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the sort of man we could use,’ says Robin. ‘Friars ramble about all over the country. Where can he be found?’
    ‘At the moment he’s staying with the monks at Fountains Abbey. Whether he’d be interested in joining us, I don’t know. Let’s get this deer back to camp and then go and see!’

    Friar Tuck is strolling by the River Skell digesting a venison pasty. He is a fine figure of a man; with a large paunch, certainly, but well-muscled and sturdy with mischievous eyes. He is twirling a long staff and humming a popular tune. Suddenly, from the grass in front of him, a man in Lincoln green rises up.
    ‘Good morrow, Friar!’ says the man. ‘I wonder whether you could help me.’
    ‘Certainly, my son,’ says the friar jovially. ‘Trouble with your love life?’
    Robin smiles. ‘No, something much easier to solve. I need to get to the other side of the river without wetting my feet. Will you oblige me by carrying me over?’
    The friar raises his eyebrows and considers the man in front of him. ‘Why, certainly,’ he says. ‘Jump aboard!’ He kilts up his robe. Robin jumps onto his back and hangs on round his neck. Carefully leaning on his staff the friar descends waist-deep into the river and wades across, making light of his heavy burden. At the other side, he sets Robin down.
    ‘Just before you go –’ he says as Robin seems about to turn away. ‘I’m now on the wrong side of the river. As you can see, the monastery is on the other side. One good turn deserves another, my son. It’s only fair that you carry me back!’
    Robin considers the bulky friar with alarm. ‘But my shoes …’
    ‘Worldly vanity, my son. You can always take them off.’
    Robin does not want to seem a weakling, so he bends forward. ‘Certainly I will carry you, good father. Hop up!’
    Hopping is not what the friar is built to do, but he clambers onto Robin’s back. Robin staggers, hardly able to stand, but he slithers down into the unpleasantly cold water. The friar seems determined to annoy him. He spurs him on with kicks and cries of ‘Gee up Bayard!’
    If it were not for Robin’s own staff, he probably would not be able to get across, but he makes it and heaves himself up onto the bank. He shakes the friar off.
    ‘Well done old nag!’ laughs the friar, slapping him heavily on the back. ‘You’d make a fine plough stot!’ He turns to go.
    ‘Just a moment, Father!’ Robin thumps his quarterstaff menacingly.
    ‘Yes, my son? Do you want me to pray for you?’ Robin grinds his teeth.
    ‘No, thank you. But as you see it is I who am now on the wrong side of the river. Be so good as to carry me back!’ He stares at the friar in a less than friendly manner.
    ‘Wrong side? Oh yes, so you are. Well, my son, we must remedy that immediately. Up you get!’
    Once again, Robin gets on the friar’s back and he wades into the river. This time it is Robin who shouts ‘Gee up!’ He is enjoying himself!
    In the middle of the river his mount stops. ‘Get on, Dobbin!’
    With a wild neigh, the friar bucks him off into the river. Robin goes under and comes up angry and spitting. He is even more angry when he sees his hat gaily floating away down the river and he hears the friar’s loud laughter.
    ‘Right!’ he growls, making a hasty grab for his quarterstaff before it follows his hat. He struggles up the bank, water pouring off him.
    ‘I’m waiting for you, my son!’ chortles the friar, twirling his staff so fast that it is just a blur.
    They come together with a great crash; their quarterstaffs flash and whirl through the air like lightning, splinters and chips of wood fly from them. The woods of Fountains Abbey resound with the noise and disturbed birds flap away. Occasionally there is a thump and a grunt as a blow strikes home.
    Little John has been right about the friar’s skill. Both men are well matched: Robin is quicker on his feet, but the friar has the advantage of extra weight in his blows and soon weight