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Rogue: Tales of Robin Hood

Author Charlene Newcomb brings Robin Hood to vivid life

Talented historical novelist Charlene Newcomb’s latest book, Rogue: Tales of Robin Hood,  is a retelling of the origins of the Robin Hood legends set during a time of a rebellion and invasion near the end of King John’s reign. It’s a thrilling adventure of loyalty, love, sacrifice, spies, and intrigue.

I’m happy to welcome Charlene to the blog today, and have a lovely excerpt to share with you from Rogue.


A knight sworn to keep a family secret.
A king who seeks revenge.
A daring plan to save one life…or condemn many.

England 1216AD. Sir Robert Fitzwilliam faithfully serves the English crown, but when the outlaw Allan a Dale, a childhood friend, is captured and thrown in the sheriff’s dungeons beneath Nottingham Castle, trouble is certain to follow.

Allan’s days are numbered. Nothing would please King John more than to see an old nemesis hanged. Nothing except watching Robert’s estranged father, Robin, dangling dead from a rope beside him.

When his father joins forces with the Hood gang to rescue Allan, enlisting the aid of friends and even the girl he loves, Robert must decide where his loyalties lie.


The tiltyard stretching outside Castle l’Aigle’s north gatehouse was drenched in September sun. A warm, stiff breeze stirred dirt into the air, but didn’t cool Robin’s bearded face.

He sat straight-backed in the saddle atop his Spanish gray putting the squires under his charge through their paces. “Do it again.” His three and fifty-year-old arse ached, but he refused to let his young charges see him grimace.

Not so young, he thought, studying the boys who had become young men under his tutelage. Two would be knighted at Michaelmas, and Richard, his own son—named after the king Robin once served—was fifteen. Blessed be God, how had time slipped away?

King Richard was dead sixteen years now. Robin crossed himself. He wasn’t so enamored of God, but he never failed to pray for the king’s soul. Richard would likely scoff at his effort. Robin had a difficult time imagining the king enjoying the peaceful life of heaven. The Lionheart would be happier skirmishing with the demons of Hell.

Robin withheld a smile, and shook himself to the present.

On the field, the squire Geoffrey lowered his lance and charged the quintain, thighs pressed firmly to guide his fine bay. He’d come to l’Aigle at twelve summers, a thin rail of a child, so much like his father at that age. He stood as tall as Robin now, strong as an ox, and turned many a young girl’s eye. His father Sir John, the man Robin would always call Little John, still towered above them both.

Geoffrey hooked the ring hanging from the crossbar. He cantered triumphantly to his audience at the edge of the tiltyard. The four young women there applauded, and where there could have been jealous rivalries over the coveted ring and the prospect of marrying a soon-to-be landed knight, there was none.

Geoffrey bowed to the ladies and tipped the lance towards Lucy, his betrothed. Robin exhaled, trying not to think about his daughter in Geoffrey’s arms, in his bed. Why did parenthood cause him more heart-pounding than riding into battle?

He smiled. It was a good match, and if Geoff was half the man his father was, he’d be a good husband to Robin’s daughter.

“Da—er, Sir Robin?” Richard called.

Robin signaled, and Richard spurred his new courser. The tip of his lance drove true, but Robin didn’t give his son a chance to enjoy the cheers from the onlookers. Robin charged, whipping his sword from its leather scabbard. He shouted a war cry.

Dropping his lance, Richard wheeled his horse round. The boys were accustomed to Robin’s tactics. Richard gripped his shield close to his body and drew his sword.

Robin came at him, sunlight glinting off his blade as he hacked downward. Richard caught the weapon on his own, the clang of steel ringing out over Robin’s war cries. At the fence, the ladies and other squires cheered.

“Well done,” Robin shouted, pivoting to face Richard. He swept his arm at the other young men. “What do you think? We’ve practice to do, none of this courtly tournament.”

The squires urged their stallions onto the field and faced off against each other. As they thrust and parried, Robin’s adrenaline roared. He watched, his heart heavy. He would prefer these young men had nothing but tournaments to fill their days.

Where to buy the book:

Available on Amazon:

About the Author:

Charlene Newcomb, aka Char, writes historical fiction and science fiction. Her Battle Scars trilogy is set in the 12th century during the reign of Richard the Lionheart. It’s filled with war, political intrigue, and a knightly romance of forbidden love. All 3 books are indieBRAG Medallion honorees; Book II is a Historical Novel Society Editors Choice, a finalist in the Chaucer Awards for pre-1750 Historical Fiction, and received an Honorable Mention from Writer’s Digest.

While medieval historical fiction has her under its spell at the moment, her writing roots are in the Star Wars Expanded Universe (now known as Legends) where she published her first short story in 1994 in the Star Wars Adventure Journal. She published a scifi/space opera, Echoes of the Storm, which was awarded 1st in category in the Chanticleer International Book Awards in 2021.

Librarian (retired).
US Navy veteran.

Mom to 3 grown, amazing people, grandma to 3 adorable boys.

She spends most of the year in Louisiana, but escapes summer heat and humidity visiting family in Washington and Colorado.

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