Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

Corbett tried to reassure him but even as they entered the forest, began to share Ranulf's feelings. Sir Peter stopped in a small glade, sending forward scouts on either side of the trackway to search out any possible ambush. Then the whole column was ordered forward, swallowed up by the green darkness. They became acutely aware of the eerie silence. The sky disappeared. Corbett became conscious of every sound from the horses and men on the track and the darkness from the surrounding trees. The sweat broke out on the nape of his neck and he began to scrutinise the forest on either side, his imagination further agitated by the lack of bird song, the sound of bracken snapping and strange scuffling noises from the undergrowth. Corbett urged his horse forward.

'How deeply do we ride, Sir Peter?'

'Perhaps an hour, two hours. Then we'll swing round and march back. We are not hunting anyone.' The sheriff spoke as he too stared into the darkness on either side. 'We must show we are not just visitors from the castle.' He shrugged. 'Who knows? Perhaps we may be fortunate and flush something out of the undergrowth.'

The march continued, the scouts coming back occasionally to grip Branwood's horse and give him messages. Now and again they crossed a welcome glade where the darkness became less oppressive and Corbett recalled the stories people whispered: about the dark wood men, the small people, the eerie nightmare tales about goblins and elves. He was aware that he was in a world totally alien to his own. The King's writ or law had nothing to do with the forest. Corbett started, his stomach curdling with fear as a great stag, his horns high, burst out of the trees before him. The animal glanced arrogantly at the horsemen before quietly slipping away deeper into the forest.

Sir Peter held up his hand, the column stopped and he turned round.

'You see what I mean, Sir Hugh?'

He was about to continue when, from the dark depths of the forest, came the lilting, mournful blast of a hunting horn. The soldiers muttered, horses skittering with fright, and drew swords, the hiss of steel sounding unnaturally loud. Archers unslung their bows. The sound of the horn died away, only to be taken up again, this time closer, more powerful and from the other side of the forest. Arrows whirred round them. Sir Peter drew his sword. Corbett did likewise. Ranulf was almost wild with panic. Naylor shouted orders and the archers returned fire whilst the mounted men tried to protect themselves behind their long, oval shields. Ranulf dismounted and peered amongst the threshing horses.

'Nothing!' he yelled. 'I can't see any of the bastards!'

His shout was echoed by a whirring sound, like the wings of a swooping bird. A soldier stupid enough to lower his shield took a long, feathered arrow full in the chest and the still crisp air became filled with whirring winged death. A horseman fell, eyelids fluttering as the arrow pierced his throat just above his gorget. Corbett turned his horse round.

'Sir Peter!' he yelled. 'Quickly!'

He glimpsed shadows flitting through the trees. Corbett braved the whirring arrows, stood high in the stirrups and pointed. Branwood, his head encased in a great helm, followed Corbett's gaze.

'We'll be surrounded!' Branwood yelled.

He took off his helmet and ordered Naylor to blow three horn blasts, the signal for retreat. The column needed no second bidding. Ranulf remounted and followed Corbett back along the forest track, arrows whirling around him, one even bouncing off the high horn of Ranulf's saddle. Corbett's warning had been prophetic for the outlaws were drawing closer, trying to cut the column off completely. The sheriff's archers were also running or clutching the stirrups of the horsemen. The confusion was indescribable. One horse, maddened with fear, rose up on its hind legs, high in the air, throwing its rider into a clump of bushes. The fellow clambered to his feet to stand, rooted to the spot by panic, until an arrow caught him full in the mouth.

At last the column, in total disarray, managed to distance itself from the ambush. Sir Peter ordered a general halt except for Naylor who galloped back along the track to urge on the few stragglers.

'We cannot stop, Sir Peter!' Corbett gasped.

'We'll retreat in order,' the under-sheriff replied, nursing a small cut on the back of his hand.

Naylor returned. The horsemen threw a screen round the archers and Sir Peter led his bloodied, disorganised troop out of the thinning forest. They did not pause until they were clear of the trees and able to rest in a daisy-filled meadow. A quick count was made whilst soldiers staunched wounds and checked their equipment. Sir Peter sat morosely on the ground, holding the reins of his horse. Eventually he glared sourly at Corbett and Ranulf, still seated on their mounts.

'Master Clerk, you are not going to say I told you so?'

'How many men did we lose?' Corbett snapped.

'All in all,' Naylor replied, 'it could have been worse. One habelor, two archers and three horsemen are missing.'

Sir Peter cursed. 'Tell the men to lead their horses. We'll skirt the town and re-enter the castle by a postern gate.'

Corbett and Ranulf walked with the rest as Sir Peter's soldiers trudged back along the lanes, the horses blown and covered with foam. The men were in no better state. One was grievously wounded, the rest suffering from cuts and slight scratches. The injured soldier, an arrow embedded just below his knee, was forced to sit in the saddle, white-faced and swaying. He would have fallen off if his companion had not removed the arrowhead with his knife, cleansed the wound with some coarse wine and tightly bound the bleeding gash with strips of cloth.

Corbett was thankful to be unscathed. Ranulf seemed relieved just to be out of the forest.

'You look dreadful,' he whispered to Corbett and stared at his master's tousled hair and face scratched by overhanging branches.

'We could all have died!' Corbett exclaimed. 'That was stupid. What is more, it was no chance meeting. Those outlaws were waiting for us.' He raised his voice. 'Sir Peter!'

The sheriff joined him.

'That ambush,' Corbett said, 'who could have told them?'

Branwood shook his head. 'I don't know, Sir Hugh. But if I do find out, I'll tell you just before I hang the bastard!'

Despite Branwood's route, his return to the castle was observed and his disgrace noted. News of their defeat had somehow gone before and townspeople gathered on either side of the cobbled trackway leading up to the postern gate. Corbett bore it philosophically but he felt for the under-sheriff who couldn't fail to hear the sniggers and muffled laughter. Sir Peter's humiliation was complete. He rode more like a man being taken out to death than the King's representative.

Once back in the castle, Physician Maigret and Friar Thomas came down. The former attended the wounded whilst the friar took personal care of Sir Peter, leading him gently away, murmuring softly as if consoling a beaten schoolboy. Corbett threw his reins at an ostler and stood for a while with Ranulf watching the soldiers unsaddle their horses and stack their weapons. Once the news of their return and their losses had spread, the keening and mourning began. Corbett turned away in disgust.

'Come on, Ranulf. This is a royal castle in the King's shire of Nottingham, not some outpost on the Scottish march.'

They went back to their chamber where they washed and cleaned their own wounds.

'Discretion is the wisest course of action,' Corbett muttered, lying down on the bed. 'I do not think Sir Peter will wish to to see us today.'

Ranulf sat on a stool and chewed his lip.

'Master, who could the traitor be?'

'Anyone,' Corbett replied. 'Anyone in this castle who knew we were leaving. Sir Peter had to display his authority, but was it really worth it?'