at None
Hannes claims I let the mercenaries through the right flank in the autumn. Christ almighty, it was pitch black in those woods! He could not see his own hand before his face, let alone who broke the line. I was knocked into the mud by our own men.
You were frozen stiff with your knees knocking together. I saw the Hungarian slip right past you.
Leave it be, Hannes. We were all frightened and half of us ended up in the dirt.
Nota scribaeHe swore by the Virgin three times before settling on these words.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Three drunk apprentices tried to slip past the tolls this morning with a cart of turnips. I gave them a shout and they scurried off. Standing at the Ceska Gate is safe, lawful work. I check the locks, take the coin, and keep Kuttenberg safe. No man needs to go out looking for trouble on the roads.
They were only boys, Oswald. You did not have to draw your sword on a cart of turnips.
the second Friday of Lent, at Compline
The draught in the guardhouse is freezing my bones to marrow. I miss old Martin. He always knew how to keep the fire going, God rest his soul. We never should have left his body in the mud when the arrows started flying.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You stuttered and pointed him straight into the bloody thicket, Oswald. Do not try to put your cowardice on me.
I was standing firm until you ran straight into me like a frightened sheep!