soldier at the tolls, of Trosky
“I do the lion's share of the watch while the other lads drag their feet, and nobody pays me honest.”
Things Joseph had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at None
Quartermaster Martin is sniffing around for his spring inspections. Lawrence won't shut his mouth about it. Let them inspect. I am the only one keeping the roads clear of scum while the rest of them polish their boots.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly outside the bailiff's doors. He stood in the way of a cart.
the third day of Easter week, at Vespers
Rose has the gall to demand I clear my slate. I told her straight to her face I will not pay good groschen for ale that is half rainwater. If a man works the tolls all day, he deserves an honest pour.
Pay what you owe or drink from the horse trough, you loudmouthed cheapskate.
Just pay her, Joseph. The ale is not that bad.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at Prime
Hugh is weeping into his cup again over young Simon. The boy died of a chest chill before Martinmas. Crying over a dead recruit does not put bread on the table, and the bread is dear enough this year with the Hungarians about.
Nota scribaeHe spat on the floor after saying this.
the feast of St Gregory, at Sext
I am sick of eating my meat off a greasy wooden trencher. A man ought to have something proper to eat from. Say, a stamped tin plate. Some men hide what they have under the floorboards rather than share what was found in the mud.
Candlemas, at Compline
I was thinking again of that carter's wagon we found overturned by the Vidlak ponds last autumn. I froze my arse off on that patrol. Someone pocketed the real silver coin from the smashed chest, and all I got was damp linen. I know who.
You got exactly what was agreed. Do not go spinning tales.
What wagon? What are you all talking about?
Nota scribaeDictated at the alehouse. He was glaring across the room the whole time.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You will be singing a different tune when Martin fines you for your rusted mail, Joseph.
My mail is fine. Mind your own business.