Assassin in the Greenwood

of them; they looked terrified by the cold-blooded ruthlessness they had witnessed.
    The outlaw leader came and squatted before Willoughby. He thrust a piece of roasted venison into his good hand and placed a goblet of thick red wine beside him. Willoughby looked away. The meat roasting over the fire gave off mouth-watering smells and the tax-collector, despite his pain, realised he hadn't eaten since the previous evening.
    'I am sorry,' murmured Robin Hood, the mask still over his face, 'but I had no choice. Look around you, Tax-collector. These are savage men, wolvesheads. If they had their way they would kill you all. They hate you, despise your royal master, and see the money from those chests as rightfully theirs. Now come, sit with us by the fire – and keep a civil tongue in your head.'
    He pulled the unresisting tax-collector to his feet and pushed him across the clearing, giving him a place before the fire. Willoughby watched as the outlaws began to carve huge chunks of glistening meat; braving the flames of the fire, each outlaw hacked off a chunk and forced it into his mouth, chewing vigorously until the juice ran down his chin. Willoughby, despite his discomfort, nibbled at his meat and took the occasional sip from his wine cup. Did they intend to kill him? he wondered. Would any of them survive? Beside him the outlaw leader remained silent.
    Most of the talking was being done by a huge giant of a man whom the others called Little John. He apparently was the leader's lieutenant and had been absent from the attack on the convoy. He, too, wore a mask across his face, as did the woman on his right. She was dressed in a smock of Lincoln green; the hem hung high above her riding boots whilst the bodice was drawn tightly across her breast. She displayed no shame in the presence of so many men, noted the clerk. Around them outlaws talked and chattered; a few sang songs. The tax-collector's eyes grew heavy, the pain in his hand worsened. He gulped some wine to dull the pain. At last his eyes grew heavy-lidded with sleep and, despite the mocking calls of the outlaws, he folded his arms and stretched out on the grass, no longer caring what might happen.
    He awoke the next morning, cold and damp, his mutilated hand throbbing with pain. The fire was no more than a smouldering mass of ashes. Willoughby looked around but the glade was empty. He picked himself up and walked across to the caves. He glimpsed rough, makeshift beds made out of ferns and branches. He looked around again, moaning as the pain in his hand flared back to life.
    'Jesu miserere!' he whimpered. 'Nothing.'
    Oh, there were scraps of food on the ground, and above him in the trees birds chattered angrily at being bereft of their spoils. Willoughby felt sick from pain and the coarse wine. For a while he knelt, sobbing for breath and retching at the bitter taste at the back of his throat. He heard a twig snap and looked up.
    'Who is there?' he called.
    No answer. Willoughby glimpsed a flash of colour amongst the trees but his eyes were blurred with tears after his violent retching. He squatted on the ground, head thumping and his body aching, his clothes all soiled. There was no sign of the outlaws. No indication, apart from the scraps of food and the smouldering ash, of their wild banquet the night before.
    Willoughby sat cradling himself for a while. Again, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flash of colour but his mind felt battered and his body drained. He dared not concentrate. A ring of pain encircled his hand. He felt feverish and almost wished he had died quickly the previous day. A huge magpie, bold and daring, swooped from the trees and started pecking with its cruel yellow beak at a piece of fat-caked meat. Willoughby got to his feet and walked to the line of trees. He looked up. Once again, he caught the flash of colour and stared fixedly.
    'Oh no!' he sobbed. 'Oh, Christ, have mercy!'
    He fell to his knees and stared round. Other snatches of colour caught his gaze.
    'Oh, you bastards!' he murmured, and then crumpled to the ground like a child, whimpering and crying. From the overhanging branches of the trees around the glade, every member of his retinue, stripped of clothes and boots, hung lifeless by the neck.

Chapter 1
    'Murder, Sir Peter, that's why the King has sent me north!'
    Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King's Secret Seal, stared across the table at Sir Peter Branwood, under-sheriff of Nottingham, now acting-sheriff