‘She’ll need a husband soon, Alan. Perhaps you are the man lusty enough to tame that wildcat,’ said Little John, and gave one of his great, hearty big-man guffaws.
I glared at him: ‘Goody is a child,’ I snapped. ‘I think of her as my sister, under my protection, and I will not hear talk like that about her. From anyone!’
Little John looked astounded by my outburst but he said nothing in reply. Marie-Anne spoke then — as always, her tact in a difficult situation smoothing the rough waters: ‘We all thank you for returning the jewel, Alan,’ she said. ‘But can I prevail upon you to tell the tale again of its recovery? I have not heard it. Could you bear to tell it again?’
And so, mollified, I told my beautiful friend Marie-Anne how brave and clever I had been, and how foolish and sore Sir Ralph Murdac must now feel, while others who had heard the story drifted away from the table and still others joined the throng about me. Wine was fetched, and then food for the mid-day meal. Marie-Anne told me how she and Robin had visited the wise woman in Locksley village, and been forced to spend the night because of the lateness of the hour, how and the woman had said that the baby would be a boy, and that he would grow into a powerful man, a great warrior. ‘He kicks like a warrior, at least,’ said my lady, wincing as a ripple shuddered across her great belly.
It was a Sunday, and no work was to be done, and so the day passed in eating and drinking, storytelling and riddles and laughter, and other gentle amusements. As the light began to fade, and the candles were lit, I brought out my apple-wood veille, and played and sang for my master’s wife, and the men of our bold company, until it was time for sleep. But that night I dreamt of a huge mound of German silver coins, half as high as a man, standing, glinting, in a pool of Robin’s blood.
We trained hard at Kirkton; each morning I was out in the fields giving basic lessons in swordcraft to the archers. If an archer has run out of arrows, he is more or less defenceless, so each of our bowmen had been issued with a short sword, and it was my task to teach them the rudiments of its use. It is not easy to train two hundred men, but they were broken down into groups of twenty under the command of a junior officer called a vintenar, who was paid double wages. The vintenars answered to Owain for the conduct and discipline of their men and they also received extra training from me and from Little John in the sword. Usually I would gather the ten vintenars together an hour or so before a training session and explain what we would be practicing that day, perhaps a simple block and thrust routine, and work with them until they understood it. Then the vintenars were expected to demonstrate it to the men. I would wander about the flat-ish piece of worn field where we practiced, watching groups of twenty men hacking and lunging at each other, giving advice, and correcting technique where necessary. I was treated with a great deal of respect after my midnight encounter with the would-be murderer and, despite my tender years, on the subject of sword play I was listened to as if my words were The Gospel itself. After a couple of hours with the archers, I would dismiss them and have a one-on-one sword practice session with Little John; often a crowd of bowmen lingered to watch.
John had been master-at-arms for Robin’s father and he was the finest man with any weapon that I ever saw, perhaps save Robin himself, and one other. The big man preferred, in battle, to wield a great double-bladed war axe but, when we practised, he usually fought with an ordinary sword and shield, and I with my old sword and my Spanish poniard. Sword and shield was a foot soldier’s normal combination, perhaps with a long spear, too. Two fields over from where my archers were banging away at each other with their short blades, Little John would be putting our hundred or so spearmen through their paces. At his bellowed commands, the spearmen would perform intricate evolutions with locked shields, creating a number of massed formations — ‘the hedge-hog’, a defensive circle of spears, ‘the boar’s snout’, an attacking arrow-shaped configuration, and ‘the shield wall’, the standard line-up against a similarly arraigned enemy.
Little John and I had a long running argument about my choice of weapons: he strongly believed that I needed to use a shield; I preferred the freedom and speed gained by fighting without one. I also argued that my role in battle was not primarily as a fighting man but as Robin’s aide-de-camp and messenger: I would be galloping to the various parts of his army, scattered where ever they might be, and delivering his orders. The kite-shaped shields that we used were heavy and cumbersome items, and I needed to be swift and light on the field. Of course, I did know in theory how to use a shield — its uses had been knocked into me since my first days with Robin’s outlaw band — but I preferred, if I had to fight, the elegant dance of poniard and sword. Little John muttered that I was being far too fancy. ‘Battle is about killing the most men as fast as you can, and keeping as many of our men as safe as possible. It’s not a dance; it’s not a game. It’s about killing him quickly, and saving your own neck from his blade. And for that you need a shield.’ I shook my head. In battle my Spanish dagger was sturdy enough at its hilt to block a sword strike, my body was usually armoured with a knee-length hauberk and heavy boots, my head defended with a stout helmet and, in a melee, I liked to be able to give out deadly blows with both hands.
When John and I made our battle practices, the main difficulty I had was overcoming his brawn. I was a mere youth then, still slim of hip and, although very fit, not yet in my full bodily strength. John was a seasoned warrior of more than thirty summers, nearly seven feet in height and with a chest that was nearly two foot thick. When he struck at me with the sword, I had to avoid the blow altogether, as its power would have smashed straight through the sword-and-dagger blocks I might have tried with another man. Instead, I always waited for him to launch his brutal attack, evaded it and then counter-attacked against his sword arm. I knew that a powerful blow from a sword on the upper arm could break bone, even if it could not penetrate a chainmail hauberk. And a man before me with a broken sword arm is a dead man.
One fine morning not long after my return from Nottingham, John and I were circling each other on the scrubby grass. I was taunting him, suggesting that, as he was so long unmarried, his preference for bed partners must be handsome boys, and making damn sure that I stayed out of his long sword’s reach. He was suggesting that I come a little closer and find out what he really liked to do to insolent children like me. It was all good ribald fun and raised many a laugh from the watching circle of archers and spearmen. But I thought I had genuinely managed to anger him this time, and when I was reciting a little rhyme that went, if I remember rightly, ‘Little John, he’s not pretty, but he loves to get his member shitty…’ he gave a great snarl like a maddened bear and lunged at me, slicing down hard at my head. I thought I saw my chance and, dodging outside the massive blow, swung my blade hard, back-handed at his outreached arm. And missed. He was feinting, of course, and my blade never came within an inch of his arm. I was off balance and the next thing I knew, John’s shield had crashed with stunning force into my sword arm and side, I was lifted high in the air — I saw the faces of the watching men whirling around me — and then God deposited me softly on the turf before the hard world came hurtling up and smashed into my back. There was a noise like the roaring of the sea and I found, panicking, that I could not breathe. My lungs had ceased to function, I was drowning on dry land.