guardsman at Nebakov fortress, of Nebakov fortress
“I stand watch on the eastern wall and wait for pay that never comes.”
Things Ralph had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Prime
Another night rained out. My blanket is so wet I could wring it into my stew. That whoreson steward Hugh sits up in the keep with dry timber piled high, laughing at us in the mud. Spat in his tracks yesterday. Hope he slips in it.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted by a fit of coughing. He did indeed spit upon the ground.
the second Tuesday of May, at None
Benesh called me a coward again across the barracks. Bloody hell, I ran from the woods because every man ran. Poor Baldwin is dead, God rest his soul, but staring me down won't bring him back from the dirt. We all panicked in the dark.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Stood watch on the eastern wall all morning. Naught on the road but muddy carts and refugees. Richard Clark served us a stew so thin you could read a psalter through it. I wouldn't mind if the pay ever arrived.
It is lentil stew, Ralph, not a miracle. I boil what the steward gives me.
Nota scribaeHe spent a long time looking at his shoes before speaking.
the feast of St Gregory, at Terce
I see Zdenyek parading around the courtyard with my eating knife on his belt. It sickens me. He knows I meant to buy it back when the coin came. Now he demands ten groschen for the tavern debt before he hands it over. Thief.
It was a fair throw of the dice, you sour bastard. Pay your debts and you can eat with steel again.
Just use a wooden spoon like the rest of us, Ralph.
Ash Wednesday, at Sext
The priest says we must repent, but my only sin was dicing with Zdenyek before Lent began. Put up my best blade against a few pennies, thinking my pay was due the morrow. Sakra. Now I am eating my pottage with my fingers like a wild man.
At least you have fingers. Keep dicing with him and you will lose your shirt too.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the chapel. The man smelled strongly of wet wool.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Amen to that. My boots are rotting off my feet.
Maybe if you stopped muttering and fetched some pitch we wouldn't be drowning in here, Ralph.