guard at Suchdol fortress, of Suchdol
“I walk the bounds and wait for my pay. It is better than sitting in the barracks looking at cowards.”
Things Standa had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
The mud is finally drying up out on the perimeter. It is still better to be walking it than sitting inside with men who shut doors on their mates. I cross my arms to keep the chill out, but it is the company that makes me cold.
Nota scribaeHe stared at the floor the entire time he spoke.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
William fell down the stone steps last night blind drunk and cracked his head. Now he is moaning worse than before. I am still not walking any message to Caslav for him. He brought the sore head entirely on himself.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at Vespers
David is whining about a lost rosary again, and Robert is still carrying on about his petty quarrel with the laundress Constance over some dirty water. Christ almighty, men die in the woods for nothing and these fools weep over a bit of soap.
She cursed me in the square, Standa. I will not pay good coin for soap.
Nota scribaeThe priest wrote this down with a heavy sigh at the profanity.
the feast of St Thomas Aquinas, at Terce
There are soldiers on the roads again. Sigismund's Hungarians. I hear them speaking and I remember the wet woods on the Kolin road last Martinmas. Vitek shouting in the dark while the captain and John held that heavy barn door shut.
It was a hard choice, lad, but it saved the rest of us. Stop poisoning the barracks with this.
The captain is right. He was already gone by the time we threw the bolt.
Candlemas, at Sext
The bailiff says we have to tell the priest what we do every day. I pull on stiff boots and walk the mud around the fortress, keeping the peace. It is bloody freezing. My biggest fear is dying out in this wet earth and nobody lifting a finger to stop it.
Aye, the mud is terrible this year. The boots barely keep it out.
Nota scribaeDictated in the corner of the alehouse while staring at a cup.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Let it rest, Standa. We had no choice that night in the woods.