guard at Nebakov fortress, of Nebakov fortress
“By Saint Wenceslas, I am just a simple guardsman trying to survive this miserable posting. I stand at the gates waiting for pay that never comes.”
Things Zdenyek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
By Saint Wenceslas, if the captain calls a muster tomorrow, I am a dead man. That whoreson Prokop still hasn't got my best gambeson back from the ale-wife. I told him he has until Compline to find the groschen, or I'm taking the skin off his back in its place.
Nota scribaeThe man was waving his hands so much he knocked over my inkhorn.
the feast of Saint Mark, at None
Another morning waking up in a puddle because Hugh the steward hoards all the dry timber up in the keep. May his own roof cave in on his head. By Saint Wenceslas, the men down here are treated worse than the lord's dogs. A dog gets a dry kennel.
Aye, my boots haven't been dry since Candlemas. The man is a tight-fisted bastard.
Careful how loud you say that, Zdenyek. The bailiff has ears everywhere.
the Tuesday after Easter, at Sext
Young Ralph is whining about his knife again. A wager is a wager. By Saint Wenceslas, if he wants it back so badly, he can pay me the ten groschen he owes from the tavern. Until then, it stays on my belt. I won it fair and square.
It was only a pledge against a few pennies! You know it's my favourite. Give it back, you thief.
Ten groschen, lad. That's the price of a lesson in dice.
Nota scribaeThe knife in question is quite fine. I suspect there is more to this story.
the first week of Lent, at Prime
The carts from Kuttenberg are late again, and the bread Richard Clark serves us is harder than a horse's hoof. They say the soldiers on the roads are making travel impossible. We sit here guarding a gate while the whole country goes to shit. Still, better here than out in the dark woods.
I boil what they give me to boil. If you want better food, take it up with the steward.
I heard Sigismund's Cumans burnt a farm just a half day's walk from here.
Candlemas, at Terce
Frantishek brought up the autumn patrol again today. Why can't they let poor Baldwin rest? It was dark, the woods were full of shouting men, and nobody could see a thing. Anyone would have been confused. By Saint Wenceslas, I'm sick of hearing about it. We all did what we had to do.
He was a good man, Zdenyek. He held the line while the rest of the line vanished into the trees.
It was pitch black! You couldn't see your own hand! God rest his soul, but there was nothing to be done.
Nota scribaeHe spoke this very quickly and looked out the window the whole time.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I am working on it, Zdenyek! If the steward would pay us what we're owed, I could buy it back tomorrow.
Saint Wenceslas give me strength. Work faster, or I'll tell the captain exactly where it is.