the head of the column, reined in savagely and began to make a hurried report. After a brief conversation with Hugh, just as he had done yesterday, he pulled his horse round and galloped back down the road to Nottingham the way he had come. Robin and Hugh conferred, our leader lifted his hand, the trumpet blew, and everyone came to an abrupt halt. Riders trotted up and down the column issuing orders; there was stir and bustle all along its length; and word spread: soldiers were coming; mounted men-at-arms, the sheriff’s men from Nottingham. And they were approaching fast.
I felt a clutch of terror in my stomach: they were coming for me, certain-sure. They were coming to cut off my hand, to hack it off at the wrist and leave me with a spurting stump. I felt close to panic, sick to my stomach, fighting the urge to run, just to sprint into the welcoming gloom of the forest, off the main road, away from Robin and this slow column of condemned men and women.
Somehow, I managed to control my shaking legs and push my terrors to a dark cellar in my mind and lock them in. I was sworn to Robin, it was my duty to stay with him. But I was also calmed by the matter-of-fact reaction of my fellow travellers: there was no panic, little fuss at the news that the forces of the law were approaching bent on bloody retribution. People seemed businesslike, cheerful, as if this were a welcome break in a tedious day’s march. In a great clearing by the side of the road, probably cleared by the King’s foresters to deter villainous outlaws such as we from surprising honest travelling folk in an ambush, Robin rammed the sharpened end of his wolf banner pole in the centre of a smooth patch of turf about a hundred yards from the highway, close to the treeline where the dark wood began. The wagons rumbled off the road, oxen goaded to more speed with sharp sticks, made their way past him and formed a great circle with the banner at the centre. Everyone seemed to know what was expected. The oxen were pulled roughly into position and tied to the wagon in front to form a continuous hoop of beasts and wide, wooden vehicles. Women and children, animals and baggage went into the centre of this defensive ring. The unarmed men began unpacking axes, mattocks, hoes; some were at the forest’s edge cutting long, fat quarterstaves from young trees, a few were even picking up round fist-sized stones.
There was an air of expectancy, controlled excitement. ‘Little’ John, as I’d heard him referred to — a feeble joke about his size — had acquired a huge double-bladed axe and he was swinging it in great hissing sweeps to loosen his muscles for the fight. His friend the blacksmith was holding two great hammers in his hairy fists, two- foot oak shafts with a couple of pounds of iron at the end, secured by stout leather straps to his wrists. I checked that my small purse-cutting knife was still in its sheath at my waist and, swallowing my fear, hurried forwards towards Robin: as his sworn man my place in battle was beside him. I hoped somehow to impress him in the coming fight.
Robin was too busy to notice me. He was unhorsed and issuing orders to Hugh and the mounted men-at- arms, all of whom were now equipped with swords, helmets and kite-shaped wood-and-leather shields painted white with lime wash and marked with Robin’s wolf device. Some carried war axes, some wore
Hugh leaned down from his horse towards Robin and they clasped hands and then Hugh led the men-at- arms away from the clearing, cantering into the greenwood and disappearing into the trees. I was appalled: where were they going? Robin must have seen my gaping incredulity because he laughed and said: ‘Don’t worry, Alan. They’ll be back. .
From all parts of the glade, bowmen came hurrying, and with them came Tuck, a long brown stave clutched in his hand that was taller than him. Each end was tipped with cow’s horn with a notch cut in its side that would hold the bowstring. As I watched, Tuck strung the bow, and I remembered that he had been a soldier in Wales before he was a monk. This was no light hunting-bow for skewering rabbits; this was a war bow: six foot of strong wood from a young yew tree. The part of the bow facing the enemy, known as the ‘back’, was made from the lighter sapwood near the bark of the yew. This outside part of the yew tree resists being stretched when the bow is bent. The inside of the bow, its ‘belly’, as Robin’s archers called it, was made of the dark-coloured heartwood from the centre of the tree. This inner, harder wood resists being compressed as the bowstring is pulled back. The resistance from both types of wood gave the bow its tremendous power. It took enormous strength to bend the yew wood even slightly but Tuck, though short, was immensely strong. And, after a moment’s effort, he slipped the loop of bowstring into the notch in the horn — and held a man-killing machine in his hands.
Little John wandered over from the circle of wagons, his enormous axe held casually, the double-blade behind his neck, the long shaft resting on a brawny shoulder. Robin drew his sword and thrust it into the turf about five paces from the wagon circle. ‘Archers here, I think,’ he said. About ten burly bowmen began to form a ragged line on the sword, facing towards the road. Their leader, a squat man called Owain, spoke to them in a language I could not understand, but which I assumed was Welsh. These men had been lured from their mountains in the West by Robin, with Tuck’s help, to form the core of his fighting force, and to teach his English outlaws the art of the great bow. As I watched, some of these Welshmen were still stringing their bows, others were removing arrows from the box-like linen bags at their waists and planting them point first in the turf in front of their position. Robin looked at John and asked: ‘All well?’ The giant just grunted. And Robin said: ‘Remember, John, keep them on a leash — don’t let them out until after our charge.’
‘God’s holy toenails,’ bellowed John in exasperation. ‘Do you think I haven’t done this a score of times before?’
Robin soothed him: ‘Yes, John, I know, but you will agree that they do tend to get a bit overexcited. . Be a good fellow and keep them on a leash until after the charge.’
The giant stomped away back into the circle of wagons, which was aswarm with women, children, men and beasts in a cacophonous muddle.
Tuck plucked at my sleeve. ‘You shouldn’t really be here,’ he said. ‘Your place is inside the wagons.’
I shook my head. ‘My place is beside my lord,’ I said gesturing with my chin at Robin who was stringing his own bow.
‘Well,’ said Tuck, ‘I thought you might say that, so if you are determined to play the warrior, you might as well look the part,’ and he handed me a heavy brown sack. It clanked.
For a young man there will always be something special, something magical, about his first sword, whether it is a small, notched rusty thing, little better than a long butcher’s knife, or the finest Spanish steel blade, engraved with gold and fit for a king. It is a symbol of power, of manliness — indeed, troubadours and
My first sword, which I found inside the sack along with a dark green cloak and battered helmet, was a standard yard of tapered steel, a little scratched but sharp, with a fuller, a groove, running from the handle three-quarters of the way down the blade on both sides. It had a straight five-inch steel cross-piece, a wooden handle, and a rounded iron pommel. It was an ordinary weapon, like the ones carried by thousands of men-at- arms across England, but to me it was Excalibur. It was a magical blade forged by the saints and blessed by God. And it was mine. The sword came with a scuffed leather sheath attached to a worn leather sword belt. As I buckled the belt around my waist and then pulled out the blade, I felt as tall as Little John, a hero, the noble warrior who would defend his lord until death. I slashed the sword through the air in front of me, experimentally slaying invisible dragons.
Tuck who had been watching my hay-making with a kindly eye said: ‘Just try not to kill any of our folk.’
His words sobered me and, as he helped put on the cloak and helmet, I realised that I really might be expected to kill, to shove this blade into a living human body, to spill a real person’s guts on the green grass of this
