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.