He sat upon his horse in a little clearing, alone, as he said he would be. He was waiting for me to come, also alone, as I had promised.
I was hiding in the thick greenery of the forest. I had an arrow aside my ear, drawn tautly in my bow. It would be so easy. A loosening of my fingers and my arrow would speed straight for his heart and that problem would be at an end.
But he just waited patiently, surely knowing I was there.
And he had something draped over his horse, behind him. I greatly feared I knew what he had. I would need him alive for answers, and there would be plenty of time to kill him later.
I moved gently and slackened my bow; the arrow went back into the quiver and I slung the bow over my shoulder as I stepped out into the open to speak with the sheriff of Nottingham.
“Foxwell,” I greeted him.
“Locksley.” Perhaps he was just being polite, but he knew I no longer use that name. Now, I answer to what the peasants of Nottinghamshire call me: Robin Hood.