guard at the Tachov yard, of Tachov
“I watch the woods for master Andreas, walking in mud while fools jump at shadows. My legs are fast, my purse is light, but not for long.”
Things Roger had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St George, at None
Humphrey came with his quill to write down names for the levy. A thief taking men for a war that isn't ours. I stood tall and jingled my belt, looking ready, but Christ's wounds, I hope he didn't write me. I need to be here when that merchant passes again.
Nota scribaeThe guard spoke very quickly and kept tapping his leg against the bench.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
Prokop asked after his brass oil lamp again. I told him it must be under the straw near the armoury, where I left it. I don't know why an old dog like him needs to see in the dark anyway. If he'd stop whining, I could count my groschen in peace.
I lent it to you before Lent, you whoreson. Go dig it out of the straw.
If there is stolen property in the yard, the bailiff will hear of it.
Palm Sunday, at Vespers
I saw the merchant again in Zhelejov. He still has the steel cuirass, shining like silver. Twenty groschen in my mattress, but I need more. I ate only thin broth today to save a copper. A man with steel on his chest doesn't fear arrows.
You'll starve before you can afford it, and then what use is steel?
Nota scribaeHe refused to buy an ale while dictating this.
the Wednesday after St Matthias, at Terce
Christ's wounds, the cold last night. I dropped my only light when a branch snapped—thought it was a Cuman in the trees, but it was just a deer. Smudged some pitch on the glass, but the thing is ruined. Now I sit by the hearth smelling pigs.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
This yard smells of pig shit and old men. Prokop won't stop talking about his dead Joan, and Vashek jumps if a leaf falls. I am saving every penny. Soon enough I'll have the coin to join a real mercenary company and leave this mud to them.
If you don't like the mud, stop dragging it into my tavern.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
We are all going to die, Roger. They'll send us to the Hungarians and we'll end up in a ditch.
Shut your mouth, boy. Some of us have the speed to survive.