soldier of the third watch, of Trosky
“I stand watch at Trosky and keep my kit shining. The rest of this squad are cowards.”
Things Prokop had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St John Before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Quartermaster Drslav is coming tomorrow with his ledger. I am sitting here laughing at these fools. I kept my sword and scabbard dry in the Kolin mud. Let them weep when their Easter pay is docked for ruined boots. By the bloody cross, they deserve it.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
David is coughing his lungs out with camp fever and drowning himself in ale. It disgusts me to look at him. He should have dived into the river after Bynyek, even if he drowned too. Instead he froze on the bank like a frightened sheep.
I could not swim, Prokop. Bynyek was gone before anyone could move.
You did not even try. You just stood there shivering.
Nota scribaeDictated from the head of the mess table in a voice loud enough to wake the dead.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at None
The commoners drag too much horse shit and filth into the courtyard. I spend all morning walking the parapets and inspecting their wagons, and they still treat the stones like a barnyard. Frantishek and Maurice are bickering over a tin pitcher again instead of cleaning.
Leave them be, Prokop, the men are tired.
Maurice stole the pitcher, and you know it.
the eve of St Matthias, at Compline
Every time I close my eyes I see Bynyek slipping under that heavy wagon wheel. He was the only man who stood surety for me at the alehouse. I owe him fifty groschen and now I can never repay it. It gnaws at my gut worse than hunger.
He was a good man. We all miss him.
Nota scribaeThe soldier gripped his scabbard tightly while speaking and smelled strongly of sour ale.
Candlemas, at Sext
I cornered Andrew today and told him to confess to the captain. The boy let the rope slip through his hands out of pure cowardice. He was afraid of being pulled into the swollen ford, so he let Bynyek drown. I jabbed my finger right in his chest.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You always were a smug bastard, Prokop. Some of us had to haul the wounded.
You had to haul nothing but your own fat arse, Julian.