Diary of a Pilgrim
My name is Hadrian Cartwright, and I am a sinner.
That being said, I wish to clarify exactly what I mean when I say that I have sinned. There is no blood on my hands, or the stink of another man’s wife upon my manhood. Never have I envied my neighbors nor taken what wasn’t mine to begin with; no, my sin is one of pride and stringent principles.
I believe every man, king or peasant, knight or friar, should have principles that they adhere to.
Even in this dark and superstitious age, a man’s principles define who he truly is, not what lot he is afforded in life. It may be blasphemy to say so, but I would argue that any prince possesses the same capacity to be a scoundrel that I do to be as a noble.
Noble, Peasant…these are little more than flimsy words chained to even flimsier excuses to explain why another man has the “divine right” to take my land and other possessions from me on a whim.
But now that you know a little about how I think, it is time you learned more about who I am. Well, as I said before, my name is Hadrian Cartwright and I bid you hello. Born twenty and three years ago in a hut along the Thames in the county of Surrey, I was the second of two sons.
There is little I can (or choose) to remember about my parents: my father was a drunkard and took to beating my mother and my mother took to slaking the lust of local knights, so they were not the best role models.
Before his torrid affair with mead and ale, my father was a weaver by profession and often he was ordered by the nobility to craft for them masterful ensembles of silken thread on looms of piano-like structure. Alas, both of them are dead as dust; my older brother, Phineas…I have not laid eyes upon in for many moons.
Last I heard he was cutting throats for coin over in Ireland.
Life is hard, everyone knows that. But life as a commoner, as a serf, is even harder. Nevertheless, we all apparently have a role to play in the Almighty’s grand design, and despite my reservations, I play my part. My community is of decent size and diversity; a little over 57 families and I reside in the village of Oxmeade located in the county of Surrey.
Even though I was born in this county, I was never able to leave it. Perhaps the lack of fond memories has driven me to attempt to create my own in this place, this shoddy village just east of the Thames River. Whatever the reason, even I am not privy to it.
Every morning, I rise while fog still rolls across the damp marshland of my home; I journey to a nearby pond and dive in, letting the soft ripples wash over my tall and wiry frame, my short-cropped auburn hair. As I wipe the cold from yellowed eyes, I set about my tedious, everyday lot: making 15 baskets a day with hopes to peddle them for coin.
Without any real instructor, I came into the art of weaving, but opted to craft baskets instead, an art far removed from spinning cloth.
So as I said, the village of Oxmeade is home to men of many different professions. There’s Sturgis Axelton, a craftsman like myself, who excels in the art of hat making; occasionally, he and I would trade with one another fine leather homburgs or top hats for sturdy wicker baskets.
Although I consider very few (if any) people genuine friends, Sturgis has always been stalwart and unyielding in his dedication to God and his family of a wife and four young girls. Even an indifferent mump like me has to respect a man like that.
Oh, there’s the Vinton Clan: best damn group of falconers I have ever laid eyes upon. I swear, it’s as though the entire family was born with bird blood in their veins and talons in their hearts because the things I’ve seen them bring back with the help of those birds is the stuff of legend. One time, little John Vinton (who is well over six feet, mind you) came strolling out of the woods with two great deer being dragged
in tow and this splendid red-tailed hawk mounted on his shoulder. The talon marks on those poor creatures’ necks and sides were mini ravines sewn into their flesh.
On the whole, however, society looks down on my kind. I do not for instant allow myself to believe that the clergy or the nobility truly appreciate the fine work we do, or the gravity of our day-to-day struggle for survival. We are given nothing and expected to provide them with tithes and tribute, while trying to find a way to make a living off the land.
It we, not they, who are forced to constantly adapt and implement ingenuity to tame the world around us, tame it to our demands, to our wills. We wage unending war against the cards of fate for control of our dismal existences.
And more importantly, to what greater end? Am I fated to grovel like a mongrel at the feet of the “chosen”? No, all the “chosen” do is sit on their rumps and reap the benefits. I hope one day, before the sun sets on my time, I get to watch them reap the whirlwind.
So as a result, I made the decision to embark upon a grand, ultimate journey from the shores of Dover and into the world beyond Britannia; I want to traverse the seven sands of the Dark Continent and bask in the gardens of Versailles, to brave the fierce waters of the Aegean and visit the kingdoms of Iberia.
My reasons for taking this pilgrimage are my own, but I will give you a small insight.
This existence of mine sickens me: I am forced to bow for those I consider beneath me, pray to a divine being that ignores me, and unceasingly engage in a trade that does not sustain me. I need to know why this is so, why this is my fate. I need to find out if the world beyond England is the same, or filled with savage heathens like the cardinals have always told us.
May God and all the seraphim of the Eternal Kingdom watch over me as his servant sets out blindly into what are, most probably, the bowels of the Abyss itself.
That being said, I wish to clarify exactly what I mean when I say that I have sinned. There is no blood on my hands, or the stink of another man’s wife upon my manhood. Never have I envied my neighbors nor taken what wasn’t mine to begin with; no, my sin is one of pride and stringent principles.
I believe every man, king or peasant, knight or friar, should have principles that they adhere to.
Even in this dark and superstitious age, a man’s principles define who he truly is, not what lot he is afforded in life. It may be blasphemy to say so, but I would argue that any prince possesses the same capacity to be a scoundrel that I do to be as a noble.
Noble, Peasant…these are little more than flimsy words chained to even flimsier excuses to explain why another man has the “divine right” to take my land and other possessions from me on a whim.
But now that you know a little about how I think, it is time you learned more about who I am. Well, as I said before, my name is Hadrian Cartwright and I bid you hello. Born twenty and three years ago in a hut along the Thames in the county of Surrey, I was the second of two sons.
There is little I can (or choose) to remember about my parents: my father was a drunkard and took to beating my mother and my mother took to slaking the lust of local knights, so they were not the best role models.
Before his torrid affair with mead and ale, my father was a weaver by profession and often he was ordered by the nobility to craft for them masterful ensembles of silken thread on looms of piano-like structure. Alas, both of them are dead as dust; my older brother, Phineas…I have not laid eyes upon in for many moons.
Last I heard he was cutting throats for coin over in Ireland.
Life is hard, everyone knows that. But life as a commoner, as a serf, is even harder. Nevertheless, we all apparently have a role to play in the Almighty’s grand design, and despite my reservations, I play my part. My community is of decent size and diversity; a little over 57 families and I reside in the village of Oxmeade located in the county of Surrey.
Even though I was born in this county, I was never able to leave it. Perhaps the lack of fond memories has driven me to attempt to create my own in this place, this shoddy village just east of the Thames River. Whatever the reason, even I am not privy to it.
Every morning, I rise while fog still rolls across the damp marshland of my home; I journey to a nearby pond and dive in, letting the soft ripples wash over my tall and wiry frame, my short-cropped auburn hair. As I wipe the cold from yellowed eyes, I set about my tedious, everyday lot: making 15 baskets a day with hopes to peddle them for coin.
Without any real instructor, I came into the art of weaving, but opted to craft baskets instead, an art far removed from spinning cloth.
So as I said, the village of Oxmeade is home to men of many different professions. There’s Sturgis Axelton, a craftsman like myself, who excels in the art of hat making; occasionally, he and I would trade with one another fine leather homburgs or top hats for sturdy wicker baskets.
Although I consider very few (if any) people genuine friends, Sturgis has always been stalwart and unyielding in his dedication to God and his family of a wife and four young girls. Even an indifferent mump like me has to respect a man like that.
Oh, there’s the Vinton Clan: best damn group of falconers I have ever laid eyes upon. I swear, it’s as though the entire family was born with bird blood in their veins and talons in their hearts because the things I’ve seen them bring back with the help of those birds is the stuff of legend. One time, little John Vinton (who is well over six feet, mind you) came strolling out of the woods with two great deer being dragged
in tow and this splendid red-tailed hawk mounted on his shoulder. The talon marks on those poor creatures’ necks and sides were mini ravines sewn into their flesh.
On the whole, however, society looks down on my kind. I do not for instant allow myself to believe that the clergy or the nobility truly appreciate the fine work we do, or the gravity of our day-to-day struggle for survival. We are given nothing and expected to provide them with tithes and tribute, while trying to find a way to make a living off the land.
It we, not they, who are forced to constantly adapt and implement ingenuity to tame the world around us, tame it to our demands, to our wills. We wage unending war against the cards of fate for control of our dismal existences.
And more importantly, to what greater end? Am I fated to grovel like a mongrel at the feet of the “chosen”? No, all the “chosen” do is sit on their rumps and reap the benefits. I hope one day, before the sun sets on my time, I get to watch them reap the whirlwind.
So as a result, I made the decision to embark upon a grand, ultimate journey from the shores of Dover and into the world beyond Britannia; I want to traverse the seven sands of the Dark Continent and bask in the gardens of Versailles, to brave the fierce waters of the Aegean and visit the kingdoms of Iberia.
My reasons for taking this pilgrimage are my own, but I will give you a small insight.
This existence of mine sickens me: I am forced to bow for those I consider beneath me, pray to a divine being that ignores me, and unceasingly engage in a trade that does not sustain me. I need to know why this is so, why this is my fate. I need to find out if the world beyond England is the same, or filled with savage heathens like the cardinals have always told us.
May God and all the seraphim of the Eternal Kingdom watch over me as his servant sets out blindly into what are, most probably, the bowels of the Abyss itself.
Cameron Parchment