levyman at Nebakov fortress, of Nebakov fortress
“I am a levyman with clean armour, wishing only that the veterans would stop their endless shouting.”
Things Standa had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The damp here is a curse. I spent an hour rubbing sand into my mail just to keep the rot away. If the men spent half the time polishing their gear that they do shouting about Martinmas, we would have the finest garrison in Bohemia.
Nota scribaeHe cleared his throat three times before speaking this.
the feast of St Mark, at None
Frantishek is telling everyone again that I tripped him in the dark when we ran from the Apollonia rocks. Rot take it, I was ten paces ahead! It was his own shouting about fifty men in the trees that started the panic.
You stepped on my heel! If you had held the line with poor Denis, we would not have run at all.
You could not count in the dark, Frantishek. You saw three foragers and screamed like a frightened maidservant.
the third day of Easter week, at Prime
Checked three wagons at the gate this morning. Two loads of turnips and a cart of sour ale. Better than sitting by the fire listening to the veterans curse Andrew for taking the good horse.
I had to take the horse, Standa. They would have cut us to ribbons otherwise.
Let them argue. We have our shifts to pull and wages to collect. Peace is better.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the gatehouse. A peasant wagon was held up while he spoke.
the Monday after St Gregory, at Sext
My head aches from the noise. Joseph will not stop shouting at Julian over last autumn. It is done, we survived, Denis did not. I wish they would leave the ghost to rest and eat their cabbage pottage in quiet.
We left a man behind! Some of us remember what loyalty means, even if the young do not.
the first Wednesday of Lent, at Compline
I hear there is a decree from Rome that we must tell a scribe our days. I have nothing much to say. The king is still held, the bread costs more than last year, and my spearhead needs oiling.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
A clean shirt will not save you when the Hungarians come, lad. Only cold iron and a steady hand.