by Angus Donald
We were about fifty souls in all: Robin, Hugh and Tuck were all mounted and rode at the head of the column under Robin’s simple banner, a black and grey wolf’s head on a white background. The banner was apt: outlaws were known as ‘wolf’s heads’, because they could be killed by anybody, as peasants killed wolves and took their heads. Up and down the column’s length, evenly spaced, were a dozen mounted men-at-arms armed with sword, shield and long spear; and a similar number of squat, hard-looking men on foot carrying big war bows made of yew, with full arrow bags strapped at their waists. Some of the fighting men looked a little grey after too much ale the night before but all were alert; keeping their heads up and scanning the woodland either side of the broad road on which we marched. A dozen paces ahead of me strode John the giant. He was talking to another big man, a blacksmith, I guessed from his thick leather apron and brawny forearms, and periodically John’s great booming laugh would echo over the cavalcade. There was a farrier driving a heavy wagon, a pedlar walking under a great pack of goods, an alewife carting an enormous barrel of beer. There were mothers with babies and young children, older children playing games of tig around the slow-moving wagons, shy-saucy lasses walking proudly beside the bowmen or men-at-arms, cows bellowing and lumbering along tied to carts, sheep being prodded along by herdsmen. There was even a cat, curled up on a sack in the cart in front of me, seemingly asleep but with one speculative eye on the chicken coop. It was almost like a travelling village - I say almost because there were too many armed men for any village to tolerate in peace. But, for a column of desperate outlaws, it was far more domestic than dangerous-looking.
As I looked around me, I suddenly became aware of the mud-spattered rider I’d seen yesterday, spurring madly along the edge of the road, galloping as if the Devil himself were after him. He headed straight for Hugh at 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 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 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 trouvères, when they weave their songs about knightly love, often use the word ‘sword’ as an alternative word for the male member. And when they sing about sliding a sword into its sheath . . . Well, I’m sure you understand, you’ve no doubt heard the salacious cansos and bawdy fabliaux . . . A sword is an icon of manhood; to be given a sword is to have manhood granted to you.
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 peaceful glade. And that he would be trying to spill mine.
I put the sword back in its sheath, and, as I turned to thank Tuck for his gifts, the mud-spattered spy came galloping around the bend on the road and this time headed straight for our little circle of wagons. He pulled up his sweating horse next to Robin and his thin line of archers, jumped off the beast and said breathlessly to Robin: ‘They’re coming, sir, hard on my heels; Ralph Murdac’s men. About thirty of the bastards . . .’
Robin nodded and said: ‘Fine, good; get yourself and the animal inside the cart-ring.’ The man bobbed his head and led the horse away. Robin, turning to the archers who stood in a ragged line looking at him expectantly, said: ‘Right lads, let’s not play with them. When you see the bastards, start killing them. And when they get to that bush,’ and he pointed to a scrubby alder fifty paces away, ‘get inside the ring as fast as you can. Get in the cart-ring if you want to live - but not before they get to that bush. Does everybody understand?’ He glanced at me and I nodded, not wanting to speak in case my voice revealed my fear.
Then we waited. Robin was sticking arrows needle-point down into the turf in front of his place, idly arranging the pattern so that it was symmetrical; the Welsh archers leaned lightly on their bow staves, chatting to each other quietly, perfectly calm. They were a very muscular lot, though few were very tall, I noticed. Many of them had a similar body shape, as if related by blood: short and squat, with thickly muscled arms and deep chests. Tuck walked down the line blessing their bows. I stood there clutching the hilt of my sword, awaiting blessing and sweating with fear and excitement in the spring sunshine. I desperately wanted to piss. Time seemed to stand still. The hubbub from the circle of wagons seemed to quieten, though an ox would occasionally moan or a chicken squawk. I wondered if the spy had been mistaken. Where were they? Robin was cleaning his fingernails with a small knife and humming under his breath - it was ‘My Love is Beautiful as a Rose in Bloom’, but last night and our cosy harmonies seemed a thousand miles and many lifetimes away. Tuck was on his knees praying. I closed my eyes but, from nowhere, the image of the green-eyed girl coupling with her drunken beau in the farmhouse came into my mind. I opened my eyes quickly, and crossed myself. If I were to die I did not want my last thoughts to be of those sinners. And then, at last, at long last, I heard the drumming of hooves on a dry road and the enemy came into sight around the bend. A clattering mass of heavy horsemen, wrapped in steel and malice, and seeking our deaths.
They were a terrifying sight. Thirty stone-hard men-at-arms, mounted on big, well-trained warhorses, each man wrapped in chain mail from toe to fingertip and crowned with a flat-topped riveted steel helmet with a metal grill that completely covered his face. Soldiers such as these had hanged my father. On top of their mail they wore black surcoats, slashed with red chevrons, and they carried twelve-foot-long steel-tipped lances, man-killers, and kite-shaped wooden shields, faced with leather and painted with the red and black arms of Sir Ralph Murdac. Long swords and shorter daggers were strapped to their waists; spiked maces and razor-sharp battleaxes hung from their saddles. They were skilled killers, the lords of the battlefield, and they knew it.
They paused about two hundred yards away, their chargers snorting and pawing the grass, and they stared at our pathetic huddle of wagons, beasts, anxious peasant mothers and children, and our thin line of stunted bowmen. They looked like the steel monsters of some terrible legend, not flesh-and-blood men. Horsemen such as these had spread terror among the English folk for more than two hundred years, since William the Bastard came to take our land. Riders such as these had smashed the housecarls’ shield wall at Hastings, and, since then, their descendants had been hunting down the wretches who could not pay their taxes, slaughtering honest yeomen who stood in their way, raping any girl they took a fancy to, crushing English spirits beneath their steel-shod hooves.
Two knights rode out in front of the horsemen, the leaders of the conroi, as these cavalry units are called, each with a dyed-black-and-red goose-feather plume atop his helmet. They began to order the troop into two ranks of about fifteen men each. As I watched the superbly trained horses shuffle and jostle into position, I heard Robin murmur: ‘Stand fast, lads . . .’ His archers drew their bowstrings back to their ears. ‘ . . . and loose.’ There was a rushing sound like a flight of swallows and a handful of arrows sped away, thin grey streaks against the blue sky. I heard Robin say again, perfectly calmly, ‘Fast . . . and loose,’ and then I watched in amazement as the first barrage smashed into the ranks of the conroi. Which erupted into screaming bloody chaos. Horses cried in agony, kicking out savagely at random as a dozen yards of fire-hardened ash wood, tipped with razor-sharp bodkin arrowheads, slammed deep into their chests and flanks. Two men-at-arms fell dead from their horses, killed by the arrows that punched through their hauberks into heart and lungs. What had, moments before, been menacing, orderly ranks of mounted men preparing for the charge, lances held vertically, perfectly in line, like the palings of a village fence, was now a circus of rearing terrified horses and cursing gore-splashed men. Yet more arrows sliced into them. I saw one man, unhorsed, on hands and knees, skewered by a shaft through his throat, col
lapse on the green turf, clutching his neck and coughing blood. Another was cursing, a vile string of obscenity, damning God himself as he tried to pull a shaft from the muscle of his thigh. A riderless horse, lashing out with his hind hooves, caught his unseated owner plumb in the chest with an audible crack of bone and the man was hurled backwards and did not rise again.
But these were no ordinary soldiers. These men were proud horse warriors, Sir Ralph Murdac’s hand-picked men-at-arms, feared in two counties, disciplined by hours of practice with horse and lance and sword and shield. The arrows were still scything into them but the men-at-arms had their shields up and were steadying their horses with their knees, pushing them back into some semblance of formation. The two knights, gaudy plumes nodding madly, were rallying the conroi with shouts and threats. And then I watched, heart in my gorge, as they ordered their ranks, turned their huge horses towards us and charged. The horsemen levelled their lances and began to gallop across the glade, bunching as they thundered across the grass, their massive hooves making the world vibrate, heading straight for our feeble defensive ring.
‘Fast . . . and loose,’ said Robin. And the steel-headed arrows, once again, slashed across the field to slam a foot deep into the charging horses. Two men were hurled backwards out of their saddles, as if their bodies had been attached to a rope tied to a tree. ‘One more volley, boys, then we run. Stand fast . . . and loose.’ Robin pulled a hunting horn from his belt and blew two short blasts, high and clear, and then a long one. The final handful of arrows drove into the charging conroi as it reached the alder bush and then we were all scrambling, breathless, tripping, terrified, back, back into the defensive circle of wagons. I ran, too, clutching my sword, as if the Devil were on my tail - I ran fit to burst my heart. It was only a short distance, perhaps thirty yards, but the horsemen were nearly upon us. I imagined I could feel the hot breath of an enormous beast and his steel-faced rider, the hooves crushing me; I could almost feel the pricking of the steel lance head between my shoulder blades . . . and then I was at the circle and sliding, sliding on the grass under the wheels of the nearest wagon - and into the legs of the blacksmith, still clutching his huge hammers, who peered down at me and said: ‘All right there, son, you seem a bit out of breath.’ And he winked at me.
