soldier for the king, of Sigismund's camp
“A man must make his way in the mud, brother. I keep the King's wagons safe, and I know where the dice fall best.”
Things Reginald had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Wednesday before Whitsun, at None
Brother Paul is fretting again like an old woman. He asks after his padded jack as if it were a reliquary! I told him Vashek has it, and the boy pawned it out of pure spite. I only lent it to Vashek to keep the frost off him on watch.
Nota scribaeHe smiled broadly while saying this, though his eyes darted toward the sutlers' carts.
the Monday after Ascension, at Vespers
I swear the millet they boil for us is half river-mud. A man cannot fight on this. I would trade my next month's wage for a piece of that hard cheese Paul's mother Magdalena used to send.
Aye, it tastes of dirt and sorrow. The Hungarians eat better than us, I reckon.
You complain about the food, but you never take a turn on the foraging party, Reginald.
Nota scribaeThe men gathered around nodded grimly at this.
the feast of St Philip and St James, at Sext
A terrible run of luck behind the supply carts today. The dice were cursed. I tell you, somebody must have brought a devil into the camp. Now I must avoid the cavalry lines, lest Wenceslas the pawnbroker comes asking for his pennies.
The only devil is your own hand, Reginald. You always throw short when it matters.
If Provost Hynek catches you dicing when you should be watching the perimeter, you'll be flogged raw.
the third day of Easter week, at Terce
Spring is finally here, and the mud is drying, praise be. I spent the morning adjusting wagon straps. It is honest work, keeping the King's baggage secure. Some men mock it, but a loose strap can lose a war.
You adjusted one strap three times and then hid behind the tents when the sergeant came.
It was a very difficult strap, brother Jezhek. A man must be thorough.
Nota scribaeHe dictated this while sitting on a barrel, making no move to return to work.
the morrow of St Matthias, at Prime
God rest poor Simon. The foraging party was ambushed by peasants near the ruined mill. They say he was beaten to death. I thank the Lord I stayed in camp to mend my boots. A sad day for the Praguers.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
My mother paid good silver for that jack! Pentecost is coming, Reginald, and if the captain sees me in rags, I'm done for. You swore you only borrowed it for one shift!
I pawned it? You traded it to me for your dice debts, you lying whoreson! And Wenceslas has it now.
Peace, brothers, peace! Vashek jests, Paul. We will find your jack before the muster, God willing.