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into pads by his mother. He strengthened his arms by pulling himself up on doorframes or beams. By the following June, he was as ready as he would ever be.
    His whole village turned out just before dawn on St Bartholomew’s Day (24 June). The news had spread to other villages and, even though it was so early, there was a sizeable crowd to witness the extraordinary event. Duke John, as he had promised, was there with some of his friends. He also brought plenty of food and servants to serve it.
    The day dawned bright and hot and as soon as the sun began to peep over the hills, Haverah began his hop, swinging along on the new crutches.
    Those watching were amazed at how swiftly he moved, covering the ground almost as fast as an able-bodied man could run. The villagers, always on the side of the underdog, cheered him on; Duke John’s friends began to lay bets on how long he would last.
    ‘Surely he can’t keep that up,’ muttered Duke John, looking worried.
    By midday, Haverah was panting and the sweat was dripping into his eyes, but he did not stop to wipe it away. He was still moving fast and had already covered a surprisingly large distance.
    Duke John’s friends were slapping the great lord’s back and laughing at him instead of Haverah now. He emptied his goblet of wine gloomily. ‘He’s sped his bolt,’ he said. ‘He can’t last much longer.’
    The duke was wrong. Though the pain of his shoulders and hands was almost unbearable, though his legs burned like fire and his breath came in great gasps, Haverah kept going all afternoon and into the early evening. The sun was sinking low as, surrounded by cheering villagers – some of whom had run all the way with him – Haverah staggered towards the place where he had started. As the sun slipped beneath the horizon, he collapsed on the ground. He was too exhausted to laugh, but he smiled.

    ‘So how much land are you really going to give him?’ drawled one of Duke John’s friends. ‘Surely not the whole amount? It’s big enough to make a knight a fine deer park!’
    ‘I’m a knight and I made him a promise! We have our standards, damn it!’ growled the duke. ‘Well, let him have the land. He’s earned it – but let us never speak of this matter again!’ So they never did.
    Thus Haverah acquired the great parcel of land now called Haverah Park, and it brought him and his mother enough money to live as wealthy people for the rest of their lives.
R OBIN H OOD AND THE C URTAL F RIAR
Harrogate area
    These days Robin Hood is usually connected with Sherwood Forest, but in older stories he is more often to be found in Barnsdale, West Yorkshire. However, as the number of wells, stones and caves (not to mention Robin Hood’s Bay near Whitby) named after him shows, there were also occasions when he ventured into the North and East Ridings.

    Imagine the greenwood: a forest of huge craggy oak trees. Imagine them covered in the pale-green leaves of spring. Imagine deer stealthily appearing and disappearing among their shadows or standing still with one foot delicately raised. See there, a large buck silently crosses a grassy track; its hide flashing a rich brown in a little pool of sunlight. Listen, there is a whirring sound, the buck leaps and falls dead with an arrow in its heart. There are hunters in the greenwood.
    Far down the track, two men come loping towards its body.
    ‘That was a mighty shot, John!’ says Robin Hood. ‘I don’t remember ever seeing a better!’ Little John smiles.
    ‘It was a fair shot,’ he agrees, ‘but I know a man who could easily better it. A friar, no less – a curtal friar.’ Robin is immediately interested.
    ‘A friar who can shoot! That would be a sight to see. I thought that they just went around begging, seducing women and filling their big bellies.’
    ‘I don’t know about the wives, but he certainly has the belly. He’s a brawler too and as good with the quarterstaff as he is with the bow.’
    ‘Sounds just like