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hidden here
     and safe from their reprisals. We will take their silver and it shall be shared out among us all. Under my leadership, every
     man will be the equal of his fellow; every woman and child will be under the care and protection of us all. There will discipline,
     yes, and I will take a small share of the spoils. But there will be justice for all—’
    ‘Kill them, kill them now,’ a rough, clogged voice broke into Robin’s words.
    Robin looked to his left and saw the round bulk of Hussa standing and swaying slightly on the edge of the space. His face
     was a mass of blood, his beard clotted with his own gore, but he had a sword in one hand and a mace in the other, and he gestured
     with them to the crowd, urging them forward.
    ‘Kill these incomers, all of you, go on, take them. Kill them now, eh? Or I promise it will be the worse for all of you.’
    Robin could see several of the crowd looking at Hussa, then back at himself and John. Their lives hung by a thread.
    A bowstring thrummed. A shaft sped, a swift black line across the clearing, and thumped into Hussa. The engorged beast-man
     looked down at the arrow protruding from his chest. He blinked, fell to his knees, and looked over at Owain. A hole appeared
     in his blood-matted beard, and he seemed to be trying to ask the bowman a question. But his lungs were pierced, through and
     through. All that emerged was a shallow whisper that might have been the single word: ‘Why?’
    Owain spoke: ‘It’s simple, really, boyo, I like this young fellow’s ideas a whole lot better than yours.’

Now read the opening chapter of
OUTLAW

The first book in Angus Donald’s breathtaking The Outlaw Chronicles

A thin, sour rain is falling on the orchard outside my window, but I thank God for it. In these lean times, it is enough to warrant a fire in my chamber, a small blaze to warm my bones as I scratch out these lines in the grey light of a chill November day. My daughter-in-law Marie, who governs this household, is mean with firewood. The manor is mine, and there would be a decent, if not lavish living to be had for us on these lands if there were a young man or two to work them. But since my son Rob died last year of the bloody flux, a kind of weariness has settled upon me, robbing me of purpose. Though I am still hale and strong, thank the Lord, each morning it is a struggle to rise from my bed and begin the daily tasks. And since Rob’s death, Marie has become bitter, silent and thrifty. So, she has decreed, no chamber fires in daylight, unless it rains; meat but once a week; and daily prayers for his soul, morning and night. In my melancholy state, I cannot find the will to oppose her.
    On Sundays, Marie doesn’t speak at all, just sits praying and contemplating the sufferings of Our Lord in the big, cold hall all day and then I rouse myself and take my grandson, my namesake Alan, out to the woods on the far edge of my land where he plays at being an outlaw and I sit and sing to him and tell him the stories of my youth: of my own carefree days outside the law, when I feared no King’s man, no sheriff nor forester, when I did as I pleased, took what I wanted, and followed the rule of none but my outlaw master: Robert Odo, the Lord of Sherwood.
    I feel the cold now, at nearly three score years, more than I ever did as that young man, and the damp; and now my old wounds ache for most of the winter. As I watch the grey rain drifting down on to my fruit trees, I clutch my fur-lined robe tighter against the chill air and my left hand drifts up the sleeve, over the corded swordsman’s muscles and finds its way to a long, deep scar high on my right forearm. And stroking the tough, smooth furrow, I remember the terrible battle where I earned that mark.
    I was on my back in a morass of blood and churned earth, half-blinded by sweat and my helmet, which had been knocked forward, my sword held pointing up at the sky in a hopeless gesture of defence as I gasped