watchman at the lower gate, of Trosky
“I am an old soldier trying not to freeze. I am an old soldier trying not to freeze.”
Things Nicholas had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St Mark, at Vespers
The muster is past and my wages are docked. Docked! All because a certain young man will not admit what is on his feet. The bailiff keeps his strongbox locked and now I am ruined. I am ruined.
Nota scribaeHe wrung his hands the entire time.
the second day of Easter week, at Sext
William rides out tomorrow, he rides out tomorrow. I only ask that he takes a simple word south to my sister Magdalena, to tell her I am not dead in a ditch. It is a small thing to ask.
I am going north to Semine, not south. Leave me in peace to drink my ale.
Palm Sunday, at Prime
The Easter muster is coming, it is coming soon. We must show our gear or lose our pay. I had a spare pair of boots, good leather, and now they are gone. I know who took them.
Half the barracks lost gear this winter. Count yourself lucky you have a jack.
Nota scribaeHe asked me to write this louder.
the first week of Lent, at None
They brought young Havel back in a cart today. Slain in the mud near Tachov. Slain in the mud. I survived winters that would kill these boys, but this wind and the Hungarians will be the end of us all.
Candlemas, at Terce
The wind at the lower gate is bitter today, bitter today. Three groschen a week is not enough to freeze for. I would give a week's pay for a cup of warm ale, if the bailiff ever paid us.
We all freeze, Nicholas. Stop your complaining and watch the road.
Nota scribaeDictated at the tavern, where he already owed for two cups.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
They are my boots, old man. You lost yours in the mud.