England, 1193.

Nottinghamshire, Sherwood Forest

A dull rumble of thunder echoed across the cloud-covered night sky like the growl of a wild animal. The howling storm wind shook and tore at trees and bushes, running roughshod over the land. It swept across the endless green meadows, churning up the surfaces of the lakes and rivers while making the leaves of Sherwood Forest rustle. The dry branches bent and bowed, knocking against each other, and the leaflets slid through the air like startled birds. 

Winding like a ravenous snake through a sea of dark green, the Great North Road connected York with London, passing Nottingham on the way. As the song of the raging winds echoed hissingly from the mighty tree trunks, the pouring rain transformed the earth, which was rock-hard on dry days, into a patchwork of mud islands and puddles. Meanwhile, the veil of rain drew a grey curtain over fields, villages and forests. 

A stone farmhouse stood on the edge of the forest, on the main road's eastern side. The Nottingham Toll Gate consisted of two buildings: a tiny stable with a small paddock, just big enough for two or three horses, and a brick house that had once been an inn for weary travellers but now served as barracks. 

A massive wooden barrier was stretched across the muddy street before the customs building. The pillars of the main house were roughly hewn, and the walls plastered with clay and straw, giving the building a sickly brown hue that barely set it apart from the surrounding landscape. The sloping, moss-covered thatched roof was soaked from the constant rain, and the hand-sized window openings were covered with thick parchment that only weakly transmitted the pale light from within.

Two soaked guards huddled on a crooked wooden bench, huddled under thick woollen cloaks and tried to shelter from the storm under the eaves as best they could.

"Damn. To hell with him. We have to freeze out here like dogs while the bastard sits by the warm fire and the others sleep peacefully," growled Randolf, the older of the two toll guards, whose shoulder-length brown hair was already streaked with visible grey.

"Thinks he's better than the rest of us just because the Sheriff made him head of the Custom House," the other snarled. Alric was a lanky, gaunt man whose chunky bulbous nose was so large and prominent on his moon-faced face that it inevitably reminded any observer of an aubergine. "Everyone knows he's only here because he screwed up with the Duke!"

The man sitting next to him nodded discontentedly. "I heard he got his arse kicked by Hood and-" The guard stopped abruptly as a sound reached his ears, slicing through the veil of rain like a sharp blade. 

Both men turned their heads and narrowed their eyes as if they could see through the thick curtain of rain.

Where the forest surrounded the tollhouse, the dense green of the thicket and giant trees opened up like the wide-open mouth of a beast. Its black, dark jaws parted to reveal a long, muddy brown tongue. A small cart rumbled from the forest's shadow and struggled through the mud. 

A huge black horse with jet-black fur glistened in the wetness like polished obsidian was tied to the front of the loaded wagon. Its strong shoulders flexed with every step under the worn leather harness while thick, muscular legs pulled the heavy wooden wheels over the muddy path.

Two figures sat on the coachman's seat: a strong, broad-shouldered man and a slender woman who looked almost tiny next to the giant. The tall man had a wide cloak of dark brown loden tightly wrapped around his shoulders, while his wife had pulled the hood of her gugel down over her face, from under which the hem of a white lace bonnet peeked out. Rainwater dripped from the soaked clothes while the man clutched the reins tightly. 

The two guards leapt to their feet at once, and Alric hurried to the bronze bell hanging in the corner of the porch underneath one of the beams. He struck it three times so the guards inside would know that travellers had arrived at the tollhouse.

"Stop!" Randolf, whose well-worn leather armour told wordless tales of past glory, flanked the squeaking carriage as it came to a halt. The spearhead pointing at the sky flashed in unison with the lightning that lit up the heavens while the old guard leaned on the shaft, visibly unmotivated. 

"Where do you come from, where are you travelling to, and what are you transporting?" he asked loudly against the drumming rain and the whistling wind. He was exhausted and hated standing in the pouring rain, trying to get a few coins from foolish travellers who were stupid enough to cross Sherwood in this terrible weather.

The tall coachman turned to the men and briefly examined them before speaking to Randolf. "We're just tired travellers seeking shelter from the rain," he said in a deep, hoarse voice. His wild beard covered most of his face, and bushy blond eyebrows hung over his brown eyes.

"Oh yes," Randolf grumbled and raised his spear to knock against one of the wooden barrels loaded in the back. 'And what is this?""Oh yes, right.' The man slapped his forehead with the flat of his hand. Randolf was not sure whether the sound that followed was just distant thunder or the sound of a hollow head. 

Under the customs officer's sharp gaze, the big man briefly grimaced in discomfort, then reached under his hood and rubbed his neck. A long blond braid slipped and now appeared from under his cloak. "I almost forgot—just a bit of ale and dried fish. Although the fish might not be quite so dry anymore, haha," he laughed out loud, causing his broad chest to tremble slightly. 

"Ale, you said?" Randolf repeated with great interest, a mischievous smirk on his lips, and whistled through his teeth to summon Alric as well.

The other guard approached curiously and raised his head to examine the loading area. Six barrels secured with ropes and some sodden linen sacks.

"Do you hear that, Alric? They're transporting ale, " Randolf repeated in an ominous tone before the customs officer raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Alric's eyes also sparkled with undisguised greed, and the greasy man's lips curled into a broad grin that had nothing friendly about it.

"Then, unfortunately, we'll have to confiscate a share of it for the crown," the haggard man explained with a feigned, compassionate undertone, pulling the corners of his mouth down exaggeratedly far. "Or you will pay double the price in shimmering cash..."

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