guard on the barricades, of Sigismund's camp
“I have survived three campaigns by keeping my eyes open and my mouth shut. Most of these lads around the fire will be dead before the summer muster.”
Things Roger had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Wenceslas is acting like a frightened boy again. We found something good last autumn, something that would pay the sutler and fill our bellies, but he sits on it like a nervous hen. If the provost was going to hang us, he would have done it by now. Just break the bloody thing up.
Nota scribaeThe man spoke very quietly, rubbing his greying beard the whole time.
the feast of St Philip and St James, at None
Tobias sends another boy from the stone houses to tell us the wages are delayed. Doubravka locked her wagons again. The young fools here are trading their iron caps and boots for sour beer. I will go hungry before I let that woman hold my gear in pledge. A soldier without his boots is just meat.
It is easy for you to say. I have not eaten since yesterday, and my throat is dry as dust.
Your gear is old anyway, graybeard. But the beer is fresh.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Adam jumps at every shadow by the latrines. He cracked a townsman's head over dice and thinks the bailiff is coming for him in the camp. Nobody from the town is walking into this mud to find him. I told the boy to stop shaking and keep his hands on his belt.
You did not see how much blood there was, Roger. They know my face.
At least wash the mud off your tunic, Adam, before they hang you.
Nota scribaeDictated while inspecting the perimeter mud.
the Thursday after St Gregory, at Compline
Benesh and James are brawling again over Jarda. They whine that he was left in a ditch near Sedletz. Jarda was too slow, and death caught him. That is all there is to it. I have outlived better men than him, and crying into the fire will not bring him back to his mess.
the week of Candlemas, at Terce
My joints ache in this damp, though I will not tell the boys. The king's brother brought us here, but nobody remembers to feed us. Just mud, hungry Cumans on the road, and wet wood that smokes but does not burn. Three campaigns and this is the worst camp yet.
The Cumans at least know how to forage. We are just sitting here rotting.
My kit is rusting from all this rain.
Nota scribaeThe soldier dictated this with his boots on, though it was early morning.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your voice down, Roger. You know what happens to foragers who take without leave. The rope is cheaper than wages.
You will starve before they hang you, boy. Hand it over.