guard at the inn, of Old Kutna
“I stand the night watch at the inn so drunks don't break necks. Honest work, mark my words.”
Things Roger had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Terce
I asked Benesh again to take word to my sister Mandelina in Prague. She thinks I died in the mud with the levy, I know it. He said no, as always. Sakra. I am sitting here alive and she weeps for nothing, mark my words.
Nota scribaeDictated by the hearth. He shifted his weight from foot to foot the entire time.
the Saturday after Saint Mark, at Sext
Three days ago I lent my solid tin pitcher to Karl Bauer. Now the man scurries away like a frightened hare whenever I cross the yard. He is hoarding it so he doesn't have to pay the ale-wife her penny deposit.
I am not hoarding it! The ale-wife is a thief. I will bring it back tomorrow.
He dropped it in the dark, Roger. I heard it clatter on the stones.
Saint Mark's day, at None
I lent my brass watch-lamp to Kunz Koch so he could look for a copper ring in the cellar. It cost me ten groschen. Now he makes excuses and says I owe him for a ruined cloak. Without it I am blind on the watch, sakra.
That cloak cost more than ten groschen, Roger. You ruined it on the march. We are even.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled strongly of sour ale and damp leather.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
I sat at the table with Kunz Koch today and the ale tasted like ash. I know what he did on that march to Suchdol. He shoved young Mathes aside in his haste to run from shadows. The boy is dead in a ditch because of his cowardice, mark my words.
You lost sight of the lad long before the shouting started, Roger. Don't put your failure on my soul.
It was dark, and half the levy ran. The Cumans are no shadows.
the Friday after Ash Wednesday, at Vespers
We are back from the levy. We were to escort wagons to Suchdol, but it was nothing but rain, mud, and panic. The innkeeper threatens my pay if I doze on the gate watch, but my bones are too cold to sleep. Young Mathes did not come back with us.
Poor lad. Heaven is warmer than that ditch, at least.
The roads are a peril. We must pray for better weather and stronger men.
Nota scribaeHe stared at the floor while speaking, resting his thick hand on his belt.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I am a soldier, Roger, not a messenger boy for your sister. Find a carter going west.
A decent man would carry a scrap of parchment for a comrade.