Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

'And the fair Amisia?' he interrupted. 'Have you seen her today?'

'No.' Ranulf grinned. 'Maltote and I were separating some of Sir Peter's soldiers from their coins.'

Corbett chewed his bread and half-listened as Ranulf gleefully described how some of Gisborne's foresters, after their return to the castle following their master's death, had boasted how easy it was to beat Maltote at hazard. Ranulf had been only too eager to put the matter straight with what he called his 'miraculous dice'.

Corbett had finished eating and taken out his writing implements when there was a loud knocking on the door.

'Come in!' he shouted.

A castle servant entered, a man Corbett did not recognise behind him.

'It's Halfan!' Ranulf exclaimed. 'The landlord of The Cock and Hoop.' His smile faded at the landlord's sombre look.

'He wants to see you,' the servant explained. 'Sir Peter Branwood told me to bring him here.'

'Very well,' Ranulf replied. 'You may go. Halfan, what's wrong?'

The taverner waited until the servant closed the door behind him.

'Master,' the landlord's eyes flickered, 'I have bad news!'

'What is it? The Lady Amisia?'

'No, no, the wench is well. It's her brother, Rahere the Riddle Master. He was found murdered this morning in an alleyway just off from the tavern. Someone had garrotted him.'

'What?' Ranulf sat down on a stool.

'Probably thieves,' the landlord continued. 'He always carried a heavy purse and this has now gone. They took his belt and boots. The rogues must have been stalking him from the market place.'

Corbett looked at Ranulf's white face and hastily refilled his cup.

'And the girl?' Corbett asked.

'As I said, she's safe. Hysterical, so I called the local physician who gave her some wine and valerian drops.'

Corbett remembered the bow string round Hecate the poisoner's throat.

'Come on, Ranulf, Maltote!' he urged.

He fairly hustled the taverner and his two companions out of the chamber and down the steps. Taking great care to stay away from the castle garrison, they slipped through the postern gate of the inner bailey and down into the town.

The Cock and Hoop tavern was quiet as they entered. The landlord explained that he had done the 'Christian thing' by having the corpse laid out in one of his outhouses for the coroner's visit.

'God knows what will happen,' the fellow muttered. 'The wench is almost witless and all the coroner could declare was murder by person or persons unknown.'

He led them across the cobbled yard, lifted the latch and took Corbett and his companions into a sweet-smelling stable. The man nervously lit oil lamps placed on the wall and pulled back the sacking covering the corpse stretched out on freshly laid straw.

'Two corpses in one morning,' Corbett muttered.

He knelt beside the Riddle Master, trying not to look at the blue-black face, protuberant eyes and tongue. He looked at the cord wrapped round the man's neck. Maltote had already backed out, his face turning a tinge of green, whilst Ranulf was caught between grief for his new-found friend and distress for the loss his sweet Amisia must now be suffering.

'It's the same,' Corbett muttered, getting to his feet. He carefully pulled the sheet back over the man's face.

The taverner extinguished the oil lights and they went back into the yard.

'Apart from Ranulf,' Corbett asked, 'did this Rahere speak to anyone else?'

'He was well known.' The landlord scratched his balding pate. 'But he kept to himself. Sometimes he would set us a riddle. He was always either here or in the market place. He did say he wanted to visit the castle, and on one occasion I think he left Nottingham.'

'When?'

'According to one of my customers, about three days ago. He left in a hurry but then returned.'

Corbett stepped back. Three days ago he had begun his journey to Locksley and Kirklees. He looked angrily at Ranulf.

'I told no one in the castle.' Ranulf was quick-witted enough to catch the drift of Corbett's thoughts. His eyes fell. 'Or here. Except Amisia.'

Corbett dug into his purse and brought out a coin which he flashed before the inn-keeper's shrewd eyes.

'This is for the corpse. A swift burial in a town cemetery. And this,' he plucked out a second coin, 'is permission to go through the dead man's baggage.'

The taverner needed no second bidding but took Corbett, Ranulf and a now gaping Maltote up to the dead man's chamber.

'It will be empty,' he explained. 'The wench, I mean the Lady Amisia, is in another chamber.'

Corbett thanked him. Once the taverner had disappeared, Corbett ordered Ranulf and Maltote to search the chamber and pile the dead man's belongings in the middle of the bed.

At first there was nothing: clothing, belts, baldricks, hose, change of boots, some spoons, a chased silver cup. But then Ranulf, eager now to make up for his mistake, pushed aside the bed and, using his old skills as a burglar, began to test the floor boards. He cried out in delight as he prised one loose and brought out a small coffer. It was no more than a foot long and the same wide, secured by three locks. Ranulf handed this to Corbett who, without a second thought, broke all three locks with his dagger. He then sat on the edge of the bed, sifting through the parchments.

'Ah!' Corbett put the manuscripts aside, grabbed his dagger and jabbed at the bottom of the casket, lifting the wooden slats to reveal a secret compartment. He plucked out a small medal and a roll of parchment which he quickly studied.

'Our friend Rahere was in truth a Riddle Master,' he commented wryly.

Corbett tossed the unfurled parchment at Ranulf, who scanned the Norman French: signed by William of Nogaret and sealed with the Privy Seal of France, the letter instructed all seneschals, bailiffs and officers in the kingdom of France to give every support to the King's most trusted servant, Rahere.

'It was dangerous to carry this,' he remarked.

'Not really,' Corbett answered. 'Many French merchants carry such warrants.'

He handed the medal over and Ranulf scrutinised the portrait of a king sitting on a throne.

'Who is it?' Ranulf asked.

'Philip's grandfather, the sainted Louis. To an ordinary English harbour official, such a medal would appear innocuous. However, they are only given to very trusted servants of the French King. If Rahere showed such a medal, together with that strip of parchment, he'd be allowed access to any castle or town, be able to draw monies or demand military support. Ranulf, your good friend Rahere, God rest him, was Philip's most trusted agent as well as that skilful assassin, Achitophel!'

Corbett perused more pieces of the parchment. 'And who would suspect a Riddle Master? I tell you this, Rahere or Achitophel, God damn him, was responsible for the deaths of at least a score of my agents. And if I carried out an investigation into the circumstances surrounding their deaths, I am sure some witness would remember that, coincidence upon coincidence, Rahere the Riddle Master was somewhere in the vicinity when they died. We always did wonder how Achitophel could not only kill people in France but also in England. Of course a travelling minstrel, especially a man of his skill, would be welcome anywhere.' Corbett laughed sourly. 'I wager there are at least six members of the King's own Privy Council who would be prepared to sing his praises, afford him protection, provide hospitality, write out safe conducts and references.'

'Well, how did he know you were in Nottingham?'

'Oh, I expect the Lady Maeve, perhaps Lord Morgan Llewellyn, the Earl of Surrey, even the King himself, has been skilfully approached by this trickster and handed the information over to him without a second thought.'

Ranulf, staring moodily at the floor, nodded and glared at Maltote who was softly tut-tutting under his breath.