Paul Doherty: Assassin in the Greenwood

Most of the talking was being done by a huge giant of a man whom the others called Little John. He apparently was the leader's lieutenant and had been absent from the attack on the convoy. He, too, wore a mask across his face, as did the woman on his right. She was dressed in a smock of Lincoln green; the hem hung high above her riding boots whilst the bodice was drawn tightly across her breast. She displayed no shame in the presence of so many men, noted the clerk. Around them outlaws talked and chattered; a few sang songs. The tax-collector's eyes grew heavy, the pain in his hand worsened. He gulped some wine to dull the pain. At last his eyes grew heavy-lidded with sleep and, despite the mocking calls of the outlaws, he folded his arms and stretched out on the grass, no longer caring what might happen.

He awoke the next morning, cold and damp, his mutilated hand throbbing with pain. The fire was no more than a smouldering mass of ashes. Willoughby looked around but the glade was empty. He picked himself up and walked across to the caves. He glimpsed rough, makeshift beds made out of ferns and branches. He looked around again, moaning as the pain in his hand flared back to life.

'Jesu miserere!' he whimpered. 'Nothing.'

Oh, there were scraps of food on the ground, and above him in the trees birds chattered angrily at being bereft of their spoils. Willoughby felt sick from pain and the coarse wine. For a while he knelt, sobbing for breath and retching at the bitter taste at the back of his throat. He heard a twig snap and looked up.

'Who is there?' he called.

No answer. Willoughby glimpsed a flash of colour amongst the trees but his eyes were blurred with tears after his violent retching. He squatted on the ground, head thumping and his body aching, his clothes all soiled. There was no sign of the outlaws. No indication, apart from the scraps of food and the smouldering ash, of their wild banquet the night before.

Willoughby sat cradling himself for a while. Again, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flash of colour but his mind felt battered and his body drained. He dared not concentrate. A ring of pain encircled his hand. He felt feverish and almost wished he had died quickly the previous day. A huge magpie, bold and daring, swooped from the trees and started pecking with its cruel yellow beak at a piece of fat-caked meat. Willoughby got to his feet and walked to the line of trees. He looked up. Once again, he caught the flash of colour and stared fixedly.

'Oh no!' he sobbed. 'Oh, Christ, have mercy!'

He fell to his knees and stared round. Other snatches of colour caught his gaze.

'Oh, you bastards!' he murmured, and then crumpled to the ground like a child, whimpering and crying. From the overhanging branches of the trees around the glade, every member of his retinue, stripped of clothes and boots, hung lifeless by the neck.

'Murder, Sir Peter, that's why the King has sent me north!'

Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King's Secret Seal, stared across the table at Sir Peter Branwood, under-sheriff of Nottingham, now acting-sheriff after the mysterious murder of Sir Eustace Vechey. Corbett propped his elbows on the table and ticked off the points on his fingers.

'The outlaw Robin Hood has reneged on his pardon. He has re-formed his coven of outlaws and wolvesheads and taken refuge in Sherwood Forest. From there he has attacked merchants, pilgrims, and finally royal tax-collectors. He has pillaged and plundered. Now he has murdered the King's officer in these parts! That, Sir Peter, is why I am here!'

The smooth-faced Branwood never flinched. He leaned his head on his hand and scratched his close-cropped dark hair.

'And you, Sir Hugh,' he said slowly, 'must realise that I would gain great personal satisfaction from capturing this malefactor. He has murdered my friend Sir Eustace, injured and killed retainers and officials from this castle. He hampers our administration. He has even attacked and pillaged my manor outside Newark on Trent, burning my barns and slaughtering my cattle.' Branwood licked his lips. 'He has brought my name into mockery and continues to harass and revile my office as well as the Crown.' He got up and went to look through one of the arrow-slit windows. 'Just look out there, Sir Hugh.' Corbett rose to join him.

'You see the castle and town walls – and what else?' 'Forest,' replied Corbett.

'Yes,' sighed Branwood. 'Forest! Are you a hunting man, Corbett?' He did not wait for a reply. 'Go in there as I have with mounted men, and within a bowshot of leaving the path you will be in a darkness so dense not even the brightest sun above can diminish it. Chase a deer and you'll find your skills hard pressed. Hunt an outlaw and you finish up hunting death itself.' Branwood walked away from the window. 'In Sherwood, Master Clerk, it is very easy for the hunter to become the hunted.' He rubbed his hands on his dark green gown and re-hitched the sword belt round his slim waist. 'The soldiers you take with you,' he continued, 'cannot be trusted. Some may well be in the pay of Robin Hood.'

He caught the disbelieving expression on Corbett's face.

'Oh, yes, there are sympathisers even here. How else did Robin Hood gain access to murder Eustace Vechey? This God-forsaken town and castle are built on a crag with as many secret tunnels and passageways as you'd find in a rabbit warren. Some of the tunnels reach the forest itself.' Branwood paused. 'Now let us say you do trust the soldiers,' he continued. 'Once in that forest, their mood changes. They are superstitious and fear the place. They still believe the small dark people live there who might cast spells and carry them off to Elfin Land. Three days ago…' He turned and pointed to his burly serjeant-at-arms, seated at the table. 'You tell him, Naylor.'

The serjeant-at-arms stirred; his black leather jerkin studded with steel points creaked as he moved his arms. His craggy face and balding head reminded Corbett of a piece of stone brought to life only by sharp, restless eyes.

'As Sir Peter says, we went into the forest.' The soldier glared coldly at Corbett. 'Within a quarter of an hour, the time it would take a man to snatch a meal, two of my soldiers were missing. Neither horses nor riders have been seen since. The following day Robin Hood himself entered Nottingham and impudently pinned a rhyming ballad on one of the postern gates of the castle about how Sir Eustace Vechey was well named – being useless as a sheriff as well as a man!'

Naylor's eyes moved from Corbett to the clerk's two servants, Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Maltote the messenger, who sat quietly at the end of the table.

'And how,' he sneered, 'does His Grace the King think a clerk and two manservants will resolve all this?'

'I don't know,' Corbett replied slowly. 'God knows, the King's mind is taken up with the French threat against Flanders but he cannot have his tax-collectors and soldiers hanged like barnyard rats and his sheriff mysteriously murdered.' Corbett spoke to Branwood. 'When did these attacks begin?'

'About six months ago.'

'And the robbery and murder of the tax-collectors?'

'Three weeks ago. A peasant found Willoughby wandering witless in the forest and brought him in.'

Corbett nodded and looked away. He had seen Willoughby in London. He would never forget that meeting. The once proud exchequer clerk was reduced to a shambling wreck. Dirty, dishevelled and ill-clad, Willoughby simply stared at his mutilated hand and recounted time and again how his companions had died. The King's anger had boiled over at the sight and Corbett had been forced to witness Edward in one of his black rages. He kicked furniture over, pounded on walls till his fists were bloodied, scattered papers from his table and dragged hangings from their hooks. Even the royal greyhounds had the sense to cower and hide. Corbett had effaced himself until the royal rage abated.