Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

He led them across the taproom, down a small corridor and ushered them into a small parlour, a well-furnished chamber with tables and stools as well as a bed with clean linen sheets and bolsters.

'My special guests are always taken here,' the landlord explained.

Aye, Ranulf thought, noting the bed. Any young gentleman and his doxy.

'And what is your pleasure?'

'Two cups of watered wine,' Corbett replied. 'Perhaps some bread and cheese.'

'Your wish is my command. My own daughter will serve you.'

Bowing and scraping, the landlord backed out. Corbett and Ranulf sat down, grinning at each other. A few minutes later a slim, blonde-haired girl with the face and eyes of a spoilt angel brought in the wine and bread. Ranulf hastened to help her, whispering one compliment after another. The girl's blue eyes rounded in an affectation of innocence though this was betrayed by a lewd smile and the saucy pertness of her manner.

'We have heard of you,' she announced, stepping back and wiping her hands on a very rounded bodice. 'Friar Thomas says you ask a lot of questions.'

'And you are too saucy.'

An old man hobbled into the room. His lined face seemed to crumple round a huge nose; his eyes were small and rheumy and a blood-crusted patch covered the spot where his right ear should have been. He tapped the girl playfully on the rump.

'Come on, Isolda.' He nodded at the guests. 'Don't play the greenwood wanton with these gentlemen.'

'Shut up, Grandfather!' The girl's mouth pulled into a bitter line. 'Shame on you. I am not even allowed to go into Nottingham by myself, never mind the forest.'

She glanced quickly at Corbett but the clerk pretended to be more interested in his drink. Yet the old man had blundered, made a mistake, the first Corbett had detected since arriving in Nottingham. The old man hobbled out as quickly as he could whilst the girl fled back into the taproom.

'That was a mistake,' Ranulf breathed. 'Perhaps you should arrest her, Master?'

Corbett shook his head. 'I suspect, Ranulf, most of the cottagers and tavern-keepers around Sherwood know something about the outlaw. As Elias puts it, no outlaw worth his salt can move or travel without the connivance of innkeepers and, in this case perhaps, their daughters. But when we go fishing it's the trout we catch. We leave the minnows alone.'

Ranulf was about to object when suddenly there were shouts and sounds of commotion from the courtyard. Corbett heard the customers in the adjoining taproom fall quiet then begin an excited babble. He and Ranulf went out, forcing their way through the throng to see a group of mounted men-at-arms wearing the blue and silver livery of the sheriff. The day had grown hot so they had removed their heavy helmets. Corbett recognised Naylor as he bellowed for a cup of water and a stoup of ale, anything to wash the dust from his throat. The real focus of interest, however, was two men, their clothes tattered and weather-stained, faces and hair covered in thick grey dust. They crouched gasping on the ground, whimpering for relief from the cruel ropes tied around their wrists, the other end being attached securely to the saddle horns of Naylor's men. Corbett strode forward.

'Master Naylor, what is this?'

Naylor's face broke into a smile as he recognised Corbett.

'Two outlaws!' he bellowed triumphantly. 'I caught them red-handed with bows and quivers on the edge of the forest.'

'A surprise catch, Master Naylor,' Ranulf teased. 'They just walked up and surrendered?'

The serjeant-at-arms glowered back. 'No!' he rasped. 'They fell into a trap.' He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. 'One of my men posed as a traveller. These two creatures stopped him on the King's highway with bows drawn. The rest was simple. So concerned were they with plundering, we were upon them before they could recover their wits.' He turned and spat in the direction of the prisoners. 'Robin Hood's men!' he taunted.

One of the prisoners shook his head so Naylor yanked on the rope, pulling the man face down on to the sharp-edged cobbles.

Isolda ran up with a jug of frothing ale in each hand. Naylor drank both in noisy gulps, not caring that the ale ran down his chin and soaked his leather jacket. More flagons were brought for his companions as well as water for the horses. At Corbett's order Ranulf brought tankards of ale for the two prisoners and they lapped greedily, like panting dogs. Naylor watched surlily then put on his helmet, snapped his fingers, and the cavalcade left the inn, the two prisoners stumbling and cursing behind.

'We'd best follow,' Corbett whispered. 'I want to be present when Branwood questions these prisoners.'

They collected their horses and followed Naylor back into Nottingham. The serjeant-at-arms made no attempt to hide his triumph as he moved along the streets, across the crowded market place and up the steep rocky track to the castle gates. Every so often Naylor would stop to proclaim loudly that he had captured two outlaws and that both would swing from the gallows before the day was out.

The castle garrison was awaiting them. Sir Peter Branwood's face was wreathed in smiles. Roteboeuf and Maigret stood beside him, straining to glimpse the two outlaws, now bloody and covered in filth from the city streets.

'God bless you, Master Naylor!' Branwood clapped his hands and helped the serjeant-at-arms down off his horse, shouting for wine to be brought. 'And you, Sir Hugh. You can tell His Grace the King that we do have our successes against these wolvesheads. As well as poisoners,' he continued, lowering his voice. 'Believe me, sir, the city is well rid of Hecate.'

'A pity,' Corbett replied, throwing the reins of his horse to an ostler and peeling off his leather gloves.

'Why so, sir?'

'I believe the killer of Sir Eustace silenced Hecate to stop her chatter.'

'Who cares?' Branwood harshly replied. 'Sir Eustace's death lies at the outlaw's door. The bitch is dead and I will have a little more money to send to the King's Exchequer at Westminster.' He grabbed a cup of wine brought by a servitor, slurped from it and passed it to a grinning Naylor.

Branwood then went across to the two prisoners who seemed little more than bundles of rags as they sprawled amongst the shit and dirt of the castle bailey. He cruelly yanked back each man's head by the hair and spat in their faces. Then he straightened up and glared round at the castle servants, now thronging about: stable boys, ostlers, scullions and wenches from the kitchen.

'This day,' he bellowed, his dark face flushed with emotion, 'we have caught two of the wolvesheads!' Branwood grinned at Corbett. 'According to the law and its usages we will give them a fair trial. And then…' He spread his hands and a servant sniggered at the implications of his words.

Branwood spun on his heel and strode up the steps of the keep. The two captives were dragged to their feet, their bonds cut and, flanked by men-at-arms, were pushed roughly up the stairs after him. By the time Corbett and Ranulf entered the castle the trial was ready to begin. Roteboeuf crouched on a stool, his writing-tray in his lap. Sir Peter, eyes glittering, sat on a high-backed chair on the edge of the dais, Naylor and Physician Maigret standing behind. The two prisoners cowered before him like beaten dogs. Corbett kept in the shadows, an unwilling witness to the quick, brutal sham.

Naylor repeated the circumstances of the two men's capture, reporting every gesture and movement. Corbett half-listened, studying the two prisoners carefully. Before their capture the men's clothes must have been poor, little more than a collection of rags sewn together. When Naylor opened a leather sack and dropped their weapons to the floor, these proved to be equally pathetic. Both men had carried long bows yet they were old and split whilst their swords and daggers were of poor quality, dull and blunt-edged. Despite their skin being tanned by sun and wind, the prisoners were emaciated, certainly not outlaws who feasted on the juiciest portions of the King's venison.