garrison soldier at Suchdol, of Suchdol
“I am too tall for my own good and stuck holding a spear in the mud.”
Things Tuma the Tall had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
This damp weather has my left knee aching like a crushed walnut. I can barely walk straight. The bailiff passed by and I made sure he saw my limp. A cripple is no use in a shield wall, I told him. He just spat.
Nota scribaeHe stood perfectly straight until he saw me uncap the ink horn.
the second day of Easter week, at Vespers
A man ought to share what he finds in the mud, especially when another man helped him pull it out. Some older fellows think they can sit on a heavy pouch just because they hardly speak. The Lord sees who does the sharing.
Quiet your mouth before the captain hears you yammering.
the Monday after St Richard, at Prime
If any carter is heading south to the villages, tell them to pass word to my mother that her overgrown son is not dead yet. I cannot write a stroke, and the priest charges too much to send a sealed letter.
I told you to buy me an ale and I would take it myself.
Nota scribaeI charge nothing, he merely refuses to pay the messenger.
the feast of St Gregory, at Sext
Bartholomew and Mikesh drank away their week's coin in two days and now they are snoring so loud the straw shakes. I would sleep outside, but the mud is deep enough to swallow a boot. A soldier's life is just waiting in the wet.
It is not my fault you sleep as light as a nervous hare.
Candlemas, at Prime
I should have hunched my shoulders when I was sixteen. The recruiter took one look at my head sticking up above the crowd in the square and shoved this dented kettle hat into my chest. Now I am cold all winter.
Aye, but you can reach the high apples when we march past an orchard.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You walked fine to the alehouse last night, you long lump.