watchman at the supply tents, of Sigismund's camp
“I am a watchman in the levy. I stand by the tents freezing my feet in the mud while the Hungarians drink.”
Things Richard had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the third day of May, at Vespers
My toes are numb and I stubbed my heel again. God is surely punishing me for my broken vow. I promised Saint Barbara a silver penny at Sedletz if I survived the march, but the woods are full of wolves and bad men. I cannot walk barefoot out there alone.
Nota scribaeThe lad sniffed so much while speaking that I had to wipe my parchment.
the Friday after Easter, at None
Since Maresh died of the flux, there is no order in the shed at all. John complains from dawn to dusk about the heavy cloak Roger owes him for, and the firewood is never shared. I would go to the alehouse but Avice went to Prague and I still owe her three pennies.
Palm Sunday, at Prime
My chest cough has finally cleared up. Saint Martin be praised for that at least. But now I have to stand watch with nothing but my thin wool scraps. John is still in a black temper because that camp boy Baldwin ran off with our four groschen for the roasted chickens.
Little bastard robbed us blind. I reckon Roger chased him off to keep the coin for himself.
I did no such thing. The boy was a thief, same as half this levy.
Nota scribaeDictated near the supply tents. A Hungarian soldier shouted something and the boy jumped.
the morrow of Saint Gregory, at Prime
I am freezing to the bone. I lent my hand-axe to Roger yesterday to chop kindling for the brazier. Now he refuses to give it back. He says it is his payment because he stood my midnight watch last week. I only want to chop some wood for the fire.
the first Friday of Lent, at Compline
We have been marching through miserable rain for days. Half the older men are dying of the bloody flux in the ditches. I am spitting blood into the mud and I fear I will die in a state of mortal sin. If I live, I will walk barefoot to Sedletz, I swear it.
Keep walking, lad. The grave is wetter than the road.
Nota scribaeHe was coughing terribly and clutching his chest. I advised him to make his peace.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
God has better things to do than worry about your toes, Richard. Ask Roger to pay you for the axe so you can buy proper boots.