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My eyes scanned from the ground out my peripheral, to the three other prisoners going on their daily strolls. I knew one of the men from the streets of Nottingham—Dan the Dove, they used to call him, because of his alabaster skin. There was something wrong with Dan’s skin, as if he bathed in flour. It made him stark white, and his eyes were nearly the same hue.
When I had asked Dan on my first day of exercise why he was in here, he simply pointed at his arm. “A man of this inhuman hue, freely walking among the townsfolk? Sheriff George couldn’t have it.”
I’d been taken aback at such an answer. “You can’t be serious. You’re too . . . pale? That was his reasoning?”
The young man had smirked at me. “Old man, the Sheriff of Nottingham doesn’t need a reason to arrest anyone. You should know that.” He’d wandered off just before two guards stormed over, tripped me onto my hands and knees, and kicked my ribs for fraternizing with other prisoners.
I hadn’t spoken with Dan the Dove since that day, and I merely glanced at him every morning.
My warden brought me to a small apple tree set in the middle of the courtyard. It was a pitiful thing, barren, all sticks.
Still, it made me smile. I looked down at my bandaged hand again—the shadow agony of my missing forefinger rippled up my forearm and made me shake my disfigured limb until the odd pain went away.
“Is it possible for me to atone for my sins, Father?” I asked abruptly, glancing over.
Bishop Sutton’s kind, elderly face wrinkled with lines, and he smiled. He was soft-spoken, tall, and elegant. A kind man, certainly, and kinder still to be showing me any sort of mercy day in and day out.
I knew the Bishop of Ravenshead wasn’t required to see me or pray for me. He did it on his own volition. Over the past week, he’d been here every morning to gather me up out of the cell and take me to this apple tree.
His reputation preceded him. There was a reason he was considered the most benevolent holy man in the region.
“Of course you can atone for your sins, Jonathan,” he said in his slow, measured voice. “It’s what I’m here for.”
I raised a brow. And here I thought you had come just to hear me gripe . . . and to listen to my tales and relay any information I might spout back to Sheriff George.
I was starting to think Bishop Sutton of Ravenshead had no affiliation with the Sheriff, however. That Sutton was simply an affable soul who sincerely meant to bring the Word of God to criminals and sinners in Nottingham’s prisons.
After he met with me, he typically went to give alms to orphans and food to beggars. In that sense, his entire life was one lived in service—and not service to himself, but to God.
I, of course, no longer believed in God. I’d seen too much tragedy and heartache—been part of too much of it myself—to believe in such a fairytale.
Before becoming a nonbeliever, I hated Him. And before that, I feared Him. I explained that to Bishop Sutton on our first day together, and he told something that made me think.
“People fear what they can’t see, Jonathan,” he’d told me. “Why is why we must look inward to find Christ. Only then can we begin to understand Him and His teachings. It’s why the sensation of helplessness is such a terrifying thing for people. Even worse than the idea of death, oftentimes. It’s also why many turn to Him, as defense against that unknown, helpless feeling.”
I had simply nodded, not giving it much thought at the time. I was healthily skeptical and didn’t trust the bishop. But spending the next couple dozen hours alone in my cell brought his words back to me, and I started mulling over what he’d said.
On the third day, Sutton had brought me a Bible.
I still hadn’t opened it.
Now, I glanced over from the single rotten, fuzzy apple hanging from the thin branch in front of me. “After what I’ve done . . . you’re saying I can be forgiven.”
He gave me a low nod. “If you mean it, that is.”
“Mean it?”
Sutton pushed the sleeves of his robe together in front of him and hid his hands inside the oversized armholes. “We are all sinners. When we atone, we try to make peace with what we’ve done . . . and also not repeat said sin.” With that, he looked sternly at me.
I chuckled. “So, you’re saying that for every, say, adulterer, who comes to confess to you, they say they’ll never do it again? And you believe them?”
“It’s not my job to believe them, Jonathan. I can only believe in them, and try to make them believe themselves.”
“That doesn’t make any sense to me, Father.” My mind couldn’t wrap around what he was saying. One of the reasons why I’d never trusted priests was because they spoke in circles. In riddles. They made me feel stupid.
At least Bishop Sutton was good-natured, however, and it gave me someone to converse with and escape my daily despair, loneliness, and pain for an hour.
Of course, there was other company I’d rather be keeping . . . but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
