Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

'You are traitors!' a voice called from the trees. 'Master Robin sends his salutations and finds you guilty of divers crimes. Firstly, you should not have robbed without his permission. Secondly, you should not have been caught. And, thirdly, you should not be slinking like rats along a moonlit trackway. What did you tell the sheriff and his friends?'

Nym and his companion gasped in terror. 'We told them nothing!' 'Then, friend, walk on.'

The bowmen stood aside. Nym and his comrade took one step and another, then forgetting their injuries, began to hobble fast towards the end of the trackway. Behind them bow strings twanged and steel-tipped death, eight arrows in all, caught them in the back. Both men groaned, flailing out their arms, and collapsed on to the dry sunburnt grass, choking out their life blood. Behind them the outlaws slipped back into the trees, leaving the corpses sprawled bloodily under the moonlight.

Corbett woke early, still sweating after his nightmare. He had been standing on a red, dusty plain under black, howling skies, surrounded by thick green forests. At the edge of this stood a huge manor house built entirely of iron. In his nightmare Corbett walked towards it, noticing a shutter banging. As he approached, this was suddenly flung open. A hooded figure peered out, the cowl was pulled back, and Corbett stared into the narrow, red-bearded face of his adversary, Amaury de Craon.

'Welcome to Hell!' de Craon cried. 'What took you so long?'

After he had woken, Corbett lay for a while, wondering what the dream meant. He felt agitated and slightly anxious. He hoped that all was well with Maeve at Leighton Manor then recalled the fire arrows the night before and became aware of the date and how time was passing whilst he floundered about in Nottingham. Across the chamber, Ranulf lay sprawled on his bed sleeping peacefully as a baby. Corbett groaned, got out of bed, washed, shaved and dressed. He remembered de Craon from his dream, wondered if the assassin Achitophel was in Nottingham. He clasped his sword belt round his waist. A distant bell began to sound for morning mass so Corbett went down to the small bleak chapel where Friar Thomas, dressed in a black and gold chasuble for the Mass of the Dead, greeted him.

'I'm offering this for the souls of Sir Eustace and Lecroix.' He smiled at Corbett from the altar. 'May God take them to a place of light.'

A few soldiers from the garrison joined them. Friar Thomas made the sign of the cross and began mass. The service was simple and after the final benediction, as was customary at a Requiem, Friar Thomas recited the Dona Eis three times. Corbett listened to the words. 'Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.'

He remembered the friar's remark at the beginning of mass, about God taking the souls of the two dead men to a place of light, and thought of the three fire arrows he had glimpsed against the velvet night sky. Were those arrows a prayer for someone? Some form of tribute? Or a threat?

Corbett left the chapel and went up to Sir Eustace's room which Ranulf had sealed with Corbett's own insignia. He broke these off and went into the musty chamber, took a sheet from the bed, collected a few items and, closing the door after him, went back to his chamber. He was surprised to see Ranulf up and dressed and sitting beside an aggrieved-looking Maltote.

'So the messenger returns!' Corbett exclaimed, pushing the items he had taken from Vechey's room under his bed.

Maltote rose and limped towards him.

'For God's sake, man,' Corbett cried, 'what happened?'

'I went to Southwell as you said, Master.'

'And?'

'Guy of Gisborne kept me there.'

'Why?' Corbett gazed in astonishment at the bandage round Maltote's knee. 'Sit down and tell us what happened.'

'I'll tell you,' Ranulf spoke up. 'Gisborne has gone into Sherwood.'

Corbett closed his eyes and groaned.

'He moved his force in there last night,' Ranulf continued. 'They begin their hunt at daybreak. Maltote rode through the night to tell us the news. He found the castle barred so he stayed at The Trip to Jerusalem.'

'Why didn't Gisborne let you go immediately?'

'He knew you might stop him,' Ranulf answered for Maltote. 'That's why he detained him.'

Corbett went to stare out of the window. He recalled Gisborne's face: red, weather-beaten, with a flattened nose and eyes as hard as pebbles. An excellent soldier and a born fighter, Gisborne had performed many feats on the Scottish march and, if the clerks at Westminster could be believed, had a special loathing for Robin Hood. Gisborne had never accepted the King's granting the outlaw a pardon. However, if chancery gossip could be believed, whilst serving in Scotland, Edward had made Gisborne swear an oath over holy relics that he would never raise a hand against Robin Hood. When the outlaw returned to his depredations, Gisborne, a local landowner with considerable knowledge of Sherwood Forest, had immediately offered his sword to hunt the outlaw down. King Edward had refused but, after the attack on Willoughby, had ordered Corbett north. He'd also sent writs to Gisborne to raise troops but these were only to be deployed when Corbett gave his consent. But Gisborne had been cunning. He had taken Maltote's arrival as Corbett's tacit consent to move and, by detaining the messenger, made sure Corbett was in no position to object.

'Who else knows?' Corbett rasped over his shoulder.

'Sir Peter Branwood,' Maltote spluttered. 'The castle guard called him down immediately.'

Corbett pressed his hot cheek against the cold stone.

'And, of course,' he muttered, 'Sir Peter is furious at Gisborne's actions.'

'Worse,' Kanuit answered. 'He and Naylor have taken a small force out to the fringes of the forest – whether to assist Gisborne or stop him, I don't know.'

Corbett spun round, came back and glared down at the boyish face of his messenger.

'Couldn't you have returned earlier? And how were you wounded?'

Maltote looked at the floor.

'Two reasons,' Ranulf replied cheerily. 'First, he got drawn into a game of dice and lost everything. Secondly,' Ranulf clapped Maltote on the shoulder and grinned at Corbett, 'he tried to redeem his losses by accepting a challenge from an archer.'

Corbett gaped.

'You see,' Ranulf chattered on, 'our good messenger here shot one arrow, picked up a second, tripped over the bow and somehow or other,' Ranulf compressed his mouth to stop himself laughing, 'tripped and gashed his knee.'

Corbett stared disbelievingly at him. He would have given the young messenger his usual lecture about not touching any weapon but Maltote already looked so miserable. His face was pallid, emphasising the pock marks round his eyes, the legacy of an attack some months previously when Corbett had been hunting the insane murderer of London prostitutes. Corbett tapped him gently on the shoulder.

'Let's forget that. Listen, whilst Branwood is gone, I am travelling to Kirklees. Don't ask me why. Just watch what happens here. And, Ranulf, before you ask, I'll see your friend Rahere on my return.'

Corbett left the castle an hour later, Ranulf and Maltote seeing him as far as the Middle Gate. The clerk led his horse through the busy teeming streets of Nottingham, pulling a cowl over his head so as not to attract anyone's attention. In the market place he had to fight his way through the crowd watching a pack of snarling mastiffs snap at a great black bear. This stood roaring its defiance in a flash of ivory teeth and thrusting cruel paws which delighted the crowd and stirred the blood lust of the dogs. Corbett went down an alleyway near St Mary's church, looking for a scribe. A water-seller directed him to the other side of St Mary's and, as he passed the church steps, he stopped and cursed as he saw the naked corpses of the outlaws sprawled there. In accordance with city regulations, both cadavers had been stripped and placed on public view for anyone to recognise. The bodies lolled sideways in makeshift chests and Corbett saw the ugly purple-red arrow wounds in their backs. He breathed a prayer and pressed on.