Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

'Why are we watching all this?' Ranulf whispered.

'When punishments are carried out,' Corbett murmured, 'the low life always crawl from the gutter.'

Corbett's prophecy was proved correct: the flotsam and jetsam of Nottingham life appeared. The pickpockets or foists, the hookers, the night hawks, the cut-throats and the whores in their strange wigs and heavily painted faces. They stood round relishing the punishments whilst keeping a sharp eye for any unsuspecting victim. A group of retainers from a merchant prince's household, drunken and slobbery-mouthed in their stained livery, forced their way through, singing a raucous song. A pardoner screeched that he had one of the stones used to kill St Stephen whilst a hunch-backed harpist drew scraps of parchment from his jerkin and shouted that he had songs for sale.

'So the villains gather,' Ranulf observed.

'Study them carefully,' Corbett insisted, 'for those who seem sharp-eyed or wear wrist-guards.'

'You think outlaws from Sherwood would dare venture here?'

'It's possible. Remember the attack on the castle.'

Ranulf, who prided himself on spying out a villain in a crowded street, studied the mob carefully but saw nothing fitting Corbett's description. The punishments over, the crowd broke up, going back to the stalls. Suddenly, behind Corbett and Ranulf, a voice rang out.

'I challenge you, sirs. I, Rahere of Lincoln, Riddle Master and Keeper of Mysteries north and south of the Trent, from whom no puzzle is proof. I challenge you!'

Corbett and Ranulf turned round and stared at a young man wearing a long tawny robe lined with rat's fur over a blood-red shirt and Lincoln green hose. He stood on a barrel shouting out his challenge across the market place. He was sandy-haired and fresh-faced with cheeky eyes, pointed nose, and a voice which carried like a preacher's. He twirled a silver coin between his fingers as he repeated his challenge and Ranulf grinned. He had seen his type before – gentlemen of the road who could answer any riddle and pose another which would leave even the greatest scholar scratching his head for all eternity.

Ranulf stared at the young woman who stood next to the barrel, dressed in a brown smock with white lambswool fringing the neck and cuffs. Her face was hidden in a hood but suddenly she pulled this back and Ranulf's heart missed a beat. All mourning for the Lady Mary Neville abruptly ceased for this woman was breathtakingly beautiful. An oval ivory-skinned face, perfectly formed nose above full red lips, auburn hair under a white linen veil – and those eyes, ice blue with a touch of fire. Ranulf stared at the way the close-fitting smock pulled sharply across thrusting breasts. Her narrow, hand-span waist was circled by a silver cord and red leather boots peeped out from beneath the hem of her dress. She moved her hair from her face, the movement delicate and beautiful as a butterfly. 'You, sir!'

Ranulf tore his eyes away and looked up at the Riddle Master.

'Tell me any riddle and, within twenty beats of your heart, I will give you the answer or this coin is yours.'

'What happens if there are two answers?' Ranulf jested back, quickly nudging Corbett.

'As long as my answer's correct, the coin stays here.'

'What has two legs, then has three and eventually none?' Ranulf shouted, conscious of the crowd pressing round him.

'Why, a man!' the Riddle Master retorted quickly. 'For we are all born with two legs, then in old age we have three with a walking staff, and then in bed, as we die, none whatsoever.'

Ranulf grinned and nodded.

'Give me another!'

'A vessel there is that is round like a pear, Moist in the middle, coloured and fair. And often it happens that salt is found there,' Ranulf chanted.

'Very good!' the Riddle Master shouted. 'It's the eye of a man!'

Ranulf agreed then Rahere's face became serious.

'I'll buy you a flagon of ale, sir.' He glanced suspiciously at Corbett. 'But not for your sober-sided companion. Rahere the Riddle Master of Lincoln refuses to drink with a man who never smiles!'

Corbett shuffled in embarrassment and tugged at Ranulf's sleeve.

'Come on!' he whispered as others began to shout riddles. 'Let's go back to the castle.'

They fought their way through the crowd. 'Hey, Master Redhead!' Ranulf turned.

'Don't forget,' the Riddle Master shouted, 'my sister Amisia and I owe you a flagon of ale. You'll meet us in the taproom of The Cock and Hoop?'

Ranulf was about to shake his head but the young woman was smiling at him. He reluctantly turned away to follow his master through the crowd back into Friary Lane. They were almost at the foot of the crag, the great castle of Nottingham looming above them, when Corbett stopped.

'You'd best go back.'

'What do you mean, Master?'

'To The Cock and Hoop.' Corbett grinned. 'Ranulf, Ranulf,' he whispered, 'you can never resist three things: a goblet of wine, a game of dice and a beautiful face.'

Ranulf needed no second bidding and ran back down the lane. Corbett watched him go.

'It will do you good,' he shouted but Ranulf was out of earshot, already stopping passersby to ask them directions to The Cock and Hoop.

At last he found it opposite St Peter's graveyard. He burst into the musty taproom, bawling at the landlord for service whilst slipping him a penny to hire a table near the tavern's only window. Ranulf ordered a flagon of ale, sat and sipped its cool tanginess as he tried to control the flutter of excitement in his belly. He felt tired, slightly heavy-eyed, still agitated after the ambush in the forest.

'I hate bloody trees!' he muttered to himself.

He leaned back against the wall and watched a skinner, who sat cross-legged just inside the tavern door, neatly sewing together pieces of mole-skin. Ranulf closed his eyes. He could stand in a dark alleyway in Southwark and not turn a hair but that forest, with its green gloom and haunting sounds, would always unnerve him. He thought idly about the deaths in the castle and then that mysterious refrain contained in the cipher: Three kings go to the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers. 'If I could only unlock the secret,' Ranulf muttered under his breath. He thought of the Riddle Master, opened his eyes and grinned at the thought which suddenly occurred to him.

'So you have come for your flagon of ale?'

Ranulf looked up as Rahere sat down on the stool opposite, his sister just as quietly next to him.

'You move like shadows,' Ranulf remarked, extending his hand.

'Sometimes we have to. Your name, stranger?' 'Ranulf-atte-Newgate, servant in the retinue of Sir Hugh Corbett.'

'Never heard of him.'

Beside Rahere Amisia suddenly giggled, her eyes dancing in gentle mockery. Ranulf could barely look at her, she was so beautiful. Rahere snapped his fingers.

'Two flagons of ale, your best, and a glass of white wine -not from your slops and it has to be cool.'

The servile landlord wiped his sweaty face with his hand, bobbing up and down as if Rahere was some great lord.

'He knows you well?' Ranulf remarked.

'He should do. We hire his best chambers and he charges us well.'

'You make such a profit from your riddle-making?'

Rahere spread his hands and Ranulf suddenly noticed how one eye was green, the other brown with a slight cast in it, giving the Riddle Master a rather saturnine look.

'Every man likes a mystery, a puzzle, a riddle.'

The landlord hurried back with the ale and wine.

'Tell me,' Rahere tapped Ranulf's knee, 'where did you learn that riddle about the eye?'

'My mother told me it.'

Rahere leaned back and sipped from the tankard. 'You have never heard of it, have you, Amisia?'

'No, brother.'

The young woman's voice was soft and melodious, and as she sipped daintily from the cup Ranulf gazed hungrily at her. Everything about her was delicate and fine. She reminded him of a beautiful ivory statue he had glimpsed in the King's chamber. And those eyes… Never had Ranulf seen such fire in such icy blueness. He looked away and shook himself.