guard at Suchdol, of Suchdol
“I stand on the wall at night and keep quiet. The men around me talk too much.”
Things Reginald had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the second Tuesday in May, at None
The captain gave me the dark hours on the wall again. It suits me. I look out over the road and do not have to hear Maresh whining about a bone die. Havel stood with me a while and kept his mouth shut. Good lad.
Nota scribaeHe spoke this while rubbing the grain of his spear shaft.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Standa sits across the mess hoarding his strongbox, acting like he earned what is in it. He knows why Jarda is in the dirt. I see him every day and my hand goes to my belt. Cowardice should not buy a man silver.
the Tuesday after Palm Sunday, at Vespers
Isolde went to Prague, so we stink. The men squabble over a tin pitcher like fishwives. Ralph is drinking away his stolen coin and sweating with the fever he caught on the Sazava. Sometimes I think the marauders should have killed us all.
My throat is parched, Reginald. The ale helps the fever.
It is my pitcher, he has no right to it!
Nota scribaeHe stared into the middle distance for a long time before speaking the last sentence.
the feast of St Gregory, at Terce
Andreas is still cursing the captain for marching Ernest to death on the frozen river. Flux took him before Lent. Jarda took an arrow in the neck. I ate my salted pork stew alone today. I cannot look at the men who came back.
The captain pushed us too hard. Ernest's blood is on his boots.
the week after Candlemas, at Compline
We are back in Suchdol. The mud froze our boots on the Sazava. We found a broken wagon of silver cups and fine wool on the march back. I took nothing. The others filled their pockets while we were still burying Jarda.
A man must eat, Reginald. The dead do not need silver.
Nota scribaeDictated in the guardhouse. He spoke slowly.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A quiet watch is a good watch.
I would not whine if Bartholomew gave the die back!