In the late thirteenth century, sheriff's patrols riding through the High Forest of Sherwood would occasionally find what they were looking for. An abandoned outlaw camp. The white ash of a dead fire. The flattened bracken where a man had slept. The cracked bones of a rabbit thrown into the brush. Everything the Sheriff of Nottingham's men needed to know the place had been lived in for weeks. And not one tool to show for it. No knife. No pot. No rope. Nothing a bailiff could carry back to prove a man had been there at all.
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