soldier in the camp, of Sigismund's camp
“I sit by the eastern ditch waiting for the mint to send the pay chest. Sakra, a man should not have to carry another man's water or listen to him weep over a cooking pot.”
Things Hugh had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St Urban, at None
The Kuttenberg bailiff's clerk was sniffing around the ditch today with his ledger. Sakra, I picked up a spear and looked busy tightening my belt until he passed. Tobias got put on the cesspit levy for sleeping on watch, and I will not join him in the shit.
Nota scribaeDictated from behind a brewer's wagon, where he was hiding.
the second week of May, at Sext
Benesh is crying about that iron pot again. Sakra, it is not my fault Prokop locked himself in a hayloft in Kolin last autumn. The doors were thick oak and the man was heavy with drink. Eat your pottage off a wooden trencher and leave my ears in peace.
It was the only pot we had! You could have broken the latch with a rock.
And he owed me fifteen groschen. You left my coin sleeping in the hay.
Write your coin off, Jarda. The march was starting and I am not dragging a snoring drunk.
Nota scribaeThe man chewed on a piece of straw the entire time he spoke.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Andrew is hoarding the mess purse like a miser. Now Nicholas is sitting in a village cellar for a ten-groschen fine, and Maurice is weeping because the fool took the spare tent canvas into the gaol with him. I am glad it is not my gear missing.
St Gregory's day, at Prime
Took two groschen off the baker's cart for keeping an eye on his flour. Tossed the dice on the drumhead with James and lost it straight back. Sakra, the bone is cold today.
The dice are not cold, you just cast them like a farmer sowing seeds.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
The wind cuts right through this leaky tent. We sit and sit, waiting for the Kuttenberg mint to send the silver. A man's teeth chatter so hard he cannot keep his straw in his mouth.
If Cecily were here she could patch the canvas. I miss my wife.
Christ almighty, if you say her name one more time I will sleep in the mud.
Nota scribaeHe smelled strongly of old ale and wet wool.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is no laughing matter, Hugh. The smell does not wash out of my boots.