Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

'Do you have any information about the wolfshead known as Robin Hood?' Branwood shouted at them.

Both men shook their heads.

'We are landless men,' one of them spoke up. 'We were starving.' He moistened his cracked lips. 'So we came south to live in Sherwood. We know nothing of the outlaw.'

Naylor sighed. Rubbing the side of his face, he walked off the dais towards the two prisoners who cringed as he approached. The serjeant-at-arms stood before them, legs apart.

'My Lord Sheriff,' he said evenly, 'asked you a question. You are to tell him the truth, not lies.'

'We do not lie,' one of the prisoners replied, squinting up at Naylor through bruised, half-open eyes. 'We tell the…'

His words were cut off as Naylor smashed him in the mouth and turned back towards the dais.

'My Lord Sheriff,' he commented, 'perhaps a stay in the dungeons might loosen their tongues?'

Branwood nodded. 'Take them away!'

The two men were hustled out, Naylor following. Branwood got up and came towards Corbett.

'A good day's work, Sir Hugh.'

Corbett stared at the sheriff's thin, dark face and noted the cruel malice in his bright shining eyes. You are obsessed, Corbett thought, you hate Robin Hood.

'Torture, My Lord Sheriff, is not permissible.'

'These are outlaws, caught red-handed! They are judged utlegatum, beyond the law.'

'Oh, I agree they are outlaws,' Corbett replied. 'But nothing to do with Robin Hood.'

Corbett was surprised at how speedily anger replaced the gleam of triumph in Sir Peter's eyes.

'What do you mean?'he spluttered. 'What proof do you have?'

'No real proof,' Corbett replied slowly, watching one of the castle cats leap on to the great table and push his nose into Branwood's cup. 'No proof, just a feeling.' Corbett shrugged. 'These men are fools, acting by themselves. Naylor was almost allowed to take them.'

'They are Robin Hood's men.' Branwood grinned. 'You will have the proof!'

He stormed out.

Corbett pulled a face and tugged at Ranulf's sleeve. 'Let's just watch this for a while.'

They followed Branwood down the steps into the dark runnel of dungeons beneath the keep. The stench was offensive and dirt from the passageway slopped over the edge of their boots. On either side were heavy oaken doors with small grilles in the top. Mad eyes stared out from behind these.

Branwood led them, turning and twisting, until they came into a large chamber, black as night despite the torches fixed to the wall and the huge glowing bowls of charcoal. Naylor and others from the castle garrison were stripped to the waist and already their bodies gleamed with sweat. Against the far wall were the two prisoners.

Ropes had been lashed round their wrists and ankles then looped into iron rings fastened to the wall. As Corbett entered, one of the half-naked torturers grunted an order. The soldiers pulled vigorously down on the rope and both prisoners screamed as their arms were stretched to breaking point. The soldiers then went to the blazing bowls of charcoal and picked up glowing piles with their pincers. They shuffled back to the prisoners and pressed the flaming pieces against stomach, chest and armpits. The prisoners screamed, their bodies jerking and dancing against the wall until they became unconscious.

Ranulf swore under his breath. Corbett felt queasy. Branwood spun on his heel and walked away as Naylor ordered buckets of water to be thrown into the prisoners' faces. The men were roused and the torture recommenced. In between the ominous shuffling of the torturers, Naylor would approach both men and press his mouth against their sweat-soaked ears to ask them questions.

'Stop it!' Corbett ordered.

Naylor spun round.

'I am ordering you to stop it!' Corbett snapped, sickened by the gleam of pleasure in the burly serjeant's eyes. 'I take my orders from the sheriff.'

'You'll do what I damned well say!' Corbett roared. 'I act for the King in this matter!'

'You heard him, fellow,' Ranulf added sweetly, drawing his dagger. 'Either you do it or you're guilty of treason.'

Naylor was about to protest but Ranulf took one step forward and the serjeant-at-arms changed his mind. He grunted an order and the two prisoners were cut down. They slumped to the ground like piles of rags.

'I want them taken to a dungeon,' Corbett ordered. 'One of the cleanest in this muck pile. I need a wineskin, two cups and a bucket of cold water.'

Again orders were issued and Naylor hurried off.

'Wait for it,' Corbett whispered.

Sure enough there was a clatter in the corridor outside and Branwood hurried into the torture chamber.

'Sir Hugh, what are you doing? These men are to be tortured and then hanged after Friar Thomas has shriven them!'

'Sir Peter,' Corbett said tactfully, 'you are the King's under-sheriff but I am his commissioner. There are more ways than one of killing a cat. Naylor has had his way. If he continues, these men will soon be dead. Now I am going to have them taken to a dungeon where I'll question them closely. When I have finished, if they are still lying, you can have them hanged, drawn and quartered for all I care. However, if they tell the truth, I'll issue a pardon.'

Branwood's face relaxed. 'Have it your way,' he muttered.

Corbett returned to the castle bailey for some fresh air. He noticed how restless Ranulf had become.

'What's the matter, man?' he snapped. 'Are you missing your lady love?'

Ranulf looked down and shuffled his feet. 'He wants to meet you.'

'Who does?'

'Rahere the Riddle Master.' 'Ranulf, what have you promised?' 'Nothing, Master, it's just that…' 'He would like an invitation to the King's Crown Wearing at Yuletide?' 'Yes, Master.'

Corbett turned away. 'For God's sake, Ranulf, we have enough on our minds. Tell him I'll meet him soon. Perhaps we can share a bowl of wine. But at the moment…'

Ranulf knew when to cut and run; the words were hardly out of Corbett's mouth before he was hurrying away, back up to his chamber to rub fresh oil into his face as well as search for a small bottle of perfume he had been hoping to sell. He had bought it from a high-class courtesan in London.

'A concoction of ass's milk, balsam and rare ointment,' the woman had lied. 'I bought it from an Egyptian who said it was the same unguent Cleopatra used to rub into her body.'

Ranulf searched amongst his untidy belongings until he found it, his excitement increasing as he thought of the lovely Amisia letting it drip between her ripe, full breasts.

Whilst Ranulf prepared himself, Corbett returned to the dungeons. A surly Naylor showed him to the cell where the two prisoners, their hands and feet shackled, lolled side by side on a bed of filthy straw covered by a threadbare blanket. Corbett asked for a stool and, when it was brought, ordered Naylor to leave them alone. He then pushed the bucket of water nearer the men. They were conscious but in sore pain, groaning every time they moved. Corbett splashed water over their faces, filled the two tin cups full of wine and pushed them into their bruised and eager hands.

'Drink,' he said. 'It will dull the pain.'

Both men gulped. Corbett re-filled the cups.

'You are going to hang,' he began softly. 'If you survive the torture, Branwood will tie a noose round your necks, fasten one end of the rope to a hook and kick you both over the castle walls. Do you want to die like rats on a farmer's line?' He showed them his ring bearing the Royal Arms of England. 'My name is Sir Hugh Corbett. I am Keeper of the King's Secret Seal. I have the power of life and death over you. If you tell the truth, I'll have you pardoned and released. If you lie, you'll both be dead by sunset.' He refilled the cups as the men shuffled and looked at each other. 'Now, you are Robin Hood's men?'