cook at Nebakov fortress, of Nebakov fortress
“I boil the oats, slice the pork, and feed these miserable bastards. My job is the pot, not the nursery.”
Things Richard Clark had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Prime
The rain has not stopped for three days. The lean-to roof sags worse than an old sow's belly, and muddy water is dripping right into my morning oats. I asked Hugh for dry timber for the third time, but he guards the lord's wood like a dragon.
Nota scribaeDictated at the pot. He wiped his hands on a filthy apron throughout.
the third day of May, at Vespers
I am sick of hearing the men bicker over dead men's bones. Julian will not let the autumn ambush rest, and young Frantishek is half eaten by guilt. Poor Baldwin is in the earth, God rest him. Fighting in the barracks will not bring him back.
The boy broke the line in the woods. Baldwin's blood is on his hands, and I will say it until the lad learns to hold a sword.
I know what I did. I pray for Baldwin's soul every night. Thank you for the extra crust of bread, Richard.
the Monday after Easter, at None
There is no peace in this fortress. If Simon and Walter do not stop arguing over that bone-handled awl in the cellars, I will boil it. And Zdenyek, give Ralph back his eating knife. You won it before Lent, he has learned his lesson.
A wager is a wager. If he wanted to keep his knife, he should not have played dice with a better man.
I have been eating your pork with my fingers for weeks, Richard. Tell him to yield it.
Nota scribaeHe spoke in a terrible loud bark, throwing his voice over the crackle of wet wood.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Sext
Bartholomew has spoken of his holy vow to walk to Sedletz every day since the winter sickness passed. I pray to Saint Lawrence he actually goes soon, so my ears might have a rest from it. The road is clear enough.
A holy vow is a heavy burden, Richard. A man must prepare his soul before he walks to such a blessed place.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
The steward claims the maintenance coin is spent and there is no wood for the lean-to. I know he is lining his own purse while the roof over my fires rots to pieces. I am vain about keeping a fire in a downpour, but this is madness.
We all know Hugh is a thief, Richard. Just keep the oats warm and do not march into the upper keep. It will only bring you a flogging.
Nota scribaeThis took a great deal of shouting to write down.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
The wood is for the outer palisades, not a cook's comfort. Keep the fire lit and mind your place.
You are pocketing the maintenance coin, you thief, and letting my fires drown.