The Greenwood Cipher

The morning mist still clung to the gnarled roots of the elder oak at the edge of Linby village, carrying the sharp tang of wet moss and woodsmoke. Nailed squarely into the rough bark hung a broadsheet of heavy vellum, fresh enough that the sour reek of cheap lampblack ink and sizing still drifted on the damp breeze. Its bold Gothic lettering accused the outlaws of Sherwood of poisoning the northern mill-dams and burning winter grain stores, naming Robin of Loxley an enemy of God and peasant alike. A knot of villagers huddled near the tavern well, their faces drawn tight with unease as they cast fearful glances toward the canopy of the forest. Beside Robin, Maid Marian stepped out from the veil of dripping bracken, her dark leather mantle drawn close against the cold. Slender and sharp-eyed, her long auburn braid resting over one shoulder, she raised a gloved hand to touch the corner of the proclamation. Her silver signet ring caught a pale glint of autumn light as her fingernail scraped at the heavy wax seal bearing Prince John's three leopards. "It is a clever poison, Robin," she whispered, her voice taut with urgency. "Look at the illuminated border. These flourishes aren't Roy…