watchman at the lower gate, of Trosky
“I guard the lower gate, freezing my arse off for three groschen a week. It is a miserable life.”
Things Roger had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The eve of Ascension, at Prime
The bailiff is inspecting our gear tomorrow. Lambert will not stop badgering me about his spare padded jack. I told him the tailor is mending a tear, but I am running out of time.
Nota scribaeThe lad picked nervously at his hands while dictating.
The Wednesday of Easter week, at None
The ale-wife cut me off completely. In a tight spot, I took some spare kit to Jarda's cellar in Zhelejov. The whoreson gave me terrible rates, and I lost the coin at dice by dusk anyway.
You should stay away from the dice, lad. And Jarda.
The feast of Saint Gregory, at Sext
Richard is a rich, stingy old man making a fuss over nothing. It is just a bone comb. He has plenty of coin and can buy another at the next market. A man has to look presentable for the tavern.
It was my comb, you little thief. Give it back or I will make you eat it.
I do not know what you are talking about, Richard. I lost it in the mud.
Nota scribaeHe refused to look me in the eye when saying this.
The second Monday of Lent, at Vespers
Poor Havel was cut down by marauders in the mud near Tachov. We were supposed to hold the line, but when it broke, I ran. Up in heaven there will be no soldiers troubling him. Death is too bloody close.
He was a local lad. He died because cowards ran instead of fighting.
The feast of Saint Blaise, at Vespers
I borrowed a fine bone comb from Richard to make myself look decent. The tavern is the only warm place left, and the housemaids notice a tidy head of hair. I might just keep it.
Nota scribaeDictated shivering at the lower gate.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
If that jack is not in my hands by Vespers, I will beat you senseless, you whoreson.