ditch-digger at the camp, of Sigismund's camp
“I haul mud all day because a captain caught me resting my eyes, friend. It is a miserable existence.”
Things Prokop had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
This rain is the devil's own spit. My blankets are rotting because my tent frame broke on Saint Vitalis's day. If any of you so-called friends had a scrap of pity, you would fetch me a bag of nails from the smithy while I am stuck digging this cursed mud.
Nota scribaeDictated while he scraped mud from his boots. He smelled strongly of damp wool.
the second Tuesday of May, at None
Geoffrey is a coward, friend. He sits on good fortune like a frightened hen and leaves the rest of us starving on army oats. A certain heavy thing we found in the mud could buy us proper meat in Kuttenberg, but he is too terrified of the provost to move it.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
They gave us boiled oats again for the feast. I spend my whole day waist-deep in the defensive ditch, hauling dirt for the captains, and they cannot even give us a piece of mutton. Bartholomew just rattles his dice in the corner instead of helping me wring out my bedding.
The dice don't complain about their aching backs all night, friend.
Nota scribaeHe spoke loudly, making sure the soldiers passing by could hear his grievances.
the eve of Saint Gertrude, at Terce
The provost's men have been turning over the camp looking for Thomas. The ale-wife wants her coin, and now we all suffer the scrutiny. It is Alan's fault. He could not keep his mouth shut about the southern roads being free of patrols, and gave the lad the courage to run.
I only stated a fact about the roads. I did not tell him to walk out in the night.
You handed him the key, friend. Now the captains watch us like hawks.
Nota scribaeHe paused often to rub his lower back.
the second Friday of Lent, at Sext
A week of hard labour in the ditch because a captain claims he caught me sleeping on watch. I was merely resting my eyes against the glare of the morning sun. Now I have blisters the size of groschen and boots that are falling apart in this cursed earthwork.
You were snoring so loud you could have woken the Cumans across the river, Prokop.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I am not walking all the way to the smithy in this weather for your comfort, Prokop.
My sister Agnes always said wet wool brings the camp fever. You should be careful.