Outlaw: The Legend of Robin Hood

By John E. Petty

Robert of Locksley returns from the Crusades, after fighting alongside King Richard, to find his people crushed under the fist of the Sheriff of Nottingham and the despotic Prince John. Losing his home, family, and title, he escapes into the vast Sherwood Forest — a foreboding place said to be haunted. Instead of ghosts and goblins, Rob finds a community oppressed by cruelty, and he vows to lead them toward a better life.
Originally conceived centuries ago, the Robin Hood legend is as timely as during the Middle Ages. Based on the original ballads and tales, The Legend of Robin Hood: Outlaw speaks with a rich and powerful voice, urging everyone to stand up and fight oppression, bigotry, and fear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Jun 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463800270

Book preview

OUTLAW

The Legend of Robin Hood

Book 1

John Petty

Bold Venture Press

Copyright © 2020 John E. Petty. All rights reserved.

Cover art: Clayton Hinkle

Bold Venture Press edition June 2020

Available in print

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, places, and events is coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

About the author

Bold Venture Press

To the two most important women in my life, who have always had my back and held me up through dark times: my wife and my mother. I couldn’t have done this without either of them.

Outlaw

Chapter One

"Lithe and listen, gentylmen,

That be of frebore blode;

I shall you tell of a good yeman,

His name was Robyn Hode."

A Lytell Geste of Robyn Hode

As he pulled his sword from the chest of a Muslim spearman, Rob looked around desperately, trying to get a glimpse of Katherine. They had begun the battle back to back, but quickly found themselves separated as wave after wave of Saladin’s forces descended upon them and the rest of the Crusaders. King Richard’s Christian army was holding its own, but just barely, and casualties were high on both sides. The hot desert sun beat down mercilessly upon the combatants, and Rob observed that the only winners were the flies inhabiting the dead and dying bodies that littered the battlefield. Through the smoke and haze and the press of uncountable attackers he caught a glimpse of her, her green cloak and red hair making her easy to spot as she fired arrow after arrow unerringly into the enemy lines.

Katherine…! he cried out, his voice barely carrying over the ferocious din of battle.

Somehow, she heard him. Realizing that he was no longer beside her, Katherine turned to look in his direction, instantly raised her bow, and fired. Rob’s eyes grew wide with fear: why was she shooting at him? Before he could complete the thought, he heard a wet thud, as Katherine’s arrow unerringly penetrated the forehead of the Muslim swordsman who was about to split Rob in two, killing him instantly and dropping him in his tracks. Rob let out his breath and smiled at her. She smiled back at him in return as he moved towards her.

For just a moment, Rob and Katherine locked eyes. Watch your back, she called to him. I can’t…

Rob shook his head, forcefully driving the memory from his mind. It was a painful scene, and one he had no interest in reliving. It had plagued him more and more frequently since he returned home, invading not only his dreams but his waking moments as well.

Robert, son of Sir William Fitzooth, the Fourth Earl of Locksley, sat slumped in a stout oak chair in a room lit only by a single candle. His eyes focused on the flickering flame blankly, as it cast dark shadows on his hard, angular face and lightly scented the room with the smell of burning tallow. He was home, home from the Crusades. This evening, however, alone with his thoughts and his memories, he felt as lost as if he were still held captive in a Saracen dungeon.

He had returned to Locksley Manor a scant four weeks ago, weary from his time on the road and his experiences in battle. All he wanted was to be left alone to try and make sense of the things he had seen and done, but his father, enormously proud of his Crusader son, had quickly set up a seemingly endless procession of parties, receptions, and events designed to welcome Rob back into English society. He knew that his father meant well, but Rob was anxious for the parade of well—wishers to cease, so that he could take the time to sort out his life.

The evening was dark and cool, with a soft breeze wafting through the windows. The rest of his father’s household was asleep, but the visions in Rob’s head would not release him. As he focused on the flame, his thoughts turned back to the things that had happened to him while on Crusade in the Holy Land, in his mind less an adventure now than an ordeal. He wished that he had never taken the Cross and traveled to Jerusalem. failing thathe would accept simply eradicating forever the ceaseless parade of memories from his mind.

A knock on the door pulled Rob out of his thoughts and back into the real world. Looking up, he saw Benjamin, his father’s oldest retainer and one of the people Rob held most dear in all the world. Growing up, the loyal seneschal had been a mentor, a friend, and, in many ways, a second father to Rob. It was Benjamin who taught Rob how to read and write in English, Latin, and French, and instructed him in both history and politics. A former rabbi, he was a man of great learning who had come into his family’s service after the burning of his temple by an enraged mob who accused Benjamin of blood libel. Sir William, believing the rabbi’s innocence, took the man into his household as his servant and majordomo. Since then, he had been an indispensable part of the Fitzooth household.

Benjamin was a slight man, thin and gangly, his bald head a bit too big for his body. Standing not quite five and a half feet tall, he had large, expressive brown eyes, a sharp and well-defined nose, and thin lips, mostly covered by a long beard. He dressed simply, in a green servant’s tunic with black leggings that accentuated his knobby knees, a black leather belt at his waist, and soft green deerskin shoes. Few people knew that under his tunic, Benjamin wore a silver Star of David that had been given to him by his father on the day he turned thirteen.

Come in and sit down, old friend, Rob said. What brings you out of your chamber so late at night?

Benjamin sat opposite Rob, close enough that the candle illuminated his face. The look of deep concern he wore was plain to see.

Master Robert, he began, I have been waiting for an opportunity to speak to you privately, away from your father. I have come to urge you to caution.

Caution? Rob said with a sly grin. But I am the soul of caution. You of all people know that.

Benjamin did not join in Rob’s humor. Holding up a hand, he said solemnly, This is no time for jesting. These are dark times for the people of England, and you must guard your words carefully, lest the wrong person hear and accuse you of treason.

Treason? Me? Rob said, dumbfounded. But I am just back from the Crusades, where I served honorably and well in the King’s service. Who would dare accuse me of treason?

The King may be the King, Benjamin said softly, but he is far away and for all intents and purposes, his brother John rules here and now. To speak against him is treason, in the eyes of the law.

Rob sat forward in his chair, his penetrating gaze locked on his old friend. Say what you mean, Rob said.

I hear much, Benjamin replied, holding up his hands, and I keep my own counsel and am loyal to my family. Nevertheless, if I have overheard certain of your conversations since your return, others have as well. Others whose counsel is not so closely kept. I have heard you speak about taxes which are unjust, about the cruelty of Prince John, and about a belief that he seeks to usurp Richard’s rightful throne. You speak treason fluently, Master Robert, a trait you have inherited from your father, and it may well be your undoing.

You call it treason, Rob said. I call it justice.

As does your father, the old rabbi said, his head bowed and his eyes downcast. I have tried speaking to him about this matter, and he listens no more than you do. But you engage in errant wordplay. Treason is what the King says it is, and John considers such speech against him to be an offense punishable by death.

Such speech is all we have, my friend, Rob interrupted. If not speak out, what would you have men like us do? Nothing? Hold our tongues and let John and his band of thieves rape and pillage the country they are meant to serve? Let them break the people who work and toil for them, enriching the King’s coffers on the backs of the peasants? England is and always has been a land of free men, but John and his nest of vipers seek to turn us all into slaves, good only for living and dying to their benefit. Would you have me and my father ignore their cries for justice?

For the meantime, yes, Benjamin replied. Do nothingand live quietly… for now. Others have spoken out against John, at the cost of their lives, and still the Prince’s reign of terror continues. Protect yourself and your family and your vassals, and convince your father to do the same. History is like a wheel, ever turning. While our fortunes are low at present, they shall return someday, and we shall be here to enjoy them. I am sure of it.

I saw things on my travels, Rob said quietly, things that I would not have believed possible. I saw cruelty and sadism and untrammeled greed and oppression. I saw things I will never forget, horrific things, obscene acts perpetrated against men, women, and children by members of the so-called English ‘nobility.’ Acts that would give pause even to demons out of Hell. It would sicken you to hear of these things, and I must live with those horrible memories for the rest of my life. Since I’ve been home, I’ve seen those same acts perpetrated upon the people of England by those self-same ‘nobles’ And you ask me to stand aside and do nothing?

And if I should, he continued, how many innocent people will die until this ‘wheel’ of yours spins ‘round again? How many families must lose their lives and their land, seized at the whim of Prince John, before our fortunes ‘return’? How many must starve and waste away while John dines well and gets fat on the fruits of their labors? Where is their justice, or is that a concept that only the rich and privileged can afford? If a peasant steals a loaf of bread from his lord, that peasant is punished by death. But if that same lord steals from that same peasant, in John’s England he is not given even the slightest reprimand. Are the laws not meant to apply equally to all, or are some men considered more equal than others? No, someone must speak out. What else can we do?

Benjamin was silent, considering how best to respond to Rob’s impassioned speech. I don’t know, I don’t know. But what is served by you and your father throwing your lives away in the Tower or in an unmarked grave? Never forget, you are one of the ‘rich and privileged’ you rail against, but that will not save you or Sir William from John’s wrath. Your father has been outspoken about the new taxes, and I fear for him. John is not a kind man, and he does not forget or forgive an insult, either actual or perceived. Your father’s words risk ruin to us all. He will not hear my counsel on this, but he might yours. You must talk to him, get him to abjure the words he has spoken, and be the King’s loyal man, at least outwardly.

Rob chuckled. You know my father better than that, he said. Dissembling is not one of his many gifts. Perhaps you would have better luck asking the sun to rise in the Western sky, or requesting the tides to recede and not return. Besides, John would not dare to move against one of Richard’s most loyal retainers. John may hold the throne now, but Richard is still king.

Scowling, Benjamin rose to leave. I see I am wasting my time here, he said. Please, I beg of you, at least consider what I have said here tonight.

I will, old friend, Rob replied warmly. You say nothing I did not already know, but I will give your words the weight they deserve. You have my promise on that.

Benjamin looked at the young man and smiled. Thank you, Master Robert. That is all I ask.

On his way out of the chamber, Benjamin paused by a green cloak hanging on a peg by the door. A deep, forest green with a bronze oak leaf clasp, it was a handsome garment indeed. It was the first time Benjamin had seen it.

Where came you by this cloak? Benjamin asked, running his hand over the deep green fabric. It was soft and supple and rich, and reminded Benjamin of the depths of the forest, with its shifting shades of green and black. Several holes in the fabric had been carefully mended.

Rob hesitated in answering. It belonged to… a friend of mine. It is all I have left of that friendship and it is very dear to me.

Ah, Benjamin said, then you must safeguard it well, for it is irreplaceable and without price, as is the friendship it represents. Think on that as well before you throw anything away foolishly.

With that, Benjamin exited the room, leaving Rob to ponder his words.

***

The morning broke clear and cool. Rob had fallen asleep in the same chair he had been in during his conversation with Benjamin, and woke as the sunlight fell across his face. Rising, he crossed the room to a nightstand that held a basin of water and splashed his face, washing the dust from his eyes.

A darkly handsome man, Rob had inherited his late mother’s fine, delicate features. Lithe and slender with dark, deep set eyes that seemed to glow with an inner fire and high, chiseled cheekbones, Rob had an intensity about him that could be intimidating. His father had given him height and strength, although this was not readily apparent, as Rob lacked William’s bulk. Also from his father had come his thick black hair, and his keen and steady eye with a bow.

Rob had also inherited his father’s sense of justice. Throughout Locksley’s domain, the elder Fitzooth was known to all as a just and fair man, a man who applied the law to nobleman and commoner alike. Those who came before him for the resolution of disputes knew that their case would be heard fairly, without regard to rank or privilege. Before Fitzooth, everyone, no matter how lowly born, was treated with respect and dignity. The result was peace throughout the Earl’s lands, peace won through the love and respect of his tenants.

Every man is equal in the sight of God, Rob, his father often told him. Remember that always. You’re fortunate to be noble born, but the same blood runs through your veins as through the humblest farmer’s, the same sun warms your skin as his, and the same food nourishes both your bellies. Just because he had the misfortune to be born poor doesn’t make him worth any less. Besides, without the farmers to plant and till and harvest, where would we be? We need them as much as they need us. Never forget that.

Rob accepted his father’s words as a matter of course, but it was only during his tour in the Holy Land that he truly learned what they meant. Living largely on the Locksley estates, Rob had little knowledge of the world outside his father’s borders. Of course, he had been to London, and even once to York, but the realities of feudal life were largely hidden from him. That is, of course, until he went on Crusade and met many men who failed to share his father’s ideas of right and wrong.

A light eater at the best of times, Rob decided to skip the morning meal and headed downstairs, immediately exiting the manor. Although the hour was early, there was plenty of activity around the place, as people bustled about their daily routine. In the fields, he could see groups of laborers, both men and women, ploughing the fields and spreading manure, getting ready for the spring planting. Closer at hand, several carpenters worked on repairing a barn that had been damaged in a recent storm. A little girl driving a brace of ducks with a long stick crossed his path so quickly that he almost stumbled over her. It was just like every other day in England, and Rob felt good to see the usual routine and the usual faces.

As he walked down the dirt road, he nodded and gave good morning to the people he had grown up with, his father’s tenants. Just as Sir William held his land as a vassal of the Crown, so too did these peasants hold their land as tenants of Sir William. In exchange, they provided goods, usually some sort of farm produce such as butter or cheese or meat, as well as a certain amount of labor in their lord’s fields each year. With a difficult lord, the terms could be hard, and it might be all a family could do just to keep enough bread on their table to stay alive, but Sir William preferred happy tenants to extra profits. It’s less work that way, he told Rob once. Happy tenants don’t give trouble the way unhappy ones do. Treat ‘em right, and you’ll have fewer headaches. Even as a boy, he knew that his father’s insistence on treating his tenants fairly was less about headaches and more about simply doing the right thing.

And so Rob was surprised to see Albert the thatcher, his wife, and his four children - their few possessions loaded into a cart - traveling down the road towards him. They had been tenants of Locksley for as long as Rob could remember, and had always provided good service. As far as Rob was concerned, they were as much a part of the manor as the keep itself. They all wore an expression of heavy grief as they trundled down the road.

Good morning, Albert, Rob said.

Albert’s face lit up when he saw the young man. Master Rob! So good to see you! Look, Agatha, children, it’s Master Rob!

Agatha, Albert’s plump, round wife, threw her arms around Rob’s neck, momentarily forgetting the difference in their social status in her excitement, her face beaming with joy. Agatha… ! Rob said, entirely caught off guard. Realizing what she had done, she quickly backed down, sheepishly holding her head down to hide the flush that showed in her cheeks. Sorry, Master Rob, she mumbled. I was… I mean…

Laughing, Rob grabbed her around the waist, picked her up and spun her around. He planted a kiss on her cheek before setting her down, causing her to flush to an even deeper shade of red. Ah, Agatha, Rob said, Don’t fret. ‘Tis an evil time indeed when friends cannot greet each other as friends should. And you, Albert, how are you?

Ah, not so good, Albert said, once again downcast. I… I mean we… I mean…

What he means is that we’ve been put out, Agatha said, like we was dirt.

Put out? Rob said, dumbfounded. But my father would never…

No, he wouldn’t, Albert agreed, but that miserable Sheriff would, on orders from Prince John hisself. They say we ain’t paid our taxes, but the way they keep goin’ up, no one can pay.

But surely my father had no complaint against you, asked Rob. This land is his. They had no right to evict you.

Right or no, they did it at the point of a spear, Albert said. Your father tried to take our part, but the Sheriff wouldn’t hear none of it. Sir William even went to see Prince John his own self, but didn’t get nowhere.

God bless him for trying, said Agatha.

But where will you go? Rob asked.

The wife’s got kin in Barnesdale, Albert said, so we’ll head there and see what we can do.

Rob stared at his old friends, tears welling in his eyes. This is just what he had been talking to Benjamin about, and he was helpless to do anything. The problem was no longer a political abstract, it had suddenly hit far too close to home.

At least let me help you as much as I can, said Rob, taking out his purse and extracting several gold coins. This should see you through part of the way, at least.

Albert looked at the gold coins in Rob’s hand, realizing that they represented far more than everything he carried in his cart combined. Nevertheless, he said, Thanks, Master Rob, but we’re all right. We’ll manage.

Touched by the man’s pride, Rob said, Consider it a small bonus for your years of faithful service to my family. It’s the very least I can do.

Albert’s eyes met Agatha’s and a decision was reached. Quietly, Albert took the proffered coins, and softly said, Thank you. We’ll never forget your kindness. And then they were off, continuing their way down the dusty road.

Theirs was not the only tale of hardship and struggle Rob heard about during that dismal day. From a man who shot a deer during the winter in order to spare his family the horrors of starvation and lost a hand for his troubles, to a freeholder whose house was burned to the ground when he refused to pay impossibly high taxes, to a woman whose young child was murdered before her eyes because she refused sexual favors to one of Prince John’s favored vassals, the stories were more and more horrible as the day dragged on. What had been an idyllic land in Rob’s youth was now a vale of unspeakable horror; horror brought on by one man.

Prince John.

That night, Rob lay awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to reconcile everything he had heard during the day. He considered his situation, sleeping in a big, comfortable bed, while Albert and his family were sleeping God knows where. He had never considered the difference in social status before, as he had been raised to treat everyone with respect and decency. Most of all, then, it was the blatant inequity of the situation that rankled at him. Why should good, hardworking people like Albert and his family be turned out on nothing but a royal whim, while pampered layabouts like John, who had never done an honest day’s work in his entire life, lived in luxury and plenty? Was not Albert worth ten of John? Where was the justice in John’s actions, when the richest in the land could oppress the poorest without consequence?

Suddenly, a number of dull thuds reverberated through the castle, interrupting Rob’s reverie. Someone was at the main door demanding entrance, but who would be so rude as to disturb the home’s peace at this late hour? Rob didn’t move — one of the servants would answer the door, no doubt — but he listened attentively, curious to know who it was and what business they had at Locksley Hall in the middle of the night.

The pounding continued, and soon Rob could make out the strident voice of Ralph Murdach, the Sheriff of Nottingham, demanding entrance. Open the door, he shouted. In the name of Prince John, open the door!

His curiosity aroused, Rob stood and left his room, taking a position on the balcony outside his door that overlooked the main hall and the front door. As he watched, he saw his father, dressed in his nightshirt, his long black hair raging around his head like the mane of a lion, storm into the entranceway, peremptorily pushing servants out of the way, clearly annoyed at the disturbance. After pausing for a moment at the portal, he pulled the door open, his large frame filling the doorway as he did so.

Ralph Murdach. William spat the name as if it were poison. How dare you disturb the peace of my home at this hour? Two smoldering eyes burned like live coals into the night, chilling the Sheriff and the two dozen or so men who stood behind him.

Sir William of Locksley was an impressive figure. Long a King’s Forester, his years of life in the greenwood had left him strong and hearty. Big hands, thick sinewy arms, and shoulders broader than the oldest oak in the forest gave Locksley an aura of immovability. With his feet planted firmly on the ground, it would take more than a dozen strong men to move him. His face was hard, with lines earned through years of care etched deeply in it, but there was also an aura of compassion that radiated from his eyes. The Sheriff, a tiny, pampered man by comparison, with long, thin limbs and soft, pretty features highlighted by a fastidiously trimmed and pointed goatee, automatically took a step backward, momentarily paused by this giant of a man. Unlike his ancestors, this Sheriff had grown up one of the noble elite. His immaculate manicure, at the end of his soft, delicate hands, betrayed the fact that he had never toiled, never sweat a day in his life.

In almost every way, then, Murdach was the polar opposite of Sir William. Aside from the obvious physical characteristics, he was crafty and conniving, where Sir William was honest and straightforward. Where Murdach looked out for himself, Sir William kept the good of his family and his tenants uppermost in his mind. Where Murdach acted out of greed, Sir William acted for justice. Murdach was a coward, Sir William a hero. In all the world there could not be two more dissimilar men, and it was inevitable that they should hate each other.

Rob watched the scene unfold, unseen by either the Sheriff or his father. This was none of his business — his father was lord of the manor — but he had to see what was going on. At 23 years old, and now a hardened battle veteran, Rob’s instinct was to rush down the stairs and kill the invading Sheriff, but he checked his behavior and merely stood and watched. Logically, he knew that even with his father beside him, they would be hard-pressed to triumph over Murdach’s armed troops.

The Sheriff knew William, of course, but had rarely been quite so close to him. Looking up at the much bigger man, Murdach felt a chill run up and down his spine, and almost considered turning away, leaving his mission unaccomplished. He knew in that moment that, if he chose to do so, Locksley could break him in two with his bare hands. But then he remembered the two—score armed men behind him, and, regaining his courage, drew himself up to his full height, his eyes level with the middle of Locksley’s chest. With all the ceremony and pomposity he could muster, he withdrew a parchment scroll from his tunic.

Sir William Fitzooth of Locksley, Fourth Earl of Huntington, the Sheriff intoned formally, with just a touch of arrogance, you have been charged with treason against the Crown. As you have willfully and publicly refused to pay the rightful taxes levied against you, and have encouraged your tenants to follow your treasonous example, it is the command of His Royal Highness, Prince John of England, that your lands be forfeit to his pleasure, and that you and all members of your household be indentured to his service. This order to be carried out immediately, this Sixteenth day of May in the Year of Our Lord Eleven Hundred and Ninety—Three.

The tax is unjust, Locksley growled, his great arms crossed before him. No man can pay it. I stand by my tenants in protesting this unjust tax levied upon them. I will pay when the taxes on my landholders are returned to their previous, reasonable levels.

Those are the words of a traitor, said the Sheriff, a steely glint in his eyes. In any case, he continued, that is not my concern, nor is it yours. As a citizen of this shire, your responsibility is to pay the rightful tax that your King requires. Your public outcries against the tax are clearly treason against the Crown. Be grateful that King John has deigned to spare your life.

Pfah! spat Locksley, his eyes ablaze. With the halo of light that surrounded him from the fire and his hair flying around his head, Locksley almost looked other—worldly. John is not my King and never will be! That contemptuous Lackland would be nothing without his mother, Norman bitch that she is! I am a subject of the rightful ruler of England, King Richard!

That will be enough! ordered the Sheriff. Captain of the Guards, take this man away!

What happened next was mostly a blur. Rob remembered two soldiers appearing at either side of his father. They looked so short next to him, Rob almost laughed out loud. His father, a giant of a man, was a full head taller than the tallest man in England, and these men were far from that. For a moment, all activity in the hall ceased, as all eyes were upon Sir William. Then, suddenly and without warning, one of the soldiers was flying through the air as the hall burst into a flurry of activity. Rob, sprinting towards the stairs to take his father’s side, saw the man crash into a table, splintering it while his partner tried, unsuccessfully, to restrain Sir William. As the table collapsed, a lantern fell to the floor, spreading oil all around, instantly igniting the floor-length curtains that covered the window openings. The corner of the hall was instantly ablaze and alive with the screams of men and animals. Then, despite all the fighting and uproar, Rob had one clear moment, a moment he would remember for the rest of his life.

Amidst all the chaos and confusion, Rob caught sight of Sir William, beset by a swarm of men. William moved like a dervish, scattering the Sheriff’s men around him like straws in a hurricane, roaring a savage, deep—throated battle cry as he did so. In that moment, he saw his father not as a man, but as an implacable force of nature. And then, before he could take another step, the action seemed to slow to a virtual standstill, and Rob saw the Sheriff behind his father, armed with a sword.

Father! Rob called, desperately trying to warn the big man. But Rob was moving in slow—motion, too. He couldn’t move fast enough to get to his father’s side in time. William turned at the sound of his name, just as the Sheriff lunged with his sword. With a contemptuous cry of, Die, traitor! Murdach’s sword entered the base of the giant’s throat with a sickening, wet sound, and exited from the back of his skull, stuck tight in the bone.

William died almost instantly. He fell to his knees with a thud, and, just before his huge frame toppled forward, he seemed to catch Rob’s eyes for the last time. In that final second of life, an unspoken message flashed between father and son. The sight of those eyes burned itself forever into Rob’s memory, eyes that said, Avenge me!

With a scream, Rob cast all his training as a Crusader aside as he sped down the stairs and towards the Sheriff in a blood—red rage. With no sword at hand, he grabbed a leg from the shattered table and rushed toward Murdach, a terrifying scream ripped from his throat and madness in his eyes. All around him, the house servants were trying to extinguish the raging fire, but with little success. Those not killed by the Sheriff’s men were running for their lives. The Sheriff, looking almost bored, was walking toward the door.

Before Rob could reach the man who had killed his father, a soldier tripped him and sent him crashing to the floor. A savage kick to Rob’s head made his world explode into pain, blinding him and setting his surroundings spinning around him.

Looks like sonny boy wants some of what daddy got, one of the guards said.

An’ e’s such a lit’le fing, another chuckled, as if he was talking about a naughty puppy.

Maybe ‘e’ll give us more sport than ‘is old man, a third added.

Laughing, the other guards took turns kicking Rob and beating him with clubs. Still in a rage, Rob tried valiantly to strike back, but there were too many. Beaten down, it eventually took five guards to restrain the young man who lashed out wildly in the hopes of connecting with one of the invaders. A hard blow to the back of Rob’s head with the pommel of a sword quieted him as he struggled to remain conscious. The Sheriff, barely glancing his way while he inspected his fingernails for any signs of damage or dirt, merely said, Eliminate the vermin.

The first guard to have spoken grabbed the dazed and nearly senseless Rob by his long, thick, black hair, and dragged him outside, away from the crowding and confusion of the manor. Too bad, sonny, but orders is orders, he said, with no more concern than he would feel if he was chopping a piece of wood for his fireplace. Last thing we need around here is traitors and their traitorous whelp.

Battered and dazed from the beating he had just taken, Rob was in no shape to defend himself. His left eye, swollen shut, could hardly be opened, and his limbs felt like lead. He had known pain like this while in the Holy Land, but he was never as alone then as he was at that moment. He wondered why he had survived the terror of the Crusades only to meet his end here, on his own father’s estate. Somehow, it seemed cosmically unjust, to be murdered by a mercenary lout instead of being allowed to die in service to God.

Dropping Rob to the ground, the guard raised his sword to deliver the killing stroke. C’mon, boy, not even going to try and defend yourself, the guard said, grinning. Apparently disappointed, he muttered, Oh well, before carrying out the Sheriff’s orders. Just as the sword began its deadly arc downward, Rob found a last surge of strength, from where it came, he did not know, and managed to roll out of the way, lashing out blindly with his foot as he did so. Connecting solidly, he felt the guard’s knee collapse under his blow. The guard fell to the ground and dropped his sword. Somehow, Rob managed to grab the blade and thrust it through the guard’s chest, killing him instantly. Seeing his chance, he fled in the direction of Sherwood Forest, about a half-mile to the west, intending to lose himself within its dark fastness. He hesitated briefly, both considering his injuries and remembering the stories of the ghosts and goblins and trolls that lived in that dark and foreboding place. It had been said that once you went in to Sherwood Forest, you never came out. Better to take my chances with goblins than with the Sheriff’s men, reasoned Rob.

Every step brought a tearing pain in his left side, but he fought on, determined not to die at the hands of the Sheriff and his lackeys. If he died, he thought, who would avenge his father? In the confusion, however, his escape either went momentarily unnoticed, or the Sheriff considered him too unimportant to pursue. Probably the former, he thought, as William’s family and retainers were all now considered property of the Crown, and this usurper Prince did not dismiss property lightly. Let that be his final mistake, thought Rob, as he looked back briefly to see Locksley Manor consumed in flames.

Running as fast as he was able, he first gained the forest and then penetrated deeper and deeper into it. He did not know where he was going, and did not particularly caring. Sherwood was vast, twenty miles long by eight wide and covering some hundred thousand acres, one—fifth of all Nottinghamshire, with the Great North Way — the main road between London and York — cutting straight through it.

But the sheer size of