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.
‘You all right, youngster?’ said a huge head with a thatch of straw-coloured hair, directly above me. It was almost blocking out the sun. I could not breathe and I only made the merest of nods. ‘That,’ the giant head continued, ‘is another use of the shield. Take note.’ An enormous hand came towards me and, taking a bunch of my chainmail hauberk in its fist, raised me to my feet. ‘Had enough?’ said John, as I stumbled around on legs of jelly
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.
‘You all right, youngster?’ said a huge head with a thatch of straw-coloured hair, directly above me. It was almost blocking out the sun. I could not breathe and I only made the merest of nods. ‘That,’ the giant head continued, ‘is another use of the shield. Take note.’ An enormous hand came towards me and, taking a bunch of my chainmail hauberk in its fist, raised me to my feet. ‘Had enough?’ said John, as I stumbled around on legs of jelly
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