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deepest contemplation, when a young man rode up on a horse. It was Robin. His shouts of greeting roused me from my meditation. He was well dressed and armed with a fine sword in a gold-chased scabbard. I could tell he came from money. “Good morning, Brother,” he sings out. And then I realised he was also very drunk and I noticed that his face was badly bruised. “Will you carry me across this river safely to the far bank?” Robin said cheerily, nearly falling off his horse.
    ‘I scrambled to my feet and said that I would, if he would grant me alms, food or drink as payment. He said: “I shall give you what you deserve for this service.” Then he walked his horse on to the ferry. I was wary of him: drunken, heavily armed young men usually mean trouble for someone. I know because I was not always a monk. Before I took my vows, I was a soldier in Wales, a bowman and a damned good one, though I say so myself, fighting for Prince Iorweth, and in those days I did my full share of swaggering about in drink.
    ‘The ferry was a simple floating platform linked to a rope that stretched across the river. The rider or pedestrian just walked on to the platform and I punted them a dozen yards across to the other side with a sturdy pole. Robin said nothing as I heaved the ferry across the calm brown water, but he took a long pull from a flask of wine at his belt. When we were still a few yards from the other bank, I stopped the ferry. It floated downstream a yard or two until it came to rest, held against the gentle current by the rope.
    ‘“I’ll take that payment now, if it pleases you, sir,” I said. Robin stared at me, then his handsome young face contorted in anger and he snarled: “I will pay you what you deserve, monk: and that is nothing, you brown parasite. You and your filthy brethren have been sucking the blood of good men for too long, threatening them with damnation unless they offer up their wealth, their food, their toil and even their bodies. I say you are all blood-suckers and I will not allow you another drop of mine. Take me to the bank and then get you to Hell.”
    ‘I said nothing but merely shoved my pole into the mud of the river and began to move the ferry back to the original riverbank. “What are you doing, you God-cursed tub of shit, you prick-sucking pig,” Robin was spitting at me in his rage. I stayed silent. But with two or three good shoves on the pole we were back where we had started, the ferry nudging up against the bank. “If you will not pay,” I said. “You shall not cross.”
    ‘At this Robin drew his sword. It was a beautiful blade, I remember thinking, far too good for the drunken lout who held it. “You will carry me across this river or I will have your life, you soul-selling leech,” Robin said, holding the sword to my throat. I looked into his grey eyes and I saw that, drunk or not, he meant what he said. My life hung by a thread. And so I shoved the pole into the riverbed and we began to cross once again. Robin relaxed; he still held the sword, but it was no longer tickling my throat.’ Tuck paused at this point and took a bite from a wrinkled apple.
    ‘Now, Alan, have a care about repeating what I tell you next. It is a sensitive issue with Robin. He’s a proud man and he can be very dangerous in defence of his reputation. ’ I nodded and he continued. ‘About halfway across the river, he holding out the sword and with his back to the other bank, I suddenly shouted, “My good sweet Christ,” and pointed over his shoulder at the edge of the wood behind. Robin spun drunkenly around in alarm to see what I was pointing at . . . and, holding the punting pole like a spear, I smashed the blunt end of it into the side of his head, exactly on the temple. He dropped like a sack of onions and slid off the ferry into the slow brown river.’
    I stared at Tuck, my mouth agape. Then I started laughing. ‘Are you serious?’ I asked, between gasps of breath. ‘Robin Hood fell