stable guard at Trosky, of Trosky
“I keep my head down guarding the stables. Let the young bastards fret, I just want my pay.”
Things Maurice had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St George, at Vespers
Quartermaster Drslav brought his cursed ledger through the courtyard for the muster. I kept my head down and my Easter purse stayed whole. Jarda got docked hard for the arrows he dropped in the snow near Kolin. He looked at me like I unlaced his quiver. You cannot teach these fools.
Nota scribaeDictated near the mess table. He scratched his beard continuously.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
The Easter wages are almost here and Frantishek still has my tin pitcher. The lying bastard says I ruined his winter boots back at the river crossing so he keeps my tin for the leather. I never stepped on him. Drinking from these shared wooden bowls is disgusting work.
My toes were bloody ice for two weeks because your fat boots went straight through my leather. The pitcher is fair trade.
Your boots were rotting hide before we ever saw the swollen ford. Give the pitcher back.
the Thursday in Lent, at None
David is sweating out a fever in the dark again. I lent him a bowl of water but otherwise leave him be. It reminds me too much of old Peshek shivering by the roadside before we left him to the cold. A grim necessity, that march was. No sense catching what the dying have.
We should never have left old Peshek so fast. The boy rushed us on when we should have stayed.
He was already dead, Tobias. Staying would have killed the rest of us in that freezing mud.
the feast of St Thomas Aquinas, at Prime
Julian is hoarding collateral round the armoury, playing at being a highborn lord instead of a common drafted levy. If he thinks all that tin and leather will save him from a blade in the gut, he is a true fool. I just lean on my pole by the stables. Quiet work pays the same groschen.
If you looked after your own purse half as well as you watch mine, you would not be crying over a tin pitcher.
Nota scribaeThe man spent the dictation laughing at his own jests.
the Tuesday after Candlemas, at Terce
Prokop is shouting about Bynyek getting pulled under the wagon wheels again. It gives me a terrible ache behind the eyes just listening to it. Bynyek went down in the mud, God rest him, but yelling about the ropes will not pull the heavy cart off his chest now. These young lads whine like stuck pigs.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You bumped my arm by the ford, Maurice. My silver went straight into that thief Drslav's pocket because of your clumsy feet.
You slipped in the mud like a drunken calf, Jarda. Take your stoppage like a man.