soldier in the camp, of Sigismund's camp
“I am a bowman wasting my days watching a rutted road. Give me fifty paces and I will shoot a hare's eye, but they have me shivering in the mud.”
Things Tobias had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the feast of St Philip and St James, at Vespers
The Kuttenberg clerk still expects his two groschen by Sunday, or I am hauling shite at the monastery. I asked Andrew again, swearing to pay double when the mint pays us. The cruel old bastard just spat. My draw arm will be ruined by a shovel.
Nota scribaeThe man was shifting his weight the whole time and smelled of stale cabbage.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Sext
We are eating boiled cabbage off wooden trenchers again. If Hugh had kicked down that barn door in Kolin instead of leaving Prokop behind, we would at least have our good iron pot. I do not care about Jarda's missing silver, I just want a hot stew.
the fourth Wednesday of Lent, at None
Christopher is whining about his Cecily in Znojmo, and Tuma will not shut up about getting word to his sister Adela. We are freezing by a ditch in Kuttenberg with no wages. I have no wife and no sister, and I thank the Lord for the peace.
She is my lawful wife. You would understand if you had a soul.
Adela expects to hear from me. Not all of us were whelped by wolves in a ditch.
Nota scribaeHe spoke very fast, looking over his shoulder at the camp master's tent.
the feast of St Thomas Aquinas, at Prime
Every night Maurice shouts at Andrew about Nicholas taking half our gear into that village gaol. A lost tent canvas is just a draught. I am facing a month with a shovel because of the Kuttenberg bailiff, which is a real problem. Maurice should let it go.
A draught? I am sleeping in the rain, Tobias. Nicholas was a fool to steal that pig, but Andrew should have paid his fine.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Terce
Guard duty is a curse. I closed my eyes against a wagon for a moment, and the bailiff walked past with his clerk. Now my name is in the ledger for the local levy. I will not dig cesspits. I challenge any man here to a shooting match for coin.
Bring your bows and your pennies. My yew string is dry and my eye is clear.
Nota scribaeHe offered to shoot a target at fifty paces, but no one had any silver to wager.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You can dig your own way out of this, lad. The mess purse is for the squad, not your sleeping habits.
Curse your eyes, Andrew. You care more for that ledger than a brother in arms.