guard at the merchant house, of Malesov
“I stand by the gate of the Obchodnicky dum so no cutpurse gets near Master William's iron. A man-at-arms in a yard of soft folk.”
Things Robert had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Ascension, at Vespers
Sakra, let the bailiff's clerk knock at this gate all he likes. Havel will find no fighting man here to march against the Cumans. I have a stitch in my side, terrible bad, and a merchant's yard to hold. Master William cannot spare me, though he doesn't know it yet.
Nota scribaeThe guard adjusted his belt four times while dictating this. He did not sound ill.
the eve of St Philip and St James, at None
I heard the older Robert talking to those three wet dogs of his again. Kudla, Rek, and Troy. They eat better meat than I do, and smell about the same as him. Sakra, how can a man sleep on straw in the sheds and be terrified of the widow Mary? If she came to my gate, I'd show her steel.
Keep your steel for the Hungarians, lad. My dogs know a fool when they smell one, and they don't hide indoors when the widow starts shouting.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
The wind off the main road is colder than the grave today. I shift from foot to foot and the mud still tries to swallow my boots. I am owed more than a few groschen for this. Master William sits inside worrying over his old father Julian in Prague, while I keep the salt safe.
You are paid what we agreed, Robert. And my father's health is a heavier burden than your cold feet.
the Friday after St Gregory, at Sext
They say King Sigismund's soldiers are massing near Kuttenberg. If any vagabond comes sniffing around the merchant's iron, I'll draw my blade and see his guts in the dirt. I am ready for a fight. But Havel the clerk had best leave my name off his parchment. I am needed here.
The only thing you've drawn all week is water from the well, and you complained about that too.
Nota scribaeHe spoke the first part loudly, and the last part very quietly.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
Alice keeps too tight a grip on the tally sticks. A man stands out in the chill winds from first light to dusk, keeping cutpurses at bay, and the housekeeper acts as if I am robbing the yard myself. Sakra, soft civilians do not understand the toll it takes on a fighting man.
A fighting man who sleeps in the main house corner like a frightened pup. Come sleep in the sheds and learn what cold is.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Master William can spare you very well, Robert. You frighten beggars, not armies. And you had better return what you took from my chest before Sunday.
It is fair payment for quarter-wage! My ribs are worth more than your summer bedsheets. A man-at-arms must have padding.