Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

Guy of Gisborne stopped and peered through the trees on either side. His red face glistened with sweat under his heavy iron helm and mailed coif. He smiled in satisfaction as he surveyed his line of foresters and verderers.

'I'll show the King,' he whispered, 'his sombre clerk and that bastard Branwood how to kill an outlaw!'

Gisborne's heart skipped a beat in pleasure at what he planned for Robin Hood. Gisborne detested the wolfshead with his much vaunted love for the common man, his consummate skill with a bow, his knowledge of the forest and, above all, the way he had on several occasions tricked and ambushed Gisborne himself only to receive the King's grace and favour.

Gisborne ground his teeth and winced in pain at an abscess high in his gum. He had been forced to watch Robin Hood become a member of the King's own chamber, stroll like any lord through the streets of Nottingham or amongst the silken pavilions of Edward's generals in Scotland. Gisborne had seen how the King had favoured the outlaw, granting him special privileges, using the outlaw's skills as the English hunted the Scottish rebel leader Wallace through the wild glens and woods of Scotland. But now Robin had returned to Sherwood. Gisborne forgot his pain for this time the outlaw had put himself beyond the law, stealing the King's taxes and executing his officers as if they were common malefactors. Today would be different. Gisborne would hunt the outlaw down, but not with an armed band of knights, clattering like a peal of bells through the forest. These verderers and foresters would flush out Robin as they would a hart or a wild boar. Gisborne would trap him, mete out punishment, then tie him to the horn of his saddle and ride the wolfshead naked through Nottingham so all could see Gisborne's glory and the outlaw's downfall.

'Sir Guy? My Lord of Gisborne?'

Guy glanced sideways at the dark, elfin face of his chief huntsman, Mordred.

'My Lord, you are pleased?' 'Your lord is pleased.'

Gisborne stared into the green darkness ahead of him. He couldn't position the sun but guessed it was past midday and already he was driving bands of outlaws deeper into the forest. A mile on either side of him, lines of well-armed huntsmen prepared to close the next net. Gisborne had deployed his soldiers like the horns of a bull, sweeping the dirt and refuse of the forest before them. Sooner or later he would flush out Robin Hood and trap him against a marsh or rocky escarpment. Or, better still, out in the open countryside where Gisborne's horsemen would seal the trap. Guy rocked himself to and fro as he peered through the surrounding forest. He had spent every penny he had on this venture but the King would repay him and Branwood would have to eat the dust from his cloak.

'My Lord of Gisborne?' Mordred spoke up again.

Sir Guy caught the note of anxiety in the man's voice.

'What is it, man?'

'My Lord, we are moving too fast.'

'Good. It will give the outlaws little time to re-group.'

'Sir Guy, I beg you, the outlaws are fleeing but could be leading us into a trap.'

'Nonsense!' Gisborne snapped. He gripped his sword tighter. 'Give the order to advance!'

'My Lord…' Mordred's words were cut off.

Gisborne angrily raised his horn, giving three long haunting blasts, and then ran forward in a half-crouch.

They came to the edge of a glade. Mordred scrabbled at Gisborne's arm but the knight shrugged him off. He felt the blood beat in his temples. He ran across the sun-dappled grass, Mordred and the others loping beside him. In the dark greenness before them, a single horn blast greeted them. Mordred and the foresters stopped. Sir Guy ran on. Another blast of that horn, sombre, sinister, and the air was full of speeding death. The grey, goose-quilled arrows fell like a silent deadly rain. Mordred saw men to his right and left drop, kicking and spluttering, as arrows took them in the throat and chest.

'Sir Guy!' he screamed.

But Gisborne ran on. Another flight of arrows. Now the glade was full of screams. Men sprawled on the ground, jerking in their death throes, dark bloody pools glistening on the green grass. Mordred raised his own horn. One shrill blast and his men fled back into the shelter of the trees. Sir Guy, however, charged on, forcing his way through the bracken on the other side of the glade, his sword held out in front of him. No arrow hit him. He felt protected, a sure sign that God's favour was with him. A hooded figure, face masked, stepped out from behind a tree.

'Welcome to Sherwood, Sir Guy!'

Gisborne turned, his mind seething with fury. He half-lifted his sword and ran, shouting curses at this man who had taunted him for years. Gisborne's foot caught a root and he fell headlong, sword flying out of his grasp. He stared up at the cowled figure bending over him. Gisborne's lips curled in a smile.

'You!'

It was his last word. The dark figure raised his sword then brought it crashing down on the line of exposed flesh between Gisborne's coif and hauberk.

Corbett reached Locksley later that evening, a small hamlet with barn-shaped buildings on either side of a dusty track, a village green, communal well and rough makeshift church, the simple thatched nave built alongside a rough-hewn tower. Corbett stopped at the ale house, a stone-built cottage with a stake hooked under its eaves. The ale wife, a slattern with shifty eyes and dressed in a greasy smock, served what she termed 'freshly brewed ale'. The other villagers sipped their beer and gawked at this stranger before returning to listen to one of their number recount how he had seen a demon on the edge of the forest, a shadowy form with a face of glowing iron.

Corbett half-listened to the tale as he sat on a bench and watched the door of the ale house. Since leaving the pilgrims just south of Haversage, he believed his mysterious, murderous pursuer had given up the chase but wanted to be sure. He had ridden thirty miles and was saddle-sore, his horse nearly blown, and he was reluctant to spend the night out in the open. The clerk's eyes grew heavy and he dozed, to be woken by a rough hand shaking his shoulder. Corbett jumped, hand going to his dagger, but the man standing over him was old and venerable, his face thin and ascetic though his eyes were smiling and his manner friendly.

'You are a stranger here?' The voice was soft, burred by a strong accent.

Corbett saw the tonsure on the man's pate, the black dusty robes and sandalled feet.

'You are a priest?'

'Aye, Father Edmund. This is my parish, for my sins. I have served the church of St Oswald for many a year. I was told there was a stranger here so I came down. I thought perhaps you were…'

Corbett, fully awake, gestured to him to sit on the bench.

'You want something to drink, Father?' 'No, no.' The man patted his stomach. 'Never on an empty belly.'

'Who did you think I was, Father? Someone from Robin Hood's band?'

The priest gripped Corbett's wrist. 'Shush!' Father Edmund threw a warning look at him and glanced quickly round the tavern to see if anyone else had heard his words.

'Who are you?' the priest muttered.

'My name is Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King's Secret Seal.'

The priest's eyes widened. 'So it has come to this,' he murmured.

'To what, Father?'

'No, come with me.' The priest stood up. 'You haven't eaten and I suspect you haven't a bed for the night. I can give you some broth, bread which is soft, a bed that is hard, and wine which perhaps has seen better days.'

Corbett grinned and got to his feet.

'In the circumstances, Father, your offer is princely and generous.'

They went outside. Corbett unhitched his horse and followed the stoop-backed priest through the gathering darkness towards the church. The priest's house was a red-tiled, yellow-brick building standing behind St Oswald's, separated from it by the cemetery, hather Edmund helped him stable his horse in one of the outhouses, sending his own nag, a broken-down hack, to graze amongst the tombstones whilst he brought water, oats and fresh straw for bedding.