guard at the lower gate, of Trosky
“I stand watch at the lower gate and try not to freeze. A man just wants to do his shift, roll some dice, and keep clear of the officers.”
Things Andrew had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The roads are clear enough now. It is time a certain man from the Tachov mud stopped sitting on what we found and shared it out. I earned my part just by surviving that slaughter, and Daniel agrees with me.
Nota scribaeDictated in the shadows behind the stables. The man kept looking over his shoulder.
the eve of Saint Mark, at Compline
Tobias will inspect our kits tomorrow for the muster. I am missing my belt knife. A certain whoreson took it from me over a tavern matter and refuses to hand it back. If Tobias docks my wages, I will eat nothing but hard crusts for a week.
I did not take it, you handed it over so I would not tell the bailiff you broke that ale-bench.
Then give it back before I starve, you thief.
Nota scribaeThe man was pacing the whole time he spoke, rubbing anxiously at an empty leather sheath on his belt.
the Monday of Holy Week, at Terce
Standa will not stop whining about Bartholomew leaving the flank open. I prefer his complaining to the older men barking orders, but my head aches from it. The cabbage stew was mostly water today and my feet are like blocks of ice.
It was my flank he left open, Andrew. You would whine too if you took a cudgel to the ribs because of an old fool.
Shut your mouth, boy. You tripped over your own boots in the mud.
the third day of Lent, at Prime
Saw Andrew the soldier strutting about the courtyard like a cock on a dunghill. If he had not called that retreat in the mud near Tachov last November, poor Ulrich would not have taken a spear to the gut. God rest him.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Sext
Stood the dawn watch at the lower gate. The wind goes right through my tunic. Wenceslas spent the whole shift blaming me for what happened on campaign. God's nails, I could not have stopped it.
You know exactly what you did. I ought to send word to my sister Svatava to pray for your soul, because you have none.
Will you ever stop talking about Svatava, Wenceslas? We are all sick to death of hearing about her.
Nota scribaeThe dictation smelled strongly of cheap ale and unwashed wool.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Keep your voice down, you fool. The roads are still full of patrols and I will not hang for you.
He is right, Gilbert. We earned our share out in the cold.