Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

Ranulf leaned back on the bed and groaned.

'Achitophel,' he murmured, 'an assassin in the castle, outlaws in the forest, the King screaming about a cipher no one understands!' Ranulf raised his voice. 'The three kings go to the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers.' He closed his eyes. 'Hell's teeth, Master!'

'But let's leave that,' Corbett replied briskly, getting to his feet. He took out his writing implements, smoothed out a piece of parchment on the table and pulled the candle closer. 'Improve your reading, Ranulf. Tell me again what the clerk at Westminster wrote about Robin Hood.'

Ranulf sat up and unrolled the parchment Corbett had given him, studying it carefully with lips silently moving. Ranulf was proud of his ability to read and never lost an opportunity to demonstrate his skill to his master.

'Sir Peter Branwood has already told us most of it,' Ranulf began. 'The outlaw was born Robin of Locksley. At the age of sixteen or seventeen he fought with Simon de Montfort against the King.'

'Stop!'

Corbett raised his face from the parchment and stared at the sliver of night sky through the arrow slit window. He felt uncomfortable. At Westminster the King had glossed over this. Was there something Edward hadn't told him? Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, had forty years ago led a most serious rebellion against the King. De Montfort, who had owned lands around Nottingham, had only been defeated after a bloody battle at Evesham. Was Robin Hood nurturing old grievances?

'How old does that make Robin now?' Corbett abruptly asked.

Ranulf screwed up his eyes in concentration. 'Evesham took place in 1265 so the outlaw must be in his mid-fifties, about fifty-five or fifty-six.'

'Mm!' Corbett mused. 'Old, but there again, the King and his generals are much older and quite capable of leading the most taxing campaigns in the wild glens of Scotland.'

Ranulf shook his head. 'What I can't understand, Master, is that according to what this clerk has written, Robin Hood was an outlaw who preyed only upon the rich. He was well known for his generosity, especially to the poor who openly supported and protected him. True, he did fight pitched battles in the forest but never once did he engage in wanton killing or secret assassinations such as the murder of the tax-collectors and poor Vechey. So why now?'

'Perhaps his mind has turned?'

Ranulf wearily threw the parchment back on the bed.

'Master, I am tired. This day has been long enough.'

He began to undress and Corbett, feeling his eyelids grow heavy, did likewise. He blew out the candles and lay for a while staring into the darkness. Images pressed in on him. The cipher, Maeve's face as she said farewell, the old King shouting in his fury, Lecroix swinging by his neck from that beam and Vechey's corpse lying cold and forgotten in the death house. Outside a dog howled at the summer moon and bats flitted against the castle walls. From a nearby stand of trees an owl hooted mournfully. Corbett shivered, rolled over and fell asleep wondering what tomorrow would bring.

Just outside the castle, Achitophel the assassin sat drinking in The Trip to Jerusalem. The murderer steeped in the blood of Philip's opponents carefully sipped his wine and stared round the crowded tavern full of soldiers and servants from the castle. Achitophel kept in the shadows. He stared through the open window at the dark mass of the castle and carefully plotted Corbett's death.

The next morning Corbett and Ranulf breakfasted on ale and a loaf of bread fresh from the castle bakery then went down into the courtyard. The sky was overcast with thick black clouds massing, threatening rain. Branwood joined them, dressed in a chain-mail jacket with its coif pulled over his head. He cradled a visored helmet in his arms.

'I hope it doesn't rain,' he moaned. 'If it does we will have to turn back.'

'Is this wise?' Corbett asked. 'Again, yes. We have no choice.'

A soldier came running down the keep steps carrying a small banner displaying Branwood's coat of arms.

'Even if the townspeople see that we can enter the forest and return, it will be a victory.'

Branwood turned and shouted orders. The courtyard became a milling hive of activity as grooms edged horses out, men mounted and serjeants-at-arms ensured all equipment was ready. Wives holding children came to bid farewell. Corbett reckoned that their force was about thirty mounted men and the same number of archers. At last, Sir Peter shouted the order to move.

Naylor blew a shrill blast on a horn, the gates swung open and they left the castle, taking the winding route down under the gatehouse, through Brewhouse Yard into Castle Street then up Friary Lane which led to the market place. Sir Peter rode in front, Corbett and Ranulf behind whilst Naylor went up and down the column to maintain good order. As they passed the townspeople some looked surly but most shouted good wishes and Corbett gathered that Branwood was, despite his office, fairly popular in the town.

They entered the market place, past the houses and stalls of the Guild of Poulterers now preparing for a day's busy trade: feathers floated in a soft breeze and women and children plucked carcasses. These were handed over to the apprentices to be slit and gutted before being washed in huge vats of scalding water and hung over the stalls for sale; beggars and dogs fought for the giblets tossed into dirty puddles.

Two children screamed with delight as they tried to ride a pig. A dog bit one of the children and was immediately chased, howling and yelling, into Branwood's column of archers where it received further punishment before escaping up an alleyway. A group of wild men, garbed in rags, their faces painted brown and green, performed a strange dance around the skull of a goat impaled on a rod. They ignored Branwood's order to clear the way and only retreated when Naylor advanced on them with drawn sword. The column crossed the cobbled market place into the streets leading down to St Peter's Gate where the crowds became more dense and the air stank with the odour of stale sweat as citizens moved from stall to stall, bartering noisily with the tinkers, apprentices and journeymen.

For a while the column had to pull aside as a herd of cattle, lowing with fright, were driven up towards the slaughter houses. These were followed by a cleric who had been caught with a whore and was being led through the streets for public humiliation. Both the man and his paramour had been stripped just short of decency, tied back to back, and were now being paraded through the city by two grinning beadles. The soldiers joined in the laughter then turned to watch as a madman jumped on a haberdasher's stall. The fellow wore a pair of dirty, makeshift boots and a ragged gown and carried a large ash pole. His eyes, wild as an animal's, scrutinised the soldiers as he loudly declared that he was the Angel Gabriel sent by God to warn them of impending judgement. The soldiers did not believe him and the 'angel's' important message was drowned in cat-calls and jeers. Naylor, an iron helmet on his head, the broad nose-guard almost obscuring his face, screamed for silence and, going ahead with drawn sword, began to force a way through the crowd.

At last they reached the city gates and the column debouched on to the white, dusty track which wound between the broad fields beyond the city wall. Ahead of them lay the fringe of Sherwood Forest, its dark greenness almost touching the lowering black clouds. Corbett glanced across at Ranulf and noticed how hollow-eyed his servant looked, his face pale with anxiety.

'You slept well, Ranulf?'

The manservant turned and spat.

'A little trouble. I hate forests,' he muttered. 'The darkness, the noises. Give me Southwark's alleyways any day.'