"Amends To Be Made "

By ALWrite

"Who calls here?" Walter walked into the courtyard, having been summoned by one of the servants.

"I call for Robin Loxley."

'Robin' Loxley... The name did sound good: Robin Loxley.

"My son is not here to answer you," Walter said.

"That is the truth. Because he is dead in a French ditch."

The darkness that had surrounded Walter Loxley during the last years suddenly loomed and overwhelmed him. Dead in a French ditch, the voice had said.

And he realized that the stranger whose face he would never see knew the truth. Knew about Robert's death as it had really been. The pain of this caught Walter unawares, and with it the realization that ever since he had declared Robin Longstride his returned son he had been living in a dream, a dream that had just now dissipated.

He had not only deceived the village people that Robin Longstride was his returned son. What was ultimately worse was that he had deluded himself! Robert was dead, and he would not return. Whoever the man in front of him was... he knew it.

"And who are you, Sir, to say so?" Walter asked.

He spoke the words into the darkness. Oh, how he WISHED he could see...

"Who am I?" The darkness that answered him sounded surprised. Walter was confused. Should he recognize the man? He did not remember the voice. Had he heard it before?

He could feel the man inch closer. Soft words spoken directly in his ear: "I'm the one who killed him."

The heartless words triggered something in Walter Loxley he had thought forgotten: hatred, rage, and an overwhelming wish for revenge. A need to strike out and slay... fate itself, if necessary!

He launched himself forward with his sword. He meant to slice the darkness that surrounded him, the darkness that had thrown the truth in his face so he could evade it no longer: Robert was dead, and with him any chance for grandchildren, any future for his name and himself.

Another sweep of his sword... the laughter of a whole group of men reached his ears and insulted him. Angry at his infirmity, he kept striking out, turning, sweeping the blade again, slicing the darkness, probing for the voice that had hurt him...

And he was lucky! His sweeping movements finally caught a target: the shields of three men who had not expected his blow to be so hard, and who - consequently – slipped and fell.

For a short moment the fact of having hit a target calmed him down, it reassured him and gave him some feeling of control over his own fate. After all, he was a man. A Loxley! And part of the duty of being a man was to take a stand. Like Robin Longstride would do for him at Barnsdale. That's why he had sent him there. He went where his real son should have gone.

Robert... he had been weak. The sweet, gentle boy had turned into a gentle man. A man who preferred to stay on his lands instead of finding glory with the crusaders. And when he told him of the stonemason who sacrificed himself for an idea, Robert had not understood. Had not understood that a man must fight for his ideals, must sacrifice himself for his honour. Their quarrel about this had been fierce, and then Robert had been gone.

~~~

Still striking out, Walter met a target again. An astonished and even frightened murmur went through the men scattered around the fighters. Walter stood without orientation, thinking of both his son Robert and his adopted son Robin Longstride.

What had he said to Robin Longstride when he had brought him the message of Robert's death? That the possibility to make amends was gone. But unlike the Bible story of the prodigal son he had referred to, he had no second son to take the place of the lost one. In his desperation he had reached out towards the stranger, the stonemason's son. Because his own was gone. Gone forever. Without saying good-bye, without giving him, Walter, the chance to embrace him again, to forgi... no, without the chance for Walter to apologize to him.

And now it was too late. No amends to be made. All he could do was fight the man who had slain his son.

~~~

A searing pain in his back suddenly stopped him, and he cried out. He could feel his back crack open, could feel his blood seep into his clothing. Then came a hard blow and his wrist was twisted, he could no longer hold onto the sword. It dropped to the ground and Walter knew that this would be his end.

When the final pain came he didn't have the breath left to cry out. The darkness that he had had to get used to took on a different quality. It began to overwhelm him...

But then out of the darkness a familiar face looked at him, came closer, hovered over him in protection: Robert.

As he fell forward on the ground his last thought was of his son...

END OF PART 3

ON TO PART 4

BACK TO PART 2

BACK TO PART1

BACK TO LIBRISCROWE