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.