Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

'Do you have any more such riddles?' Rahere asked. 'I tell you, Ranulf, we always buy a tankard of ale for the man who poses a riddle we have never heard and it's three years since I have done that. I'll take yours north,' he continued. 'We hope to spend Michaelmas at the court of My Lord Anthony de Bec, Bishop of Durham.'

'There is one riddle,' Ranulf hesitantly began. 'A secret saying.'

Rahere cradled the tankard in his hands and leaned forward, his strange eyes glistening with excitement. 'Tell me.'

'It's a saying which masks a secret.' Ranulf closed his eyes. 'The three kings go to the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers.'

Rahere pulled a face. 'Hell's teeth! Is that all?'

Ranulf shrugged. 'That's all I know.'

'Who contrived it?'

'I don't know,' Ranulf lied. 'But if you could resolve the mystery, or even point to what it means…' He opened his purse and put two silver coins on the table. 'Then these would be yours.'

The Riddle Master extended his hands. 'There, Ranulf, you have my bond.'

Ranulf shook it warmly, pocketed the coins and shouted at the taverner to bring more drink. He felt smug and satisfied, trying hard to hide his excitement. The Riddle Master might help. If he did, Ranulf would profit, and if he didn't, Ranulf would still profit: he was being given an open excuse to slip away from Old Master Long Face and pay court to the beautiful Amisia.

The following morning Corbett rose early. He stared suspiciously at the sleeping Ranulf. His manservant had returned the previous evening, slightly drunk, weaving his way down the corridors of the castle singing the filthiest songs Corbett had ever heard, and he had only with the greatest difficulty extricated Ranulf from a game of dice with some of the surly castle soldiers who were growing increasingly suspicious about his run of luck at every throw. The manservant now sprawled half-dressed, snoring off at least a gallon of ale. Corbett finished dressing, tiptoed out of the room and went down to the hall to break his fast.

Branwood, Naylor, Roteboeuf, Friar Thomas and Physician Maigret were already there. The under-sheriff was morosely chewing snatches of bread and sipping from a tankard. Corbett's salutation was greeted with mumbles and dark looks; the household was obviously still smarting over the previous day's ambush in the forest. Corbett sat on a bench next to Maigret and cut chunks of bread from a newly baked loaf. He felt refreshed and reflected on the recent attack.

'Strange,' he murmured aloud before he could stop himself.

'What is?' Naylor snapped, his pig-like eyes red-rimmed with tiredness.

'Yesterday in the forest those outlaws could have killed us all yet we escaped. It's almost as if…'

'They were sending a warning?' Roteboeuf finished the sentence.

'Yes.' Corbett bit off a piece of bread. There's something elusive there, he thought, like staring into murky water and glimpsing something precious lying on the bottom.

'Sir Peter,' he asked, 'do you wish the King to confirm you as sheriff?'

Sir Peter shrugged. 'That's the King's prerogative. He appointed me under-sheriff.' He smiled sourly. 'Perhaps he will insist I step into poor Vechey's shoes?'

Corbett nodded diplomatically and was about to reply when Maigret coughed and cleared his throat.

'I have been thinking over what you asked me, Sir Hugh, about Sir Eustace's death.' The physician's quick eyes darted around as if challenging the others to object. 'The poison,' he continued, 'may have been deadly nightshade or some potion distilled from mushrooms, those poisonous ones which grow under the oak and elm. They are most noxious, especially when picked under a hunter's moon.'

'Would they kill immediately?'

'If the potion was strong enough, yes.'

'Sir Peter! Sir Peter!'

All conversation died as a young soldier, a mere boy no more than sixteen summers old, his hair tousled, eyes staring in terror, burst into the hall.

'What's the matter, man?'

'I've seen them! Two of the men who went missing in the forest yesterday.' The soldier's voice faltered. 'They've been executed!'

Sir Peter sprang from the table, the others followed. Branwood ordered Roteboeuf and Maigret to stay in the castle.

'Sir Hugh! Father Thomas! Naylor!'

They hurried into the bailey where retainers were already saddling horses. The sheriff, shouting curses at the soldier, told him to take a nag from anyone and lead them back to what he had seen.

The sun had not yet risen but the grey-blue sky was lightening with streaks of red as they galloped out of the castle gates, down the winding path and into the still-sleeping town. Branwood rode like a man possessed and Corbett found it hard to keep up with him. He noticed with wry amusement that Father Thomas was a better horseman than Naylor who kept slipping in the saddle.

I wonder when Maltote will return? Corbett suddenly thought as they thundered past The Trip to Jerusalem into Friary Lane. Any further speculation ended as he tried to keep his horse away from the sewer and a watchful eye on the overhanging tavern signs and the gilded boards of the furriers, cloth-makers and goldsmiths. Thankfully few people were around and those who were flattened themselves against the walls as Sir Peter and his party thundered by. Shop doors abruptly slammed shut as apprentices, preparing the stalls for a day's business, saw or heard the horsemen and fled for safety. Two dung collectors, their carts half-full of stinking ordure, blocked the route until Sir Peter beat them aside with the flat of his sword.

The city gates were hastily opened and Branwood led them across dew-drenched fields, following the same track as they had yesterday which aimed like an arrow towards the dark sombre line of trees. Corbett's stomach lurched in fear. Surely, he thought, not back there?

'Sir Peter!' he shouted. 'What is this nonsense?'

Branwood failed to hear but spurred his horse faster. Corbett hung on grimly, then suddenly Sir Peter reined in, pulling his horse up savagely, shouting at them to stop.

'Well, where, man?' he bawled at the soldier, who looked as if the recent ride had jarred every bone in his body. The young man blinked and stared at the forest. He turned his horse to the side and galloped along the fringe of trees, Branwood and the rest behind. Abruptly the guide stopped and pointed a dirty, stubby finger.

'I saw them,' he gasped. 'I saw them as I came in after visiting my mother in the village.'

Corbett stared hard. At first he could see nothing then Sir Peter leaned over and clutched his wrist.

'Look, Sir Hugh!' he whispered hoarsely. 'Look at that tree, the huge elm!'

Corbett followed his gaze. The blur of white he had glimpsed before now became clear. Two corpses, their dirty white skin gleaming like the underbelly of landed pike, swung by their necks from one of the high branches of the tree. Friar Thomas pushed his horse further forward, Branwood and Corbett followed, whilst the young soldier leaned over his horse's neck to vomit and retch. The bodies were grotesque in death. They were naked except for loin cloths, their faces a mottled hue; half-bitten tongues protruded from swollen mouths, their staring eyes were glazed and empty.

'Two of the soldiers,' Sir Peter murmured, 'who went missing yesterday.'

The horses smelt the corpses and began to whinny and fret. Corbett turned away in disgust whilst Sir Peter began to roar out orders to Naylor to cut the men down and get a cart from the castle to bring the cadavers in.

'Let's return,' the sheriff moodily announced.

'I cannot,' Friar Thomas spoke up. 'I must visit my church. Sir Hugh, you will stay with me?'

Corbett readily agreed; Sir Peter at the best of times, was a graceless companion, but now he looked like a man awaiting condemnation. Friar Thomas murmured a prayer, sketching a blessing in the direction of the corpses, then led Corbett back to his small parish church. This stood about two miles from Nottingham on the road going west to Newark. Around the church were grouped the stone and wooden houses and tiny garden strips of the villeins and peasants.