guard at the Suchdol gate, of Suchdol
“I keep my head down, stand my watch, and make sure nobody steals my boots. A man has to look out for his own purse when the king's pay never comes.”
Things Anthony had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The Monday before Whitsun, at None
They say there are more Cumans on the roads to Kuttenberg. I would care about the king's troubles if the king ever sent his wages. We have been waiting since winter, and a man cannot eat a sharpened spear. If they turn us loose to starve before summer, I will take my toll from the merchants myself.
Nota scribaeDictated at the gatehouse. He spat on my shoes after the last word.
The second Wednesday after Easter, at Vespers
Some fools sit at the mess table and forget the bargains they made. A certain weaver bought a heavy bundle of goods two weeks ago. I know exactly what was paid for it. I am sitting right across from you, Maresh, and I want my bloody half of the groschen before you drink it away.
The Friday of Easter week, at Prime
Standa and Reginald are wasting their breath again, arguing over how Jarda died in the snow. He is dead, let him rot in peace. I am more worried about Andreas. He grieves too hard for old Ernest. If he opens his mouth to Captain Black about the marching orders, he will end up swinging from a branch.
The Captain drove Ernest into the frozen dirt. I will not forget it.
Jarda broke the line, Anthony. We all saw it.
Nota scribaeDictated while checking the armoury. He stopped twice to count leather belts.
The first Thursday of Lent, at Terce
Let it be known that the tin pitcher beside my pallet is mine. Maresh whined about the cold on the walls, so I took two of his freezing night shifts for it. Bought and paid for with frost on my boots. Now he whines that it was a favour. Do not touch the pitcher.
It was a loan, you thief. Give it back.
Come take it if you are brave enough.
You two squabble worse than the village wives over a tin cup.
The day after Candlemas, at Sext
We found a broken wagon on the patrol today. The merchants had run off, and the cold was enough to freeze a man's marrow. Captain Black took the silver for himself, naturally. We marched back in the dark. I will not say the dark woods did not scare me, but I am alive, and my feet are thawing.
Half the men have black toes from that march.
God rest Ernest. The frost took him on that very trail.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled heavily of smoke and salt pork.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Pour a cup and forget the king, lad. We are dead men anyway.
Keep drinking your wages, Ralph, and you will be dead before the Hungarians get here.