Although the brisk wind hinted at a late spring and there was no sign of the king's deer in over a week, Little John smiled. He, Will and Nasir were on the road to the village of Cornley. They were flush with Norman gold and they were going to fetch supplies and food for some of the poorer serfs. They also planned to use the Norman baron's studded armour for bartering.

"What good's a baron's armour to a bunch of serfs?" Will wondered. "It's not like any of them are goin' to fight in Normandy!"

Little John shrugged. He knew that the village blacksmith could use the armour's metal studs and the spare leather could be used to make more practical items, but he chose not to bicker. Will had been in a sour mood lately, ever since they learned about the presence of mercenaries in Nottinghamshire. He lost Elena to mercenary soldiers, and for that reason alone Little John felt it was pointless to try to persuade him to think of something else.

The dirt road became wider and they spotted the grooves of the village's carts, which had likely returned from the market. Nasir suddenly stopped, and he traced one of the grooves in the dirt.

"Something the matter, Nasir?" Little John asked. Nasir didn't reply and continued to study the distant road ahead.

After several minutes, Nasir stood up. "The grooves are not fresh. They have already been filled with rainwater. You say the village's wagon goes to market every morning?" Little John nodded. He trusted the Saracen's instincts: if Nasir sensed that something was amiss, he was usually right.

"So the tracks ain't fresh," Will said. "Maybe the wagon master had too much to drink the night before and missed market day. We should get to the village, do our business and get back to camp before the sheriff's men see us." Nasir and Little John agreed, and they continued to walk towards Cornley.

A few birds chirped in the leafy canopy above. It was close to noon. By now, they would have heard the carefree laughter of Cornley's children, who would come to greet them. The rumble of the millwheel would creak from the edge of the forest. Sometimes, the village chieftain would welcome them with open arms … and offer a table at the village tavern.

They were almost out of the forest, but they heard nothing. No voices, no millwheel and no children.

Will cautiously gripped the hilt of his sword. "Something's not right. It's too quiet." Little John brandished his quarterstaff, while Nasir quietly drew one of his throwing knives.

They left the shelter of the forest, and came across the village of Cornley – what was left of it.

The miller's house had been torched and the miller lay dead in front of his door. The roofs of almost every hut had been set alight. Black smoke lingered around the tavern. They heard horses in the distance, but they couldn't see them. Little John ran to the side of two more men, who lay motionless beside the tavern.

"They're dead," he said.

"Who did this?" Will demanded. He heard the hooves of horses again, but the smoke prevented them from seeing anything beyond a few feet. He heard the scream of a woman and immediately darted into the choking smoke.

"Will!" Little John coughed, but it was useless. Will had disappeared. "The fool will get us all killed." Nasir merely grimaced, and raced after his friend.

Little John heard a cry behind him. When he spun around, a wild-looking man with unkempt hair charged at him with an axe. He looked like a Celt: his face was painted with bluish, fierce streaks and he was draped in animal skins. Little John nimbly avoided the warrior's initial chop and speared the staff into his attacker's abdomen. When his attacker doubled over, Little John drove the quarterstaff into the man's skull. Two more attackers – one with a shoddy sword and another with a spear – lunged towards him. He was outnumbered, but Little John would give no ground. He let out such a loud roar, that several birds fluttered away from their nesting sites in the forest.

Little John's attackers realized that they made a grave mistake.

Several houses away, Will scampered from door to door. He heard the woman's scream again. He angrily brushed the smoke away from his face, and stumbled over three more bodies. They appeared to be a young family. When he reached a clearing, he spotted the silhouette of a horseman in the smoke. The wind began to clear away some of the smoke, which revealed another body.

A fair-haired girl – perhaps she was only 15 or 16 – lay still on the ground. Her clothes were dishevelled and her throat had been cut. It still bled. Will heard someone slowly walking behind him and he drew his sword, with another hand on his dagger.

"The Saxon wench put up a fight," the man gloated, oblivious to Will. "But I had my sport." These men wore no livery Will could recognize, but their weapons weren't those of cutthroats or robbers.

Mercenaries, Will snarled to himself. He kept repeating the word, as if it were a curse. Such men dishonoured his wife and killed her. They deserved no mercy: he would give them no quarter now.

The man spun around and narrowly escaped a killing blow from Will's sword. In the distance, he could hear Little John calling out for Nasir. The mercenary drew a longsword, and Will guessed that he had been recruited from the highlands of Scotland. Their swords clashed, and Will immediately knew that the Scot was no peasant. He was a skilled soldier – likely hired to fight in the Norman campaigns. In the distance, Little John let out another terrifying roar. This momentarily distracted the swordsman, who turned his head towards the sound. Will found an opening and lunged his dagger deep into the man's stomach. The Scot spat a mouthful of blood, and slumped into the ground.

"Little John!" Will yelled. He feared that the giant had been subdued, but he spotted his friend's shadow through the thinning smoke. On the ground were the bodies of two mercenaries who had dared to challenge Sherwood's giant.

Another man, with long blond locks and a horned helmet, charged at Will with a long pike. Will, who had fought better-skilled pikemen in France, quickly parried the Dane's thrust with his sword and drove a dagger into his attacker's neck.

"Danes, Scots, Celts …" Will grunted. "King John's hired everyone to fight for him!" The smoke cleared and they spotted two more bodies, with arrows in their backs. Nasir had used the smoke and chaos to his advantage and picked off two more mercenaries. The Saracen, with drawn bow and arrow, knelt beside his friends and scanned the village for any movements.

A horse neighed, and Will finally spotted the elusive horseman. The soldier wore a poorly mended leather vest, a helmet and had several missing teeth. He taunted at them with his broken grin and steered his horse northward.

"Nasir!" Little John blurted. "We can't let him get away!" Nasir dropped his bow, took out a throwing knife and flung it at the horseman.

"You should have used the bow, Nasir," Will assumed. "Ain't no way you could have gotten him." He spoke too soon, because they heard a shriek of pain. Nasir had hit his mark, and Little John chuckled at his friend's deadly accuracy.

"If the bastard's still alive," Will said, "we can find out what they're up to!" He hauled the fallen horseman up by his shoulders. "Who sent you? Why are you here in Nottingham! Talk, you bloody devil!" The mercenary cursed in his native language and took his last breath.

"It's no use, Will," Little John sighed, "He's already dead. We must get back to Sherwood and tell Robin. We don't know how many of them are around, and the sheriff's men will spot the fires. The village will be crawling with Nottingham soldiers!"

Will appeared to be possessed, snarling at any sound or movement in the village.

"Those who did this are now dead," Nasir concluded. "They must have arrived here last night." He knelt on the main dirt road through Cornley. "Four or five horses. Ten men or more. Heading towards Nottingham."

Will wanted to fight more attackers, but he realized that it was no longer safe to stay in Cornley. "Mercenary scum," he muttered as he stormed into the forest. Deep in the woods, they came across a dozen survivors … mostly women, children and old men. They confirmed that a band of soldiers arrived in the night, drunk with ale and looking for pillage.

"Did you see my daughter?" one woman pleaded. "She had fair hair …"

"She's dead," Will said. "I killed the man who –" He couldn't complete the sentence. All he could think of was Elena.

Little John frowned at the spires of smoke in the distance. These soldiers should be fighting Philip's armies in Normandy, not terrorizing the shire. "And the king wonders why the village folk don't care about the war in France."

Will, with his sword still drawn, quickened his pace. "I swear to you, John, if I see one of those bastards in Sherwood, I'll slit his throat! Pigs like that don't deserve to breathe!"

Nasir stood motionless, warily guarding the path behind them. "He mourns his wife," he said. "He is filled with rage. We must mind him." Little John patted his Saracen friend on the back.

He's right, Little John thought. When the rage took hold of Will Scarlet, he could be unpredictable.

His recklessness might put the band in harm's way – or, the fool might get himself killed.


Alice, chambermaid of Nottingham Castle, hoisted the hem of her skirts as she climbed the stairs towards the castle. "Sentry! Sound the alarm!" she yelled. "The town gates have been breached! Summon the household guards!"

The two sentries ignored her at first. Alice had spent every day this week atop the castle ramparts, silently watching the distant horizon for news from Normandy. The senior man-at-arms reprimanded her on the first day, but she insisted that she expected a messenger at any moment. She had believed that France was no more than two days' travel, and the guards joked that she probably believed that Guy of Gisburne had already captured Paris all by himself. As the days passed, they became accustomed to her presence on the castle walls. In fact, the castle's household were a family, and they had much in common. Most were poor, and many were born and raised in the shire's villages and hamlets. There was some pride in working for the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, as well as sense of security behind his castle walls.

This day was different. There was a fight in the marketplace, and one shopkeeper had died. About a dozen, filthy-looking soldiers – three of them mounted on horses – defiantly marched towards the main castle. The two sentries spotted the chaos in the market below and raced to the watchtower. They frantically rang the bell, and dozens of blue-liveried soldiers swarmed into the marketplace.

"Not in the market, you fools!" the older sentry barked at the men below. "To the castle! They're going to the castle!"

Alice nearly stumbled on the last step and pulled open the doors to the great hall of Nottingham Castle. The sheriff was talking to Walter, the captain of the guard who had – reluctantly – assumed many of Gisburne's duties.

"I've been meanin' to inquire, milord," Walter asked cautiously, with his eyes lowered out of respect for his master, "I have carried out Sir Guy's duties this past week and –"

The sheriff snickered at what the captain was implying. "Ah, a man of ambition. God knows you have twice the brains of Gisburne, if you only had twice the breeding." Walter was visibly disappointed and the sheriff explained further. "You may be the son of a Crusader, but you are not highborn. Think of the precedent: to be hired based on merit! How unnatural! God has assigned each of us a lot in life. The Almighty has granted me the unfortunate duty of sifting through courtiers, squires and other miserable souls to find a suitable steward." He threw the letters of recommendation impatiently onto the table beside him. "Half of these idiots have never served as stewards. They joust in tournaments and they call it soldiering! And the king expects to reclaim Normandy with these imbeciles?"

Alice scampered towards the sheriff and clumsily curtsied before him. "Beggin' your pardon, Your Worshipfulness …"

"Alice!" the sheriff growled. "For the last time, there is no word from Normandy. I don't expect news from Normandy for months! I doubt that Gisburne or the king's army has left England yet!"

"No, milord," she rambled, trying to catch her breath, "Soldiers … they killed a man in the market … they're coming this way! And the village of Cornley is in flames!"

The sheriff cared little about a death in the market (people died in the shire every day), but the villages of the shire belonged to him. In fact, they belonged to the king – but he was the Sheriff of Nottingham. The king could fight for the scorched earth of Normandy; Nottingham was Robert de Rainault's domain. Cornley was under his protection, and the rabble would expect him to assert his authority, and to avenge its destruction.

"What did these soldiers look like?" the sheriff asked. Alice described a horde of foreign-looking invaders: some had horned helmets, others spoke strange tongues and a few wore hideous war paint on their faces. They didn't wear the familiar coat of arms of the local nobility in the surrounding countryside.

"The mercenaries, milord," Walter said.

"God curse them!" the sheriff replied. "I feared this might happen. They're animals! Have your men ready. You know what to do." Walter disappeared through an alcove and into a passageway. Alice stood meekly before the sheriff, who was annoyed at her intrusion.

He returned to the centre table to sort through the letters of recommendation for Gisburne's replacement. "Go on with your business, woman!" he snorted. "Have you not chores to do?"

Alice bowed and was about to exit the great hall when a pair of men threw open the doors. She gasped in terror.

Two bearded soldiers in horned helmets – one with a staff, the other with a spear – grimaced as they walked into the hall. One leered at Alice and winked at her. Four more soldiers in tattered leather vests soon arrived with a stout Scotsman, who carried a large broadsword. Alice looked frantically for Walter and the rest of Nottingham's soldiers, but they were nowhere in sight. Before she could flee to the outer courtyard, about a dozen or more mercenaries blocked the great doors. The last man to enter wore studded leather armour and had several days' growth on his beard. One of the soldiers, a Celt with blue paint streaked across his face, grabbed Alice's arm.

"I'll take her for payment, Alain," he laughed, addressing the man with the studded armour. The sheriff assumed that this Alain was the mercenary captain. Alain cursed at him and boxed his ear. The Celt yelped like a hound and let go of Alice.

"Enough of this!" the sheriff demanded. He showed no fear and strolled within a few paces of the ruffians. "I am Robert de Rainault, Sheriff of Nottingham." He studied Alain's leather gauntlets, which appeared to be mismatched. The left hand was covered in a poorly fashioned foot soldier's gauntlet, but his right hand was made of high-quality material and bore a woven black and yellow coat of arms.

"You served the Count of Flanders," the sheriff noticed, intrigued that a common mercenary would cling to the symbol of his former lord.

The lead mercenary gave no immediate reply, and took off his helmet. "I am Alain of Mons, knight of Flanders. I was summoned here by John of England's little boy, Monsieur de Giscard. I serve but one master now." He rubbed the tips of his fingers together, indicating his desire for money. Alice withdrew safely behind the sheriff.

The sheriff adjusted the chain of office around his neck and glanced warily at the alcoves around him. "Your men killed someone in the market. My market." He scowled at the cohort of mercenaries. They were scum, and smelled like they had slept in the stables.

"These peasants are dogs," the Scotsman in the band sneered. The cohort laughed at the insult.

"Yes – but they are my dogs," the sheriff replied. "Some of your men attacked the village of Cornley. The villages in this shire are under my protection."

"Your villages need better protection," replied the Dane with a spear. The sheriff permitted their insults, as he carefully examined each soldier. Some had fresh cuts and wounds, and it was obvious that they were either involved in the market slaying or in the plunder of Cornley the night before.

"Those of you who were in Cornley, step forward," the sheriff announced. He expected no response, and they gave him none. The sheriff tugged at his chain of office, and in moments, dozens of armed Nottingham soldiers filled every alcove and passageway. While the other mercenaries began to panic, Alain merely grinned.

"I see you are no fool," Alain observed. One of the mercenaries, who suspected (correctly) that his friends were about to surrender him to the sheriff, drew a dagger and charged at the sheriff. A crossbowman appeared from a darkened alcove and shot the man in the back, killing him a few steps from the sheriff's feet. Alain placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, but the sheriff drew a dagger from his robes and pointed it at the mercenary's heart. Nottingham soldiers surrounded them: there was no escape.

"Your men may be loyal to your money," the sheriff announced. "But my men are loyal to me. In this castle, my word is law. I rule here! Give me the men who were in Cornley, and we can discuss my plans for you. Refuse me – and the lot of you will hang from the castle walls by dusk." Alain gave an order in Flemish and the horde shoved three men into the centre of the hall.

"Walter," the sheriff began, "seize those men! Tell the executioner to prepare the gallows. The people must be assured that the sacking of any village in this shire will not go unpunished." A half-dozen Nottingham soldiers grappled with the three condemned men, who pleaded in vain for mercy.

"No more games, my lord," Alain declared. "What do you want of us?" The sheriff turned his back to the mercenaries and returned to the table strewn with letters.

"You've heard of the Hooded Man?" the sheriff inquired, his eyes fixated on the letters. "His band of outlaws steal the king's gold – gold destined to pay for His Majesty's campaign in Normandy." The ruffians howled at the remark, well aware that the English were losing the war. The sheriff remained neutral. "I want Robin and his band dead. All of them."

"Unlike your men," Alain remarked, "my soldiers will do their job well." He rubbed his fingers together again. "That is, if you pay us the right price." A servant arrived with a casket full of gold marks.

The sheriff continued to read the letters. "There's enough gold there to make you and your 'soldiers' very wealthy men. Kill Robin Hood and you will have all that, and perhaps the favour of King John himself. I can provide you with horses and supplies. But if you sack another village, I will hang the lot of you."

"I am at your service, my lord," Alain jested as he bowed. The rest of the cohort grumbled loudly, but they left the hall without incident.

"Unless I bid you here, you and your men are not welcome within the castle walls," the sheriff said, as an afterthought. "If they value their lives, they will stay outside the castle." For a moment, the sheriff sensed that Alain had taken offence at the order.

Alain of Mons was a knight of Flanders and had once fought Philip Augustus' armies in the Touraine. Once, he was welcome in proud, noble houses. The wars had taken their toll on him and he found profit to be a more willing mistress. He abandoned his service to counts and barons, choosing the security of coins and jewels. But, he was a knight and he always remained loyal to the House of Flanders. Alain put on his helmet and left the great hall of Nottingham Castle.

When they left, Walter returned to the sheriff's table. "The scoundrels who sacked Cornley will hang by dusk."

"Excellent," the sheriff noted. "Have the Flemish knight watched. His men are of no concern to me, as long as they stay beyond the castle walls. I don't, however, trust their captain." He read another letter and threw it on the floor in disgust . The usual flurry of activity returned to the great hall, as the servants prepared the tables for supper.

"Alain of Mons?" Walter asked. "Because he was once a knight?"

The sheriff held out his goblet, as Alice poured wine from a flask. "Men who value money above all else can be easily manipulated," the sheriff stated. "But this Alain still values his service to Flanders. A man of honour, absurd as it might seem. Such men are either incredibly naïve … or dangerous."

Walter bowed and departed. "I shall have him watched, milord."

Alice placed a bowl of mouldy bread on the sheriff's table. "If I may ask, milord, do you think Sir Guy has arrived in Normandy by now?"

The sheriff rolled his eyes at the Saxon girl's lack of common sense. "Yes, Alice," he replied sarcastically. "I'm sure Sir Guy is dining with King Philip this very night to arrange a treaty." In a mock toast, he raised his goblet to her. "We shall be victorious."

"Very good, milord!" Alice beamed. "Normandy will be ours, I'm sure of it." The sheriff began to eat his supper, then paused. He doubted that the English army had sailed for Normandy yet. Despite de Giscard's declarations, he knew that King John lacked the Lionheart's stomach for a long campaign.

As he studied the letters on his table, he also realized that it would be much harder to replace Guy of Gisburne than he was prepared to admit.