Assassin in the Greenwood

green-dappled shadows slunk masked men who knew the secret paths and where to avoid the treacherous morass. Only a fool would wander from the beaten track which wound through Sherwood Forest, either north to Barnsleydale or south to Newark and the great road down to London.
    The tax-collectors thought of the legends about the forest as they slowly moved the King's money in iron-bound chests, chained and padlocked in covered wagons, to the Exchequer at Westminster. The two tax-collectors were following a secret route, going by little used pathways and tracks so not even the local sheriff, Sir Eustace Vechey, had knowledge of their whereabouts. The convoy was protected by a small column of dusty archers and a few outriders who anxiously scanned the trees on either side for signs of ambush. It was a hot day. The sun was now high in the sky like a disc of molten gold and the soldiers sweated and cursed under their chain-mail cotes and tight-fitting iron helms. If they could only reach Newark and the safety and the coolness of the castle!
    The principal tax-collector, Matthew Willoughby, spurred his horse forward, his assistant John Spencer galloping close behind. The two men rode ahead of the column, searching the horizon for an end to this treacherous forest. All they could glimpse was a sea of green and the white dusty track.
    'At least it's empty,' Willoughby grated.
    Spencer looked back at the convoy. 'Do you think we are safe?'
    'We have to be. The King needs this money. It's to be at the Exchequer within a week and at Dover by the end of the month.'
    They stood stroking their sweat-covered horses, not waiting for the wagons to catch them up. Spencer rose high in the stirrups.
    'We will pause…'
    The rest of the sentence was lost. A long feather-tipped arrow sped out from the trees, caught him full in his soft throat and sent him retching on his own blood out of the saddle.
    Willoughby looked round in horror. Three of the escort were already down and two of the cart drivers were now a bloody mess still sitting in their seats, heads flung back, barbed arrows sticking out of chests or stomachs. There was a second volley of arrows. Some of the horsemen panicked whilst archers fell like skittles before they could even string their bows.
    'Stop!' a voice rang out from the darkness of the trees. 'Master Tax-collector,' it continued, 'tell your men to drop their weapons. Take the lead yourself.'
    One of the horsemen, braver or more stupid than the rest, drew his sword and urged his horse forward. Two arrows took him full in the chest and sent him crashing to the dust. One archer had an arrow from his quiver. He was running for cover behind one of the carts. He never reached it. An arrow, steel-pointed and a yard long, caught him full in the cheek, going in one side of his face and out the other. The man tossed and turned, giving strangled cries, sending up white puffs of dust from the forest trackway.
    'Enough!' Willoughby shouted despairingly. 'Your weapons – place them on the ground.'
    He let go of the sweat-soaked hilt of his sword as a group of men, armed and hooded, dressed in Lincoln green, faces covered in black leather masks, stepped out of the trees. They moved soundlessly, like wraiths or those will-o'-the-wisps which hang above the marshes, so silent and terrible that Willoughby thought they were demons from the wild pack of Heme the Huntsman. But these were no ghosts. They were men of war, carrying sword, dagger, buckler, and each with a long bow and a quiver of arrows, either slung over their shoulders or strapped to their sides. More of them appeared at the edge of the forest. Willoughby scanned the line of trees. Forty or fifty assailants he counted anxiously to himself. God knew how many more lurked in the darkness. He chewed his lip nervously. He had how many? He looked back along the trackway; at least seven dead, only thirteen surviving. The man with the arrow through his face was still screaming. One of the outlaws moved across, grasped him by the hair and quickly slit the exposed throat.
    'Oh, Christ's sweet mother!' murmured Willoughby. 'No more deaths!' he shouted.
    An outlaw stepped forward. One of Willoughby's men suddenly plucked a dagger from his sleeve. Willoughby saw dark figures in the forest's gloaming and, before he could shout, bow strings thrummed and the unfortunate soldier slumped to the ground, choking on his death blood. The outlaw leader stepped closer.
    'Get down, Master