cuir-bouilli breastplates - front-and-back chest armour of tough boiled leather; others had chain-mail leggings or gauntlets to protect feet and hands. Each man was holding a twelve-foot spear of pale ash tipped with bright, freshly sharpened steel. And over their armour, they all wore a surcoat of the same dark green hue: a badge of their allegiance to Robin, as if he were a great noble rather than a condemned ruffian. These men might have been outlaws, thieves, murderers, men of the worst character . . . but they were also warriors - a dozen tough, proud, bearded cavalrymen, as at home on horseback in a mêlée as I was on two feet in a peaceful, grassy field. They were fearsome.
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 . . . à la traverse !’ he chuckled; a light, golden reassuring sound. I had no idea what he meant, but his laughter comforted me and before I could ask him anything he turned away and bellowed: ‘Archers! To me! Archers!’
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
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 . . . à la traverse !’ he chuckled; a light, golden reassuring sound. I had no idea what he meant, but his laughter comforted me and before I could ask him anything he turned away and bellowed: ‘Archers! To me! Archers!’
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
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