guard at the gatehouse, of Vysoka
“I watch the road here. It is dull work, but I am saving for good mail.”
Things Hugh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after Ascension, at Vespers
The widow Magdalena's steward is in the village asking to see her horn-handled knife. My belly is turning over. If he finds it gone, my wages are docked or worse. I count my silver under the floorboard over and over, but I am short. Thomas just smiles.
Nota scribaeThe man rubbed his chin the whole time he spoke, looking nervously at the road.
the eve of Saint Mark, at Sext
Two merchants from Kuttenberg passed today with a proper armourer's cart. I saw a fine mail hauberk, the sort a captain respects. I asked the price and it is bloody dear. I must scrape every penny or my knees will give out in this gatehouse.
the first day of Easter week, at None
Old Peter is bedridden with the gout again. I walked past his house today and heard him cursing. Thomas still will not speak to him over that stacked firewood from Saint Martin's day. I have no time for feuds, only counting what is mine.
He knows what he did with that wood. I'll not be the first to break silence.
Nota scribaeThe man spoke quietly, pausing to tally something on his left hand.
the Tuesday after Saint Gregory, at Terce
Too many ragged men on the road from the burnt villages. I turned away three before Sext. I gave one a heel of my hard bread because he looked starved, but I kept my grip on the halberd. The times are lean and men turn to wolves.
The woods are full of desperate folk. Nosewise barks at the shadows every night.
the feast of Saint Blaise, at Compline
The hours dragged today and the cold bit hard. Thomas brought out the dice. I wagered the widow Magdalena's horn-handled knife, thinking to double my coin and get closer to my hauberk. The dice were cursed. He took the knife. Christ almighty, what a fool I am.
The dice fall as they will, lad. It's my knife for cutting bread now.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the brazier. He looked sick with his own folly.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Ten groschen, Hugh. A wager before God is binding. Count your fingers all you want.
You know I do not have it to spare, you stubborn ass. Have some mercy before the steward ruins me.