Post of the Month 

~ September 2011 ~ 

***********************************************************************************

Robert & David  ~ Written by Siiri & Nikke.  Posted on the HoS Yahoo group August 2010.

It was a hot afternoon, when the horizon burned with yellow-green grass and the clouds were far to the east.

Heat wafted off the ground in shimmery waves, and dust clouded up from under White Surrey's hooves as David turned his horse onto the track bound or the
river.

"Where are we going?" asked Robert from alongside, feeling the turn. "We are turning right. To my mind, we should have turned left to take the track back to
Huntingdon."

David glanced across at his son on his left. Robert was astride Pallas, and she ambled alongside White Surrey contentedly, connected to him by a leading rein.

"Taking the horses down to the river to drink," replied David.

Robert did not answer, and they rode on in silence.

David looked out across the meadows to his right. All of a sudden, a kestrel swooped into the air above the meadow, and the air was cut by the elegant curves of its flight. Hovering for a moment, it beat its wings and then suddenly, it dived down into the cut grass and emerged victorious, with a mouse hanging limp from its talons. Then as quickly as it came, the kestrel soared away and soon it became indistinguishable from the sky.

David surveyed the hay meadows on either side of the small track with satisfaction. The hay here had been cut and stacked and gathered in safely. An abundant crop this year for the estate, and a good supply of fodder for the animals this coming winter. It was a relief.

Robert's brow was sticky with sweat from the heat. He took one hand from the reins to rub his forearm across it, all the while listening to the sounds around him; the clink of the horses' tack, the sound of their hooves striking the flinty track. His father rode alongside him, Chartain behind them a way.

It felt strange to be on a horse again. His father had insisted upon the quietest mount in his stables. Pallas, an old mare. She ambled along now, tethered to his fathers mount by a leading rein. Pallas had always been content to follow the other horses, and was amiable and placid. Robert would have preferred some steed a little more energetic, but he was enjoying the feel of being on a horse once more, and at least the good-natured and quiet Pallas gave him occasion to reflect on the past morning spent at the village of Fearnley.

Fearnley had been much as he remembered it. The ground sending up dust from beneath his feet because the ground was so dry. The smell of livestock - cows, pigs, shorn sheep and chickens. The smoke of a fire drifting across and catching at his throat, and the ring of a blacksmith hard at work. The constant squawk of a gaggle of geese, and the laughter of children playing. The low murmur of voices as people in the village had stood quietly and clearly watched and he had heard them talk about him as though they thought he was deaf as well as blind.

He had had no chance to explore, to wander down the track which he remembered ran through the length of the village. He had sensed the buildings around him, their shapes fuzzy in his awareness.

They had stopped their horses and he had dismounted, and had found a horisontal wooden pole by accident to his left - a rail. He had tied Pallas's reins to it, and feeling along the length of pole, wondering where it led, had made to follow it along, but had been blocked after a few steps by Chartain's shape suddenly looming up in front of him.

He had asked where they were, and had been told they were outside Maltilda Tut's alehouse. Robert had been frustrated; all he knew was that somewhere outside the alehouse there was a horisontal pole to which a horse could be tied. This was different since he had last been in Fearnley, this was new and without being given the freedom to explore beyond this tactile landmark he couldn't place it in his memory or work out how it connected to anything around him. He had felt disorientated and irritable.

Chartain had respectfully taken Robert's arm and led him forwards, where, he had not known. Til he had sensed a wide high shape loom up ahead, and he had known it was the building - the hay barn.

Everywhere had been the smell of sweet new cut and stacked hay. He had been led forwards inside the barn to the shape of a long table, which he had followed along and had found a high stool and so had sat at his father's right hand. He had sat there, hands resting on the cracked, chipped, worn planks of the oak table before him and had suddenly felt uncomfortable as it seemed that the entire population of Fearnley had crowded into the hay barn to get a good look at him.

He had sat and listened as the case of the brawl between Martin Shepherd and Thomas Ymer had been brought, the witnesses having had their says as well as the accused and the wounded man, and justice had been swiftly dealt, with Martin Shepherd having to pay compensation to Thomas Ymer for the wound he had received.

Then there had been the smaller matter of the geese having allegedly been stolen from Bythorne, wherein it had been found that the geese had merely wandered off.

Robert had listened as his father's no-nonsense authorative tones had echoed across the confines of the hay barn, fascinated to hear because of his father's voice and other voices around him defined the shape and size of the building he was in. He had committed it all to memory, for who knew when the information could help him.

Then, when all justice had been served, a pewter goblet had been pushed into his hand and he and his father had drank a draught of ale, before his father beside him had said brusquely: "Come Robert," and scraped back his stool as he had risen.

Robert had risen also, Chartains hot unwilling hand had caught hold his arm and awkwardly pulled him forwards and he had had no choice but to follow where he was led, for they seemed to pass through a throng of people - villagers on either side of their path out of the hay barn. People who loomed close to him, clearly to get a good look at him, and as he had passed, he had heard the horrified whispers only too well.

On the way outside, old Matilda Tut had caught hold of his hand and kissed it. "God keep you, my lord Robert," she had said, and oddly enough the gesture had been a comfort to Robert. He craved physical contact and at Huntingdon he was receiving far less of it than he ever had in Sherwood with his friends all around him. Even the children of the villages there would come up and touch his arm or tug at his sleeve, eager for his attention, and he had often sat on his heels so he was on a level with them as they had crowded round him, and ruffled their hair in greeting and touched their faces as he had talked with them. Their fingers had often touched his face, unafraid, as they had marvelled at what they said were his strange eyes, with the white pupils and they had asked curious questions of him about them and about being blind.

If only adults were like children, thought Robert now, coming back to the present.

David glanced across at his son. Robert's profile was pensive, and he seemed lost in thought, but David knew enough of his son by now to realise that Robert's hearing was probably working over the limits of any sighted man.

He still sits a horse well, despite the blindness, thought David now, critically casting an eye over Robert's posture in the saddle Robert kept his head up and his back straight. His tall lean frame also fitted his clothes well and he looked every inch a son and heir. David felt a flash of the old pride. It was good to see Robert in his old Huntingdon clothes, and out of those Godammed rags he had worn in Sherwood.

David's eyes lingered on the sword buckled at Robert's hip. Robert carried it everywhere with him; it never left his side - Adela said he even slept with it under his pillows - and David wondered why. It was not as though Robert could use it any longer. But mayhap he kept it for sentimental reasons. Some said that Herne the Hunter, this God of the forest, had given it to Robert. More likely taken from a knight in battle or a merchant in thievery, thought David now, eyeing the hilt, but it was indeed a fine sword.

"We're near the river," Robert suddenly said aloud, out of nothing.

David smiled grimly to himself, realising he had been right about Robert using all his senses to learn about his surroundings. "Aye. Approaching Bythorne."

"Are we going there also?" Robert queried.

"No. We'll just water the horses and then turn back for Huntingdon."

They halted, and Robert, one hand tensed on his mare's withers, felt her drop her head to drink. The rushing of the river was directly before him. He dismounted, running one hand along the saddle, turning to face Chartain's movements.

"I'll take her, my lord." Chartain still sounded awkward around him, both in his voice and his hesitant movements. Robert held out the reins towards the direction of the youth's voice and found them taken out of his hand. Then his fathers presence loomed up beside him, and his father's hand touched his shoulder.

"Come, we'll walk along the river a way," said David. "Do I steer you?"

"No, you guide me," Robert answered. "There is a difference."

"I do not see it," David was perplexed.

"Steering is taking charge of me, pushing me in a direction I may not wish to take. Guiding is more of a...compromise." Robert spoke with clear meaning, alluding to more than the act of guiding him. "I will keep my fingers touched to your arm and walk alongside you. Just walk how you usually do."

David cleared his throat. "Very well. Then come."

He moved forwards, and Robert, keep his hand touched to his father's arm, moved forwards with him. His stick cast about in search of a path at his feet, but found only grass; there was no path, not here. Disoriented, Robert wondered where exactly they were. The sounds of Chartain and the horses had swung round to be at his back, the sounds of the rushing river swung round to be on his right. His father, also on his right.

David seemed ill at ease and awkward. Robert guessed at why; his father was still adjusting to the reaction the people of Fearnley had given him. Robert had been aware of a great deal of attention on him at Fearnley, and had heard many whispers It had reminded him of the whispers at Wickham, at Benfield and Elsdon and Maybury when they had first seen him. It seemed that villages were basically the same the world over.

Where can I go where people will just accept me for what I am? Robert asked himself now, irritable and discontented with Fearnleys' reaction. He found himself longing for a place where he had anominity - where he was not Herne's Son, nor Robert son of David Earl of Huntingdon, but just Robert, with a wife and a child.

David watched the flowing river beside him as they walked. Sunlight reflected upon the clear surface. Forests of reeds lined the banks here and there, their long heads waving in the slight breeze. Much of the waterfowl had chicks, and they paddled in the shallows with their brood, feeding.

He shot a sideways glance at Robert as they walked. Robert's hand on his arm was relaxed, he seemed at ease about being led. As he did about every aspect of being blind, thought David, puzzled. He allowed himself to be led, not as though it was a necessary evil of being blind, but rather as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him.

"Well," said David awkwardly at last, as they walked, "at least matters were resolved satisfactorily at Fearnley."

"I did not believe the story about the stolen geese," Robert said wryly.

"Nor I," David agreed. "Doket of Bythorn is oft causing trouble where Fearnley is concerned."

"I enjoyed being at Fearnley," said Robert, "it brought back happy memories of running around the village when I was a boy, playing with the village lads there."

"The people of Fearnley smiled much upon you today, when you sat at my right hand," David said.

Robert was startled; he had not been aware of such a fact. "They did?"

"They like having their young lord back with them," David said. "You were always popular with the villagers, before you...."

"Before I ran away to be Herne's Son?" Robert prompted.

"Before everything," David replied with meaning, and fell silent. His silence spoke volumes.

"The people of Fearnley are good people," said Robert.

"As are the people on my estate at Navarre, you will come to find," David answered. "Beauregard has three villages under its control, and you will find you will be called upon to administer law and justice. No reason why you cannot play an active role in the running of the estate."

Robert was vaguely surprised. "You would allow me to do that?"

"Of course. Of course, Filimor my steward there will work closely with you. And you will need a clerk. I intend Brother Alban my chaplain to accompany us to Navarre in September and for him to remain with you there. He is a discreet man whom I trust and can act as your clerk. Be on hand to read to you for recreation, if you should so wish it and assist you as you accustom yourself to Beauregard. What think you of my choice of Brother Alban?"

"I have no thoughts over it either way," Robert simply replied.

David felt irritation. "He can marry you to de Sernays daughter as well, once we arrive."

Robert sighed and spoke with stubborn resignation. "I am already married."

"Not in the eyes of the Law and God you are not," David snapped. "That Benedictine monk Tuck has been excommunicated long ago. Abbot Hugo de Rainault made sure of that when Tuck chose a life of crime hiding out in that God-forsaken forest with the renegade Loxley."

Robert did not answer. There was little point in arguing. The more he pricked at his father's temper, the worse things would be between them. At the moment at least, his father was happy enough to walk with him by the river and take him to Fearnley. Not exactly proud to show him off there to the villagers, but more...."Here is my son once more rightfully in his place, like it or not." Still, it was a start.

He came out of his thoughts as beside him, David suddenly halted and was still.

"Why have we stopped?" Robert asked.

"Because I am looking at the river," David replied.

Robert listened to the flowing waters to the right of him. "Memories?" he guessed of David.

David's voice was reluctant in giving the answer, as though feeling the memories was wrong. "I used to walk here with your mother. This stretch of the bank, twixt the track from Huntingdon and the village of Bythorne."

"How far is Bythorne from here?" Robert asked, interested.

"A mile or two."

"Can you see the village from where we stand?"

"No, a stretch of high ground and the woods stand between us and the village."

Useful information, thought Robert. If they could not see the village from here, then it was highly likely that the village could not see THEM, either. They had already gone through woods which he knew would block the sighted view from Fearnley to reaching here.

"Can we see Huntingdon from here?" he asked. He felt disoriented, unsure where Huntingdon was placed exactly around him, although he felt it was placed
somewhere at his back.

"No."

Another piece of information, thought Robert. The heat of the sun was full in his face, its full blast on his forehead. The breeze ruffled his clothes and brushed through his hair and over his skin. He listened to the water tricking over stones and roots before him, he smelt the growing grass, warm earth, scent of fresh cut and stacked hay. He tried to enjoy it before they turned for Huntingdon and the busy crowded courtyard and stableyard, people forever moving about and no trees, save the few near the walled garden.

He missed the shade and sound of the trees in Sherwood...

David watched Robert with some curiousity. He was still, there was a look of contemplation on his face. He appeared to be listening, but David felt annoyance that he could not guess at Robert's thoughts. He had always been able to shield his thoughts in some deep down part of him that David had always felt he could never reach.

"Why are you quiet?" Robert asked at last out of the silence, and David realised that Robert had been studying him as much as he had been studying Robert.

He felt loathe to answer. "I look upon you....and accept. You must forgive me. It is hard for me to accept my son and heir will always be at a lack like this."

"I forgive you," Robert answered softly.

"Your own acceptance of your sorry state is to be commanded," David offered awkwardly. "It takes courage, I would think, to be so accepting."

Robert lowered his head and did not answer.

"Is life very bad without sight?" David asked with sudden flash of curiosity of wanting to understand.

"No," said Robert truthfully.

There was a further silence between them, broken only by the repeated calls of the waterfowl nearby.

"Are we anywhere near the seat around the large oak?" Robert asked at last.

David glanced upriver. "It is ahead of us along the bank by some twenty yards. Would you want to walk to there?"

"Yes. I used to fish by there, when I was a boy." Memories flooded back to Robert of lazy summer days spent ankle deep in the shallows of the river....cool water and hot sun, and the feeling of content that always accompanied being left to his own devices, away from the expectations of his father.

They walked on, Robert feeling the heat flashing on and off against his skin as they passed underneath a small line of trees - and then David stopped under what was a large spreading canopy above that rustled and swayed, and his feet trod on moss that was wound around by gnarled roots and littered with old acorn shells that crunched underfoot.

"The seat is just by you," David said.

Robert reached out his left hand and found the smooth wooden edge of the seat there. He had always liked the way the seat had been built around the tree, as if to complement it. As if it were a part of the tree.

"Do you know what one of my earliest memories is? Being here as an infant - I think with Adela - and running round this tree, following the line of the seat. Playing seek and find with her. I was very young, I think. Old enough to walk, but not old enough not to fall if I ran. I remember running round the tree seat, stumbling over the roots in my way."

"It hasn't changed from my own boyhood," David said quietly from where he stood, Robert's hand lain on his arm for guidance. "Oh, the seat wasn't here, of course, but the tree was just the same. I used to fish here too, you know, when I was a boy."

"I did not know that," said Robert.

David smiled slightly in rememberance. "Those summer days seemed endless. When the grass was dry and scorched, and the trees overhanging the banks along here provided blessed shade. The fish gathered in the shade under the trees. The surface of the water sparkled in the sunlight." He fell to reflection, shooting a look at Robert to see if his son reacted in any way to his description. Robert was clearly listening, and gave a smile, but it was a smile which suggested he didn't understand any of the visual description. David felt despair. He didn't understand.

He laid his hand over Roberts lain on his arm. "You've come here so many times in the past. Why cannot you remember clearly how the scene before us looks?" he asked with some bitterness.

Robert gave a discomforted frown and declined to answer. He knew with heavy heart by now that he could give his answer a hundred times over and yet his father would never believe it. Never believe him.

They fell instead to awkward silence.

"It's peaceful here," David said at length.

"Peace is hard to find, Father, sometimes. I've learnt that. Sometimes you cannot run away to find it by the banks of a river. I learnt that when I was in Sherwood."

"And you feel more and more in need of peace when you start to grow old," David said.

"You're not old," Robert said.

"I am fifty. I'm grey and have the bone-ache. A far cry from you, still with the bloom of youth in your skin," he reached out and affectionately clapped Robert on the back; Robert suddenly smiled as he felt the touch, unexpected but pleasurable. There was hope yet that his father might see the error his ways and let him go.

"Dear God, I swear, it's hard and strange to find yourself growing old," David said. "You bask in the summer of youthood thinking it will never end - and then
suddenly there you are, facing the autumn of your life. And autumn always leads to winter. I feel that winter now, in my bones. It's hard to feel that winter approach, and to not have the content of seeing your bloodline continue into the future. It's why I....fetched you from Sherwood."

Robert scowled, annoyed. "Fetched", is it now? How you do justify your actions by swapping words around!"

"Robert!" His arm was suddenly grasped and was sharply shaken, David's gauntleted hand dug into the soft part of his upper arm; he found himself wincing. "Do not try me, I warn you, Robert."

He loomed closer to Robert, Robert twisted his face away as his father loomed so close he could feel David's breath on his cheek

"Do not continue to bait me thus, Robert," David's voice growled in his ear. "Should you continue to do so, I will ensure your scar-faced woman and the brat you produced with her will not be so....leniently dealt with when Gisbourne catches up with them. Do you understand me?"

Robert kept his face turned away from his father's hot breath hitting his cheek and did not answer.

"You hold their destiny in your hands, Robert. The woman can either have a relatively comfortable existence as a lay sister in a priory with her child, where they will be fed, clothed and kept safe from the likes of Gisbourne and others who would wish them ill because of their connection with you - or you can make their lives infinitely more....difficult if you decide to continue opposing me and baiting me at every turn. Do you understand?" Robert still did not reply and David gave him a sharp angry shake once more. "Do you understand, Robert?" David persisted.

"Yes," Robert answered unwillingly through tight lips.

David kept his voice low with intent. "Remember what I have said. As I will be the one funding the woman and child's....stay at the priory for the rest of their lives, you had best remember what I have said, and mind it well."

David drew away and released his grip on Robert's arm. "We will walk back to the horses. Come."

His hand tugged at Robert's arm, and Robert had no choice but to follow.

His head swirled with childhood memories of having discipline administered by his father, and more recently his father shouting "Robert, I command you!" when he had walked away from Owain of Clun three years ago, refusing to apologise to him.

_Robert, I command you!_ It had been a furious, frustrated shout of a man determined to bend his son to his iron will - and now it came back to ring in Robert's ears and haunt him.

There was no hoping to appeal to his father now - and he doubted that even Adela could do any good, even if she believed him about his blindness, which she
clearly did not. Robert thought wearily.

It was inevitable now that he must plot his escape from Huntingdon in a underhand way, for his relationship with his father was all but ruined and who knew if could ever be patched.

He seized the moment to sow the seed of his plans.

"Father?" he asked as they walked.

David's answer was brusque. "What."

Robert ignored the clipped tones of his father's voice and spoke calmly. "I have a request to make of you."

David's reply was guarded and suspicious. "Very well. What is it?"

Robert chose his words carefully, along with his tone of voice. "I need useful exercise till I am taken to Navarre. I was always active in Sherwood and cooped
within Huntingdon's grounds is proving impossible to tolerate. May I borrow Chartain sometimes to walk with around the estate? To the villages, for example."

David looked at his son's profile as they walked. Suddenly he found himself shrinking from Robert, from the blindness, from having to be a guide to his otherwise strong and healthy son. He had hoped that he could take Robert around the estate himself and spend time with him - but the whispers and stares of the villagers at Fearnley had caused his heart to sink. A blind son was nothing to be proud of.

"You may, Robert," David conceded at last aloud. "I'll see to it that Chartain is at your disposal if I have no need for him."

"I appreciate it," Robert answered stiffly.

They walked on in silence, back to the waiting horses.