Chapter 16: Confession

(Robin of Oaklea narrates)

The wind changes during the night, though from where I lay, unable to move in the forecastle, I cannot see from which direction. Mercifully, the ship seems to be moving more forcefully, and with purpose, through the water.

Annoyingly, both Elinor and Hugh appear to have recovered from the seasickness, as they are not with me in the forecastle, where we all collapsed late yesterday.

They no doubt cavort on deck without a care in the world, while I languish here, my body still trying to scour my insides through repeated attempts to bring anything still residing there to my mouth and nose. These spasms do nought to elevate any residue, other than fatigue me to the point of exhaustion, wishing for death’s release.

I confess that I have mixed feelings about the existence of an eternal world after we’re spent in this one. My sister and adopted stepmother Alwen swears that the Bible holds the truth and the manner in which we should live. I was in Father Andrew’s Sunday School since I was old enough to talk, listen and understand, and still I was confused by what I learned. The Priest says that you shouldn’t go by what your eyes tell you the words on the page mean, but to have faith you must believe in the teaching behind the words, even if it makes no physical sense. Now my father is a practical man, whose vision of targets and feel for air and wind and distance, rely solely on his physical senses. He has seen almost as much of the world as the Priest, and he tells me straight that for him there is nothing to believe in other than yourself. If you have no faith in your own ability to be strong, to be able to protect your friends and family, then you are lost; and being lost is like being in Hell. But he also tells me to go down my own path, to decided for myself what is right to believe. Because, if he is right, then Father Andrew and Alwen are wrong, and that doesn’t sit right with him either.

I take the time lying there to think about Elinor, the Lady Elinor. What do I think of her? I think she looks stunning and beautiful, of course. Anyone would believe that. But what is she like as a person, this having faith in a belief that you cannot see. Is she a good person, or is she playing an act? It is something I cannot answer. Do I go with Alwen and Father Andrew’s way of faith in what I feel, or the practical side that my father prefers? Sometimes I just can’t stop looking at her. The hair, of course, is such a vibrant red that is arresting and that there is so much of it, especially when the wind gets in and tosses it in all directions. Her eyes are green gems. I have seen such stones, worn by high ladies passing through and staying at the inn, but those stones were cold, dead, while these gemstones that make up Elinor’s eyes are alive and all the more brilliant for that. In her everyday clothes she could past for a small boy, but in that blue silk bliaut she looked like an angel.

She plays the high born lady so well, but sometimes she lets that mask slip and she could as easily be one of the serving girls that we have at Oaklea Inn. Perhaps it is this place she comes from that is so small that there are no discernible boundaries between Ladies and Servants? We are much more free and easy in Oaklea than they are in Bartown, but there is still a clear difference even if we do hold a sense of respect on both sides.

It is a gradual feeling of getting better that brightens me, makes me attempt to sit up. I am weak, terribly weak, and my throat is raw from the coating of burning stomach juices. Now that I feel better, I need to wash and drink and, at some point when I feel more refreshed, something to eat. But not yet, even the thought of ... no, I cannot think the word, before nausea returns.

I sit up and, although my head is still spinning back and forth like a weaver’s shuttlecock, I no longer feel wretchedly sick. I stand and stagger out into the fresh air and the afternoon sunshine. I can see from the low sun that we are in the middle of the afternoon, and still heading east-south-east. I cannot look the way we have come, the low sun burns my eyes.

“Ah, you are up, at long last!”

I turn to the Lady, and I feel my face reddening, looking guilty, as she has been constantly in my thoughts ever since I awoke from my stupor.

“That’s better, at last you have some colour in your cheeks,” she says, as cheerful as a sunny day, “come, Master Robin, you must drink a full cup of water, two if you can, it will settle your stomach and banish the ache in your head, although that will take a little while.”

She passes me a rough pottery cup of water, which I sip cautiously, awaiting the inevitable gagging, followed by vomiting, but a moment passes without adverse reaction, so I drain the cup.

“Thank you, my Lady, thank you. I should be serving you, I must apolo—”

“Don’t apologise, Robin, you have served me better than I could ever have imagined. Look how far you have got me since you found me abandoned in the wood. You are more a knight in shining armour than any archer’s apprentice.”

She completed poring a fresh cup of water from an earthenware jug and returned it to me.

“And you, my Lady Elinor, you are unlike any Lady I know.”

“What do you mean?” she asks in a small voice, again unlike any Lady I know, other than my dear modest sister, Alwen, and she has only been a lady for a little over a year, when my father was given the title by the late Lord of the Manor, by adopting Will as his son and heir.

“I mean no offence, my Lady, only that you are more like my sister, who is as gracious as any lady, but who runs our inn as if all the serving maids are family and friends rather than servants or slaves.”