soldier at the gate, of Malesov
“I am the sharpest man in this garrison, though the lords pay us like stable-hands. I set the tone.”
Things William had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Ascension, at Vespers
Muster is called for Saint John's Day and Hugh the quartermaster is prowling the yard. I swear by Saint Wenceslas, if Tuma does not hand back my iron kettle hat by Sunday, I will break his jaw. He claims the smith has it. I say he is a bloody liar.
Nota scribaeDictated in the yard. The man crossed his arms and glared at the armoury the entire time.
the feast of Saint Stanislaus, at Prime
My back aches from this lumpy mattress, but a smart man bears his discomforts in silence until the season turns. John is sweating over nothing, weeping about the gallows like a frightened boy. Hugh stops counting the stores so closely when it gets warm. We just have to wait.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Sext
The roads are choked with refugees from the burnt villages, and bread is dearer than last year. We stopped a wagon of Hungarians at the gate today. I made them wait an hour just to show them who holds the keys to Malesov.
I saw you check that wagon. You barely looked in the back, William.
Did any of them have my riding boots? Some whoreson stole them right out of the hall.
Nota scribaeDictated while chewing a piece of tough meat.
the feast of Saint Gertrude, at None
Took ten pennies off the younger lads rolling dice by the wall. They throw like farmers. Andrew and Tuma are at each other's throats again over poor Matthew. I told them Matthew was a fool to steal chickens in the dark, and a flail to the head was just his wages.
It was bad luck on a dark night, that is all. God rest his soul.
You are a cold bastard, William. He shared my blanket for three winters.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
Bloody freezing down here in the lower barracks, and the wind comes right through the stone. We are still waiting on our wages from Hugh. Richard is hiding pennies under the floorboards like a squirrel, saving for some carpenter. I asked him for a groschen for ale and the rat refused me.
They are my pennies, William. You would only drink them, and I have a trade to learn.
A soldier dies with his coin spent, boy. Lord knows we might not see the summer.
Nota scribaeThe man spat on the ground when he named the quartermaster.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Hold your water, William. The smith is slow. You will have it before Hugh looks at us.
I paid fifty groschen for that iron, boy. Get it back or I will take it out of your hide.