Farewell to Chivalrous Bum: Fast Fun and Flying Arrows

For this game, we chose to play the final scenario from the Chivalrous Bum ruleset: “The Desperate Stand at Duncan House.” In this encounter, John P commanded the Merrymen, who were tasked with rescuing a noble lady held captive by the treacherous Lord Duplici. Opposing them, I led a force of Normans determined to prevent the Merrymen and rescue the noble lady.

We introduced a small but impactful modification to the published scenario. At the end of each turn, Lord Duplici’s forces would unleash a volley of arrows at the nearest visible figures, regardless of allegiance. This meant that both the Merrymen and the Normans had to contend with the unpredictable and indiscriminate threat posed by Duplici’s men, adding an extra layer of tension and tactical complexity to the game.

Additionally, we added a dynamic control element: if either the Merrymen or the Normans were defeated, their player would immediately assume command of Lord Duplici’s forces for the remainder of the battle. This ensured continuous player involvement and created the possibility of a dramatic shift in momentum as the scenario unfolded.

Turn 1

Both forces advanced cautiously toward the castle, picking their way between patches of cover and buildings The tension was immediate, as no one wanted to be the first to commit too boldly under the watchful eyes of Lord Duplici’s garrison.

“I’ll not wait about like some nervous squire,” grumbled Friar Tuck, striding ahead of the Merrymen with surprising speed. “There’s a lady in distress, and I’ve sermons yet to give!”

“Slow down, Tuck!” called one of his companions. “You’ll draw every bolt in the shire!”

Too late.

From the Norman line, a crossbowman sighted his target. “Hold… hold… now,” muttered the soldier, squeezing the trigger and the bolt hissed through the air.

Thunk.

The quarrel struck Friar Tuck squarely, staggering him for a moment.

“A fine welcome!” Tuck barked, glancing down at the bolt jutting from his robes. With a look of irritation more than pain, he snapped the shaft and cast it aside. “Is that all you’ve got? I’ve had worse from angry parishioners!”

The Norman leader allowed himself a thin smile. “He’s made of sterner stuff than he looks,” he admitted. “Reload - carefully this time.”

Both sides quickly learned caution. The Merrymen slipped into cover among hedges and low stone walls, while the Normans advanced more deliberately, shields raised and lines tight.

Up on the walls, Lord Duplici’s men loosed their own arrows in ragged volleys.

“Loose! Hit anything that moves!” shouted one of Duplici’s archers.

Arrows arced downward, but luck, or poor aim, favoured those below. Shafts clattered harmlessly off stone or buried themselves in the earth.

“Ha! Can’t hit a barn door!” one Merryman laughed.

“Don’t mock them yet,” replied Robin Hood, peering up warily. “They’ll find their mark soon enough.”

For now, though, neither side suffered further harm. Both forces edged forward, hugging cover, watching, waiting, knowing that the next exchange might be far deadlier than the last.

Turn 2

Despite the bolt lodged somewhere beneath his robes, Friar Tuck showed no sign of slowing. With a roar of determination, he barreled straight for the castle door.

“Out of my way, you stubborn lump of timber!” he bellowed.

With a thunderous crash, he slammed into it. The old wood splintered under the impact, the hinges screaming in protest as the door burst inward. Tuck stumbled through the wreckage in a spray of dust and broken planks, catching himself just inside the threshold.

“Hah!” he laughed, slightly breathless. “I’ve seen sturdier doors on village privies!”

From across the square, Sir Guy of Gisborne saw the breach and instantly reacted.

“He’s going for the prize!” he snapped. “With me - inside, now!”

Spurring himself forward, Guy charged toward the open doorway, cloak flying behind him. “We’ll not have a drunken friar steal this victory. Move!”

The Normans surged with him, seizing the opportunity before the Merrymen could fully exploit it.

Robin Hood, seeing both Tuck’s impetuous success and the Norman counter-charge, quickly adjusted his plan.

“Into cover!” he called, gesturing sharply. “Form a line, make them pay for every step!”

The Merrymen scattered into defensive positions around the approach, nocking arrows with practised ease.

“Loose when ready!” Robin commanded.

The air filled with the twang of bowstrings. One Norman soldier cried out as an arrow struck him; he dropped his weapon, panic overtaking discipline.

“I’m hit! Fall back, fall back!” he shouted, turning and fleeing from the advance.

“Coward!” barked another Norman, though his own grip tightened nervously on his spear.

Not all faltered. One determined soldier lowered his shoulder and charged straight at Robin.

“For Sir Guy!” he shouted, crashing into melee.

Robin parried the blow with a grunt. “Brave, but unwise,” he replied, circling his opponent.

Steel rang against steel as the two fought at close quarters, the chaos around them building.

Above it all, Lord Duplici’s men once again took aim from their vantage points.

“Loose at will!” came the cry from the walls.

Arrows rained down indiscriminately. One shaft streaked toward Robin Hood, striking true, but with a flicker of uncanny skill, he twisted at the last instant, using the force of the impact to deflect the blow aside.

“Not today!” he snapped.

The arrow glanced off him and struck a nearby Merryman instead.

“Robin!” the wounded man gasped, clutching his side.

Robin’s expression hardened for a brief moment. “Stay with me, we’re not finished yet.”

Around them, the fight intensified: Normans pushing toward the open door, Merrymen holding the line, and Duplici’s archers continuing to sow chaos without favor or mercy. The struggle for Duncan House had truly begun, and no one on the field could any longer claim to stand safely aside.

Turn 3

Inside the shattered doorway of the castle, the fight turned brutal and immediate. Dust still hung in the air as Sir Guy of Gisborne burst through the entrance, his eyes locking instantly onto the staggering figure of Friar Tuck.

“There you are,” Sir Guy snarled. “Your reckless courage ends here, priest.”

Tuck, still recovering his footing, raised his staff just in time. “Come then!” he shot back. “I’ve laid out men twice your size and with half your manners!”

Sir Guy needed no further invitation. He lunged forward with precision, his blade flashing. This time, Tuck was too slow to avoid it. The strike landed cleanly, and the force of it drove the Friar backward.

“Gah!” Tuck grunted as he was knocked off his feet, crashing heavily onto the stone floor.

“Stay down,” Sir Guy said coldly, stepping past him. “You’ve done enough damage for one day.”

Outside, the Merrymen saw their comrade fall.

“Tuck’s down!” one cried.

“Through the door, quickly!” shouted another.

Two of them sprinted forward without hesitation, darting past the broken threshold and into the hall. Sir 

Guy turned at the movement, but too late.

“Now!” one of the Merrymen called.

They raised their bows at near point-blank range and loosed.

The arrows struck true.

Sir Guy staggered, the impact driving the breath from him. He dropped to one knee, clutching at the wounds.

“You” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“Aye,” one Merryman replied grimly. “That’s for the Friar.”

For a moment, it seemed certain the Norman lord would fall, but with sheer force of will, Sir Guy forced himself upright again, swaying but unbroken.

“I… am not… done…” he growled, blood staining his tunic as he steadied himself. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Outside, the clash continued.

Robin Hood was still locked in a desperate fight with the remaining Norman soldier, blades flashing as they circled.

“You’re finished!” the soldier snapped, just before a massive figure barreled into him from the side.

“Not while I’m around,” boomed Little John.

With a crushing blow, he struck the Norman squarely, sending him sprawling to the ground. The soldier’s weapon skittered away, and he lay still.

Robin exhaled, lowering his sword. “Remind me not to stand in your way, John.”

Little John grinned. “Good advice.”

Elsewhere, the last Norman infantryman, seeing his comrades fallen or scattered, lost his nerve.

“This is madness…” he muttered, backing away. “We’re beaten!”

Without another word, he turned and fled the field, abandoning the fight entirely.

That left only the crossbowman, still standing apart from the chaos. 

Turn 4

With a roar born of equal parts fury and stubborn pride, Sir Guy of Gisborne threw himself forward once more.

“Stand aside!” he shouted, charging the cluster of Merrymen at the doorway. “I’ll not yield this hall to a pack of outlaws!”

Blood seeped through his tunic, and his movements had lost their earlier sharpness, but sheer will drove him onward. His sword lashed out in a flurry of desperate strikes.

“Here he comes!” one Merryman warned, raising his bow like a staff to block the blow.

Steel clashed against wood and iron. Another Merryman stepped in to support, parrying from the flank.

“He’s slowing, press him!” came the call.

Sir Guy swung again, but the strength was no longer there. His blade glanced aside, easily turned. He staggered a step, breath ragged.

“You… think me beaten?” he rasped, trying to muster one last strike.

“We don’t think it,” replied one of the Merrymen grimly. “We know it.”

Working together, they countered, one knocking his blade aside, the other striking decisively. Sir Guy faltered, then collapsed to one knee, his weapon dropping from his grasp and clattering across the stone.

“…This is not… over…” he murmured, before finally slumping out of the fight.

The Merrymen held position for a moment, scanning for further threats. None came.

“We’ve got the ground floor!” one of them called back toward the entrance.

“Well done,” Robin said sharply, though there was no time for celebration. “Hold this position. No one gets in or out without my say.”

He turned to the towering figure beside him.

“John, inside. Secure the rest of the rooms.”

Little John nodded, hefting his weapon. “Aye. If there’s anyone left in here, they’ll answer to me.”

As John moved deeper into the castle, Robin’s gaze shifted outward again, narrowing.

“One left,” he said quietly. “The crossbowman.”

“Let’s see how brave you are without your friends,” Robin muttered, already moving off in pursuit.

Behind him, the Merrymen consolidated their hold on the castle, while beyond, somewhere among the shadows and cover, the last Norman survivor faced the most dangerous hunter in Sherwood.

Turn 5

Inside the captured hall, Little John wasted no time. He seized the rough ladder leading to the next floor and began to climb.

“Up we go,” he muttered. “If they’re hiding above, I’ll drag them down myself.”

The ladder creaked under his weight as he reached the top. Emerging cautiously, he found a heavy door secured by a thick wooden bolt.

“Blast it…,” he grumbled, fumbling with the mechanism. “Who built this place, a miser with a fondness for locks?”

Behind him, halfway up the ladder, a Merryman craned his neck impatiently.

“Well?” he called. “Any trouble up there?”

“Not yet,” Little John replied, wrestling with the stubborn bar. “But this won’t shift easily. Give me a moment.”

Outside, Robin Hood had already picked his quarry.

“There you are,” he said under his breath, drawing an arrow and sighting the lone crossbowman.

The Norman, increasingly isolated, glanced about nervously, but not quickly enough.

Twang.

Robin’s arrow flew true, striking the crossbowman cleanly.

“Ahh!” the man cried, staggering backward, clutching the wound.

Dropping any thought of discipline or duty, he turned and fled at full speed.

Robin lowered his bow with a satisfied nod. “Run, then,” he said. “You’ve made the wise choice.”

For a brief moment, he allowed himself a smile.

The moment didn’t last.

From the castle walls above, Lord Duplici’s archers drew once more.

Robin’s expression sharpened. “Down—take cover!”

Too late.

Arrows hissed through the air.

One streaked straight toward Robin, but at the last instant, it struck at an angle, glancing off him and ricocheting toward one of his men.

The unlucky Merryman, already weakened from a previous wound and the brutal clash with Sir Guy, barely had time to react.

Thud.

The arrow struck him hard. He staggered, then collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Robin’s face tightened. “Damn it…”

Before he could move, another arrow descended.

This one found its mark.

Robin jerked as it struck, the force driving him back a step. He gritted his teeth, snapping off the shaft but unable to disguise the pain.

“That… will cost you,” he said through clenched teeth, glaring up toward the walls.

Above them, the shadow of Lord Duplici still hung heavy over the battlefield, his men continuing to rain death from on high, even as control of the castle below slipped from his grasp.

Turn 6

At last, with a heavy grunt of effort, Little John forced the stubborn bolt to give.

“Got you,” he growled, wrenching it free. The bar slid back with a dull scrape. “Let’s see what’s hiding up here.”

He shoved the trapdoor open and hauled himself through, emerging onto the upper level. He had barely straightened up when the Merryman behind him clambered through as well, eager and alert.

“What do you see?” the second man whispered.

By the narrow window stood one of Lord Duplici’s archers. The man had clearly not expected company. His eyes widened in shock as he spun toward them, bow already half-raised.

“Too late!” the archer snapped, releasing on instinct.

“Down!” Little John started, but there was no time.

The arrow flew true.

The Merryman who had just emerged took the full force of it.

“Ahh!” he cried, staggering backward as the shaft struck home. He collapsed against the edge of the open trapdoor, then slumped heavily onto the floor.

“Damn you!” Little John roared, surging forward.

The archer fumbled for another arrow, panic now replacing surprise. “Stay back!” he shouted, retreating a step. “I’ll...”

Little John advanced, filling the room with his sheer presence. “You’ve had your shot,” he said grimly, looming over the fallen Merryman. “Now it’s my turn.”

Behind him, the wounded man groaned faintly, clutching at the arrow.

Turn 7

As Little John advanced, step by heavy step.

“Nowhere left to run,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

The archer’s eyes darted wildly, but not at John, but at the wounded Merryman by the trapdoor. Desperation won out over reason.

“I’ll take one of you with me!” he spat, snatching another arrow and loosing it in a single frantic motion.

The arrow struck the already-wounded Merryman with brutal force.

The man cried out in panic rather than pain. “No, no!” In blind terror, he scrambled backward, forgetting where he was. His foot found only empty space and he tumbled straight down the open trapdoor.

There was a sickening series of thuds as he crashed down the ladder and into the floor below.

A figure surged up through the trapdoor in a flash of green and motion. Robin Hood!

He vaulted into the room with surprising speed despite his wound, landing lightly and already in motion.

“Enough,” Robin replied.

“More than enough,” added Little John, flanking him.

The two advanced together, perfectly in sync, Robin quick and precise, John relentless and overwhelming.

Silence fell over the upper chamber.

Robin exhaled, lowering his weapon. “That’s the last of them up here.”

Little John didn’t respond immediately. He climbed up the ladder to the next trapdoor.

Turn 8 and Beyond

With a sudden crash, the trapdoor burst wide open.

Little John came through like a battering ram.

“Out of my way!” he roared, hauling himself up in a single powerful motion and surging into the room before anyone could react.

The last of Lord Duplici’s archers barely had time to turn.

Little John closed the distance in two long strides and struck, his first blow smashing the bow aside.

The archer staggered, trying to recover, but John didn’t give him the chance. Another heavy strike followed, then another, each one driving the man backward toward the wall.

“Stay down!” John growled, hammering him with relentless force.

“You’ve done enough,” came Robin’s voice as he pulled himself up through the trapdoor behind them, breath tight from his wound.

Little John delivered one final, crushing blow that sent the archer sprawling to the floor.

Robin stepped forward, lowering his hood slightly in respect. “My lady,” he said gently, “you’re safe now.”

She looked between him and Little John, disbelief giving way to relief. “You came…” she said. “I feared I’d been forgotten.”

“Never,” Robin replied with a faint smile. “Not while we still draw breath.”

Robin turned back toward the hall, where the wounded were being tended and the Merrymen now stood in control of Duncan House.

One of the Merrymen raised a cheer. “The day is ours!”

“Aye!” another echoed. “Duncan House is taken!”

Robin nodded, though his expression remained measured. “A hard fight, but a clean victory.”

Little John clapped him on the shoulder. “Decisive, I’d say.”

Robin glanced back once more at the fallen stronghold, then toward the road beyond.

“Let’s move,” he said. “Sherwood awaits.”

And with Lady Merida freed and Lord Duplici’s forces broken, the Merrymen withdrew, victorious at last after the desperate stand at Duncan House.

Final Thoughts

And with that, our final game of Chivalrous Bum drew to a close.

It’s been a thoroughly enjoyable experience - lightweight, fast-moving, and refreshingly easy to pick up. The rules lend themselves to quick play without getting bogged down in complexity, which meant we could focus on the story unfolding on the table rather than constantly checking mechanics. More than anything, it gave me the perfect excuse to dust off scenery and figures that haven’t seen action in years, which is always a joy in itself.

That’s not to say the system is without its quirks. Ranged weapons, in particular, feel especially potent - capable of swinging momentum quickly if left unchecked. And once troops start to break, rallying them can be a challenge. Not impossible, certainly, but difficult enough that a faltering line can unravel in a hurry. My Normans, unfortunately, became prime examples of this… developing a rather unfortunate habit of fleeing at the worst possible moments across all four games we played!

Still, those rough edges never got in the way of the fun. If anything, they added character and a few memorable (and often hilarious) moments along the way.

I’m sure Chivalrous Bum will make a return to the table again - perhaps next time with a different setting (feudal Japan has a certain appeal…). But for now, we’ll retire it on a high note.