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“Our weaknesses make us human,” he said, drawing me back to the severe lines on his leathery face. “Our weaknesses also bring us to our knees in front of God, yet we oftentimes don’t believe our own hearts. Confessors like me try to help the penitent believe in themselves. Sometimes it only takes a simple acknowledgement from another person—a nod, that I see and have faith in you to do good—to fortify the sinner and have them make good on their penitence.” He chuckled lowly. “If a man thinks I’m watching over his shoulder when he’s about to commit his sin, as if I’m God Himself, well, he’d be less likely to act on that sin, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so.” I smiled. “Your job is to put the fear of God in the sinner.”
He shrugged, unclasping his hands. “I do what I can.”
“You seem to do a lot for people in Nottingham, from what I’ve heard.”
He blinked his rheumy eyes at me. “It’s my calling, my son. I try to do things for people everywhere I go. If I didn’t, I’d be neglecting my duties.”
“And why do you come here, specifically? To talk to me, I mean. I haven’t explained a single thing I’ve done to you. I’ve spoken broadly, so you can’t take what I say back to the Sheriff.”
His smile grew wry, with a glint of mischief in his eye.
No, that’s not mischief. It’s just what I’m used to seeing in men.
“I urge you not to tell me, my son. I’m not here to listen to your confession. I’m here to keep a wounded man company.”
My head reeled and I nearly stumbled from my crutch. I’d never heard a priest speak like that before. “You don’t want me to tell you my secrets? What’s been weighing on my heart? Why?”
“Because the less I know, the less I can speak about.”
The less he knows . . . the less he can divulge to Sir George. “So you have been speaking with the Sheriff, then.”
“After every one of my visits with you, he pulls me aside. Quite exasperating, that man.”
“What do you tell him?”
“The truth: That I’ve learned nothing about you that would be of any use to him. I’m hoping he’ll stop asking soon enough. Then again, I won’t be here much longer.”
“He won’t stop asking. I know Sir George. Though I appreciate you telling me . . .” My head tilted. “Won’t be here much longer? Where are you going?”
He shrugged, then scratched his wrinkled forehead and readjusted his white hat. “Where I always go, Jonathan: to find nonbelievers and speak the word of Christ. Likely back to Ravenshead, for a time, and then south. I’m thinking Cornwall this time. The clergy are getting a stipend to build a cathedral down there.”
I nodded slowly. Stared at the apple tree, chewing the inside of my cheek.
“You seem like you want to say something, my son,” he said, leaning forward a bit to look up into my face. He was a tall man, despite being elderly, and we looked nearly eye to eye. Weren’t many people I could say that about.
I folded my lips. “Like you said, Father: If you don’t know, George doesn’t know.” A smile worked across my face. “If you don’t know, you can’t tell God.”
He let out a chuckle. “Well, He sees all, of course.”
I inclined my chin. “Of course. Then I suppose I just have to hope He doesn’t smite me after He sees what I do.”
“Why, are you planning on doing something drastic and sinful?”
I raised a finger. “Now, now, Father. What did we just say?”
He rolled his eyes. “I can see why people follow you. You have a wit about you that’s both exasperating and alluring. Despite being a bandit of ill repute, you aren’t such a bad man, Little John.”
It was the first time he’d called me by that moniker, and it felt a bit odd coming from such a holy man. “You aren’t so bad yourself, Bishop Sutton.”
He was so much different than, say, Friar Tuck. Whereas Tuck had cultivated a fine balance between debauchery, kindness, and holy repentance, I had to wonder if Sutton had ever sinned before. I know he said we’re all sinners, yet I can’t imagine this man living anything other than an immaculate, just life. The idea of chastity alone would sink Tuck.
A cool breeze swept through the wind-cracked, high-walled stones of the courtyard, and I shivered, tightening the ragged tunic of my prisoner’s outfit.
I heard footsteps and noticed the guards were escorting Dan the Dove and the other two prisoners back to the stairs that led down to the cells. As Dan passed, we shared a quick look and nod.
I sighed, fighting off the chill and enjoying it at the same time, because it made me feel alive.
