Paul Doherty: Assassin in the Greenwood

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 Tax-collector.' The voice was muffled. 'Do not be so foolish as to attempt anything. The lives of what remains of your men are in your hands.'

Willoughby wiped the sweat from his face.

'Do as he says!' he shouted. 'No more foolishness!'

Willoughby stared at the outlaw leader but could glean nothing about him. He was tall and had a strong northern accent but cowl and mask completely concealed his face.

'You will follow us!' the outlaw shouted. 'Anyone who disobeys will be executed.'

The whole convoy was turned round and forced to retrace their tracks for a while before the horses were unhitched, their chests taken from the wagons and the long line of outlaws, their prisoners and the gold, disappeared into the green darkness.

Willoughby had never been in a forest so dense. The trees closed in, blocking out the sun. All the clerk could do was trudge helplessly, following his captors along a trackway known only to them which ran between the trees. Only once did they stop to slake their thirst at a small brook, then the march continued. One of the carters, who had bravely stumbled on despite an arrowhead in his thigh, eventually collapsed. The outlaw leader whispered quietly to him. The carter smiled. The outlaw went behind him. Willoughby saw the glint of a knife. He heard a hissing sound and the carter writhed as his life blood spurted.

The day drew on. Darkness fell but the march continued. Now and again they crossed an open glade. Looking up, Willoughby glimpsed the star-studded sky and a hunter's moon. The undergrowth came to life with the sounds of small animals. Now and again an owl softly swooped to its prey which shattered the silence with a terrible scream.

At last, as Willoughby thought he could plod no further, the line of trees broke and they entered a broad moonlit glade. Pitch torches had been lit and fastened to poles dug into the earth. Willoughby looked around. At one end of the clearing rose a huge escarpment of rock, the caves at the base probably serving as living quarters. Near these a huge fire was being lit, logs being thrown on by other outlaws who greeted their fellows with cheers and the prisoners with derisive calls.

'Guests for our banquet!' one shouted.

He came up, face covered in dirt, and peered at Willoughby.

'Rich venison!' he muttered. 'The King's own deer. Look.' He pointed to where a fat buck was being gutted and cleaned by a nearby stream in preparation for roasting. The outlaw leader approached.

'The banquet is for you, Master Tax-collector!'

'I will not eat with you,' he replied.

Immediately arrows were notched to bows.

'You have no choice,' the outlaw leader challenged.

'What is your name?' Willoughby asked.

'Oh come, sir, you know my name and my title. I am Robin Hood, Robin of the Greenwood, the Great Wolfshead, the Master Archer.'

'You are a murdering knave!' retorted Willoughby. 'And a liar to boot. You took the King's pardon. When you are caught, you will hang!'

The outlaw leader stepped closer and grasped Willoughby by the wrist. The tax-collector flinched at the hate-filled eyes behind the mask.

'This is my palace,' the wolfshead continued. 'This is my cathedral. I am King of the Greenwood and you, Master Tax-collector, are my servant. You need to be taught the due respect owing to me. Take his hand!'

Immediately three outlaws sprang forward and, before the tax-collector could resist, thrust his open hand against a tree trunk, splaying out his fingers. The outlaw leader, humming a tune, drew his dagger and neatly sliced off the top of the tax-collector's fingers. Willoughby, screaming in agony, collapsed on to the grass. Blood pumped out from the stumps, covering his robes with small pools of glistening red.

The outlaw leader strode away and returned, bearing a small bowl filled with black tar. Willoughby's hand was grasped again as the man styling himself Robin Hood coated the stumps with hot tar.

Willoughby could bear no more. He closed his eyes and screamed himself into a dead faint. When he recovered the pain had receded to a savage ache. The tax-collector, holding his damaged hand against his chest, stared round the glade. The chests taken from the carts had now been emptied and were being thrown on to the roaring fire. The horses had disappeared. Willoughby glimpsed the weapons of his escort piled beneath a tree whilst their former owners sat in a long line near the fire, pale and frightened in the glare of the torchlight. All fight had gone out 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.