guard at the inner gate, of Pritoky
“I am a farm boy in a soldier's coat, holding a halberd when I should be guiding a plough.”
Things Baldwin had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Vespers
The Kuttenberg lords are drawing up lists for another muster. My hands shake just hearing it. I survived the Hungarian arrows last autumn by keeping my head down, but if they send me back to the mud, I am done for.
Nota scribaeThe dictating took until Compline, owing to the man's constant pacing and sighing.
the Thursday after Easter, at None
Paul rides out tomorrow and still will not take a carved scrap of bark to my mother, Drahomira. Three days north is all it is. She is alone on the farmstead and I am terrified she will starve before the harvest.
the Feast of the Annunciation, at Prime
Broke my fast on salted cabbage and pease pudding again. This fortress smells worse than a privy and the rations would make a hog turn its nose. I long for my mother's fresh baked bread and raw onions.
Eat the pudding and be quiet, Baldwin. Complaining fills no bellies.
the second Sunday of Lent, at Sext
Staring down the road from the ramparts, watching the merchant wagons crawl by. The slow passage is like a steady plough turning a field. I miss the smell of fresh earth. My knees ache terribly from this cursed unyielding stone.
Nota scribaeHe stared firmly at his boots the entire time he spoke.
Candlemas, at Terce
Benesh snapped at me again today just for breathing too loudly in the yard. Ever since the campaign last autumn his heart is black. I try to walk carefully, but this place is a nest of angry wasps.
Then stop panting like a tired mule and stand your watch properly.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I feel the same dread, Baldwin. The veterans push us around enough here without dragging us into the woods.
Stop weeping, boy. Lawrence did not die so you could whimper in the barracks.