Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

The old priest shook his head.

'Only one favour or boon I ask,' he replied. 'If the outlaw is captured alive – and I repeat if – I would like to see him before any sentence is carried out. Now, listen.'

Father Edmund busied himself to hide his distress. He dug into his old leather wallet and brought out a small metal badge depicting the head of St James Compostela. He handed this to Corbett and smiled.

'When I was younger and much more nimble, I went to the shrine in Spain and brought scores of these back as proof. Show this to Naismith. He is the old steward of Locksley. He'll know that I sent you. God speed!'

Corbett thanked the priest, assuring him that he would try and grant his favour. He collected his horse and, remembering Father Edmund's directions, rode through the silent village. He followed the cobbled track which wound through the open fields to where Locksley Manor stood on the brow of a small hill. The mist began to lift, the sun strengthening. Nevertheless Corbett found Locksley Manor an eerie, ghostly place. The double wooden gates hung askew on their hinges, the surrounding wall was beginning to crumble, whilst the pathways up to the main door and the yards and gardens were overgrown by brambles and weeds. One part of the roof had already lost its tiles. The windows were firmly shuttered, the paint and wood on the outside beginning to decay.

Corbett left his horse to crop a small patch of grass which surrounded a disused fountain and hammered on the front door, shouting for Naismith. The sound echoed eerily through the empty house. Corbett thought the place deserted then he heard the shuffle of feet and the jangle of keys. Locks were turned and the door swung open. A small, squat, bald-headed man glared up at him.

'Can't a man sleep?' he bawled, scratching his pate, shiny as a pigeon's egg. 'I goes to sleep and wakes to hear a knocking as if Angel Gabriel is here. What's the matter? Is it the last trumpet?'

Corbett hid a smile and politely introduced himself, displaying the ring he wore and, more importantly, Father Edmund's metal badge. Naismith's watery, short-sighted eyes peered up at him.

'Not an angel,' he muttered. 'Perhaps a demon. You'd better come in! You'd better come in!'

Corbett followed him down the dank, dilapidated passageway. He noticed how the plaster on the walls was beginning to flake; the paving-stones underfoot were cracked; some doors were bolted whilst others hung askew. The manor house had been cleared of all its possessions, not even a stick of furniture or a tawdry arras remained. The walls were completely bare. Naismith led Corbett into a small buttery. The clerk gazed round and realised Naismith lived, slept and ate here for it boasted a small cot bed, chest, a table, stools and, rather incongruously, a high-backed chair, cleverly carved with a quilted leather backing and cushion. Naismith sat himself down in this as grandly as a prince.

'What do you want?' he asked guardedly.

Corbett explained and was pleased to see Naismith's hard face soften.

'Father Edmund's correct,' Naismith replied. 'God knows what happened to the master. He comes back from the wars tired and sickened of blood, yet still full of hope. He was only here a few hours then he says he's off to Kirklees. He wants to see the Lady Mary. So off he goes. He said he would return. He swore he would. He said he had gold to refurbish the manor.' Naismith slumped in the chair. 'But he didn't come back,' he continued weakly. 'I hears he goes to Kirklees then back to Sherwood where the killing began.'

'Did he say anything?' Corbett queried.

'He was bitter. Bitter about the King, bitter about life; sad he had left Mary but looking forward to meeting her and John Little at Kirklees. At first I thought that the Robin of Locksley I knew and the murderer in Sherwood were two different people, but they aren't.' Naismith got up and shuffled towards a small coffer. He brought out sheafs of parchment, greasy and finger-marked, and thrust these at Corbett. 'You see, Master, when Robin was in Sherwood he'd often send me messages. Of course, he was wary of any law officer trying to trap him here so we agreed he would always use a purple type of ink and seal each letter with his own secret mark.'

Corbett studied the manuscripts, some faded, others more recent.

'Was he literate?' Corbett asked. 'Could he read and write?'

'A little, but he always got some clerk to write for him. God knows, Master, there's enough wolvesheads, if you'll pardon my saying so, who began their careers in the halls ot Cambridge or Oxford.'

Corbett smiled and studied the scraps of parchment.

'And the secret mark?'

Naismith pointed to a small blob of wax on the corner of a manuscript. Corbett took this over to the light and studied it carefully. The wax bore the imprint, rather crude but effective, of a man standing, bow in one hand, arrow in the other. He knew such signets were common for landowners, even yeomen, had to certify documents and protect themselves against forgery.

Corbett quickly read the most recent messages, merely requests for Naismith to sell all the manor's moveables, both furniture and stock, and arrange to have the monies collected late at night.

'What happened?' Corbett asked. 'Did the outlaw return and collect what was his?'

'Sometimes at night. It only happened on two or three occasions. A man would arrive bearing a message from Robin, I would hand the money over and the fellow would disappear like some will-o'-the-wisp.'

'Why?' Corbett asked.

Why what?'

'Why would the outlaw sell everything he had here?'

Naismith shrugged as if past caring. 'Like Father Edmund, I am an old man,' he said. 'I have done what I can and can do no more. I have served this family since I could walk. If the master orders something, then Naismith does it. But, to answer your question bluntly, I don't think Robin of Locksley wishes to come back here.' Naismith shrugged and looked around. 'After all, the manor is not much: stables, some pastures, a little arable. Perhaps the master may go away.'

'And you can tell me no more?'

'What I know you now know, and that is the end of the matter.'

Corbett thanked Naismith, collected his horse and rode back to the trackway. The morning mist was now burnt off and the sun already felt hot on his back. For a while he listened to the sounds from the fields: the chatter of insects, the cries of the foraging birds, and the haunting, liquid song of the wood dove. Corbett stared round satisfied he was in no danger. His pursuer had either given up the chase or perhaps was waiting for another day and another place. He kicked his horse gently forward then stopped and stared back at the dilapidated manor. Everything pointed to Kirklees. Something had happened there which had tipped Robin of Locksley's mind into a maelstrom of murderous madness. A man devoted to revenge. But why? And how could Corbett trap him?

He sat chewing the quick of his thumb nail. It was already approaching the end of June. The King wanted a reply on the matter of the cipher in the next few days. Corbett felt uneasy. But how could he resolve it, keep himself safe from the assassin Achitophel and track down an outlaw who was as elusive as a shadow in the thickness of Sherwood Forest? He stared down at the ring on his finger. The King had given him one final choice.

'If you can't do it, Corbett,' he had roared, 'if you can't stop this bloody outlaw, then offer him a pardon, an amnesty for all crimes, provided he returns my taxes and pays blood-money for the men he killed!'

Corbett gazed unseeingly across the fields. Should he do so? A bird fluttered in a tree nearby, making him think about the great oaks and elms which surrounded Leighton Manor. A sudden thought made his heart jump. What if Achitophel was not tracking him? Perhaps the murderous assault at the tavern was the work of the outlaw, intent on killing Corbett as he had Sir Eustace Vechey? If that was the case where was the assassin? Was he in Nottingham? London? Or, even worse, out at Leighton Manor, perhaps threatening Maeve and his household? Should he go back there? Corbett kicked his horse forward.