hired hand at the gate, of Nebakov fortress
“I keep the gate at Nebakov and freeze for my sins. A man tries to do his duty, but the world repays him with sour ale and endless shouting.”
Things Prokop had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Zdenyek is making a fuss over nothing. I told him his kettle hat is getting a bit of rust scoured off it by a smith in the lower town. A man takes care of a comrade's gear, and gets called a liar for it! Saint Wenceslas give me patience.
Nota scribaeThe man rubbed his neck so hard while speaking I thought he might strip the skin.
the feast of St Mark, at Prime
Christ almighty, if I have to hear Joseph and Julian bicker about the Apollonia rocks one more time, I will throw myself off the wall. They drank the plum brandy, the Hungarians came, and Denis is dead. Shouting about who held the lantern won't bring him back.
If Julian had not taken the lantern, the Hungarians would never have seen us in the dark! It is his fault Denis was left behind.
I only took it because you dropped it in the mud, you drunken fool!
Shut your mouths, the lot of you. The lad is right, the man is dead and shouting won't mend it.
the third day of Easter week, at None
That whoreson sutler Bozhena has packed her wagon for Jicin. She took pledges that weren't rightly hers to take, and now the baggage train is gone. If anyone is going that way, I have an urgent matter of sixty groschen that needs settling.
A pledge is a pledge, lad. If you cannot roll the dice, you should not play the game. The hat is keeping my wares safe now.
I do not care about your groschen, but I will miss her strong plum brandy. The sour ale here is killing my stomach.
Nota scribaeHe dictated this looking anxiously toward the barracks door, starting at every footstep.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Sext
The wind off the mud today cuts right through a tunic. The captain still won't let us have a fire at the gate. Checked three peasant wagons full of wet turnips and got nothing but dirty looks. I'd give my right hand for a cup of warm ale.
Candlemas, at Terce
Muster today. Praise be to Zdenyek for lending me his proper steel kettle hat. I look like a true man-at-arms in it, not just a hired hand. Might try my luck at the dice later with Bozhena. A good hat brings good fortune, I reckon.
See that you keep it clean, lad. That is sixty groschen of good steel on your head, not a chamber pot.
Nota scribaeDictated near the sutler's wagon. The man had already begun to shake a pair of bone dice in his palm.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
There is no smith in the lower town who takes three months to scour a hat, Prokop. Give me my steel before Sunday.
Keep your voices down, both of you. The captain will hear.