hired hand at the canteen, of Sigismund's camp
“I am a hired hand here at the canteen, sweating for every penny. I haul the ale, sweep the bloody rushes, and hear everything in this camp.”
Things Ernest had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The bailiff is eyeing men for the vanguard levy again. Let them take Nicholas Hunter, he is terrified of it and shaking like a leaf. I can heave a full barrel of ale onto the trestles without asking for help, but I am needed here to keep the benches clear for the rabble.
Nota scribaeHe crossed his arms and spat on the floor while dictating this. I had to step back.
the third day of Easter week, at Compline
The tradesmen were roaring for ale all week. Matilda Cutler kept pouring and I kept hauling. Bloody hell, my back aches, but I threw a drunken mercenary out the door without breaking a sweat. If a man wants hot food and a full cup, he has to come through me.
Just keep the rushes swept, Ernest, and stop boasting before you provoke someone with a sword.
the feast of the Annunciation, at None
Saw John Tanner chewing cold rations by his smithy. Stubborn old fool. If he had not dropped that roast pork in the rushes on St Martin's day, he could be eating hot stew in the canteen. I did not shove him, his grip is just gone and he is too proud to admit it.
You shoved me, you clumsy whoreson! The meat fell because you blundered into me. I would not eat your slop if it was given away.
Keep eating your cold bread then, old man. I am saving the hot pork for men who can hold a plate.
the first Friday in Lent, at Terce
If that coward Lawrence ever shows his face in the Kuttenberg region again, I will wring my half groschen out of his neck. Fled the camp two years ago to escape his debts and left me short for a week's worth of ale. Bloody hell, I sweat for my coin.
He left us to pay the surgeon's fee from our own pockets. A cursed name in our smithy, truly.
Nota scribaeDictated at the canteen. He pounded the table so hard the inkwell nearly tipped.
Candlemas, at Prime
Sweeping out the dirty rushes this morning before the morning draught. Smells worse than a privy in here. Made me think of poor Zlata. She never caused a fuss, God rest her, just mended clothes and then died of the bloody flux. Up in heaven there are no dirty rushes to wash.
She was a gentle soul. She used to mend my torn sleeves. We miss her at the forge.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I am not shaking, you loud-mouthed ape, I merely have work to finish at the forge.