soldier at Malesov gates, of Malesov
“I stand at the lower gates until my knees pop like dry twigs, and for what? The lords pay us like we're stable-boys, and that's when they bother to pay us at all.”
Things John had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Monday after St Pancras, at Vespers
St John's Day draws near and Hugh the quartermaster is sharpening his quill for the muster. The man would dock a month's pay for a rusty buckle. I pace the yard all evening. I wish to Christ someone would just sell what they have to sell before the upper castle chambers start turning out the mattresses.
Nota scribaeHe spoke quickly and looked over his shoulder twice while dictating this.
the feast of St George, at Prime
Another morning frost biting at my toes by the lower gate. A farmer's cart brought in cabbages. The man stared at me like I was the plague itself. The damp is in my joints, and I am younger than the rest of them. At least I am quicker.
The damp gets us all, lad. Keep your feet moving and mind your own business.
the Wednesday in Easter week, at None
Tuma and Andrew are at the ale again, shouting about Matthew and the flail. I had to leave the room. A flail is a heavy thing, no man wants to face a threshing tool in the dark. Andrew was right to shut the gate, though I will not tell Tuma that.
He shut the gate on his own mess-mate! Matthew died in the mud. You know nothing of it, boy.
It was a dark night and bad luck. I did what I had to.
the second Sunday of Lent, at Terce
Robert is tearing the barracks apart looking for his riding boots. I know full well Avice the ale-wife has them in her cellar in Kuttenberg, but I am not saying a word. The shouting in the barracks makes my head ache. I sit as far away from them as I can.
If you know who took my boots, tell me! Forty groschen they cost me!
Nota scribaeThe man stammers a great deal.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Compline
Winter is long. Every night I think of the march last autumn, the muddy ditch, and what was found there. It is wrapped in old canvas now. It gnaws at me. I wish it was gone and the coin in my hand, but I am forced to wait. I cannot sleep.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Shut your mouth, boy. We wait until the roads are full of peddlers. Keep pacing if it makes you feel better.