tallyman for the quartermaster, of Sigismund's camp
“I tally ale and bread for the king's men, saving every single groschen to free my Adleta.”
Things Thomas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St Urban, at Vespers
My stomach is turning inside out from this rotten camp onion and thin barley. I need fresh cabbage for a stew and a poultice, but these Kuttenberg farmers see my tabard and bar their doors. I would pay good silver if anyone can buy some on my behalf.
Nota scribaeHe gripped his stomach the entire time he spoke and looked as pale as a ghost.
the Monday after St George, at None
The captain keeps looking east and it terrifies me. I have thirty groschen in my pouch, but her master wants fifty. If they sound the march before I can buy Adleta's contract, I am ruined. Ruined, I tell you. Does anyone know a fast way to earn twenty groschen?
Come play dice with us, Thomas! You will double it or lose it all.
Do not listen to him, he plays with a loaded bone die.
Nota scribaeHe jingled a greasy leather pouch by my ear until I asked him to stop.
the third day of Easter week, at Terce
John is shaking in his boots about the levy again. He has never even faced a drawn blade in his life, yet he weeps like a terrified child at the thought of the vanguard. It is laughable. At least I have a real worry to keep me awake.
It is easy for you to laugh from behind your slate, tallyman.
the feast of St Gertrude, at Prime
I feel deeply for Havel today. Poor Stephen was a good clerk and never cheated a man of his ale ration. But the river was too fast and the water too cold. Up in heaven he will not have to count barrels for the king. God rest his soul.
the day after Candlemas, at Sext
I am so thoroughly sick of William and Zdenyek shouting about that lost bone die. Martin froze to death in the snowdrift yesterday, God rest him, and all these two fools can do is argue over who dropped the dice in the storm. Let the ghosts of Candlemas rest.
William owes me three pennies from that game, dead Martin or no.
I owe you nothing, you whoreson, Martin was holding the stakes when he fell.
Nota scribaeDictated at the trestle table. The ink froze twice while we spoke.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I told you not to eat the onions from the bottom of the barrel, lad.
I was starving, Walter, I was starving. I will not make that mistake again.