Paul Doherty: Assassin in the Greenwood

'You are wrong, Branwood,' Corbett murmured. 'Robin of Locksley was an outlaw but he was also a dreamer, an idealist. He had a genuine love for the common man whereas you are a silent assassin, a conniving thief and a bungling traitor. You used your high office for cold-blooded murder as well as for the theft of the King's money. God forgive me! You are the only man I ever wanted to see die!'

'Take them away!' Lincoln ordered.

The soldiers pushed the three prisoners out as Lincoln went to the top of the table and filled wine cups. He brought one back to Corbett and thrust this into the clerk's hand, telling his soldiers to seal the hall doors. Then he stared round the assembled company.

'Robin of Locksley is dead. He deserved a better end, as did those others whom Branwood so coldly murdered. The traitor will stand before King's Bench at Westminster and his trial will be very brief. For the rest, you are bound to silence on what you have seen and heard tonight.' He sipped from the wine cup. 'Though I gather the truth will soon be out.'

Lincoln gazed round the sombre, shadow-filled hall.

'The King must come here,' he murmured. 'This place has to be purged and cleansed!' He summoned one of his household knights, whispered to him then glanced at the Prioress. 'My Lady, I will give you suitable escort back to your convent tomorrow morning. John Little, I suggest you stay in the friary with Brother William till fresh letters of pardon are issued. For the rest,' he shrugged, 'these proceedings are now finished. You are all free to leave.'

Corbett and Lincoln watched as everyone filed out of the hall, still subdued and shocked.

'You are probably right, Corbett,' Lincoln murmured. 'We'll find a great deal in the cellars. Perhaps tomorrow I will visit Sherwood myself and give the outlaws there something to remember, now they are bereft of their leaders.'

'The Blue Boar tavern?' Corbett asked.

Lincoln grinned. 'My mounted serjeants will meet you there before dawn. But, Hugh, listen. Why did Roteboeuf tell you about Scarlett?'

'They couldn't touch the old outlaw,' Corbett replied. 'He was wary and kept hidden by Holy Mother Church. So Branwood gambled. I was given Scarlett's name to see if the old friar knew anything as well as to depict Branwood as the righteously angry royal official!' He shrugged. 'Scarlett knew little but I glimpsed that huge gardener and began to wonder. Was he John Little, and if so why was he hiding? Had Branwood known of his presence, he would never have sent me there.'

'A ruthless man,' Lincoln murmured.

'Yes,' Corbett replied. 'Determined to play both roles. He even sacrificed his squire Hobwell to sustain the sham. It was all a sham,' he murmured. 'The Prioress was unwittingly dragged into it: she couldn't explain Robin's death or that of Marion so pretended they'd both fled back, to Sherwood. Branwood's depredations there only corroborated her story.'

'Well, it's finished,' Lincoln remarked. 'Branwood will go in chains to Westminster. Do you want an escort to London, Hugh?'

Corbett shook his head. 'Ranulf and I will now be safe. And besides, I must return to Locksley. There's one man, an old priest, who must be told the truth.' Conclusion

Smithfield Market in London was already hot and packed with people even before the bells of nearby St Bartholomew's Priory tolled for morning mass. The throng pressed in but not to attend the stalls and booths which had all been packed away. The crowds were drawn by the huge black scaffold set up in the middle of the market place, fascinated by the flames leaping from the massive copper cauldron and the grim, red-masked executioner. In one comer of the scaffold a huge post had been placed, a gibbet with a long rope dangling down; the executioner's apprentice was already setting up a thin narrow ladder in preparation for the grim ceremony about to commence.

Corbett was present, Ranulf beside him. Maltote had volunteered to look after their horses in nearby St Bartholomew's. All of London, even the great barons and ladies in their silks and costly raiment, had fought for a place. Corbett was there only at the King's express command.

'You will see the bastard die!' Edward had roared. 'You will be my witness! And die he will!'

The clerk lifted his face to catch the cool morning breeze. Corbett hated executions. He only wished he could collect his horse and ride past the Barbican north to Leighton Manor. However, the King had been most insistent. Naylor had already been hanged, drawn and quartered: his limbs, oiled and pickled, now hung over Nottingham's city walls as a warning to all would-be wrongdoers. Roteboeuf had been more fortunate: he had pleaded benefit of clergy, turned King's Evidence and been issued a pardon on one condition. He was to be denied food and water or any possessions and ordered to walk barefoot to the nearest port. There he would be exiled, forbidden to re-enter England on pain of death. His master Branwood had been tried before a special Commission of Justices. The former under-sheriff had arrogantly confessed to all his crimes, openly deriding the King. He'd passively accepted the sentence of the Chief Justice of King's Bench that he 'be taken to a lawful place of execution and there, at a time appointed by the court, hanged by the neck, cut down whilst still living, his body sliced open and disembowelled, his head to be struck off and his limbs quartered. The head to be set upon London Bridge and the quarters of his body sent to four principal cities of the kingdom'.

Corbett opened his eyes. 'I don't care what the King said!' he muttered out of the side of his mouth. 'Once Branwood is here, I'm leaving!'

Ranulf nodded absentmindedly. He was thinking of the voluptuous Amisia, now a moderately wealthy resident of the convent of the Minoresses, and above all of the King's fulsome praise of his work in breaking the French cipher. Ranulf closed his eyes and muttered a rare prayer. He only hoped Corbett had been right. All he could do was wait and see. The King, at Corbett's insistence, had closed all ports and limited sea passage to and from France. Accordingly, Philip would never know whether Achitophel had been successful or not. Nevertheless, the news from Paris was that something was about to happen. Jacques de Chatillon, Philip's uncle and commander of the French armies in Flanders, had according to one of Corbett's spies paid a quick visit to the Louvre Palace. He was now back on the French border. Edward's allies in Flanders, the mayors and principal burgesses of some Flemish cities, were beginning to report movement by French troops. Little news came, however, of Courtrai. Edward had held on to the secret as long as he could, his spies in Flanders reporting little or no activity in that vicinity.

Ranulf looked up as the crowd suddenly roared. A black-garbed, macabre procession preceded by a blast of trumpets entered the market place. Ranulf glimpsed the nodding black plumes fixed between the horses' ears. Two dark-garbed executioners, a host of city officials following, clustered round the ox-hide hurdle on which Branwood had been fastened. Royal archers went before, beating a way through. The procession stopped at the foot of the scaffold. Branwood was untied and, preceded by six tormentors dressed like devils, hustled up the steps.

Corbett took one brief look but Branwood was unrecognisable, hair and beard now straggly, his body one open wound from neck to crotch. Two of the tormentors pushed him to the railing of the scaffold for the crowd to glimpse, then back towards the ladder and the waiting noose.

'I have seen enough,' Corbett whispered.

Followed by Ranulf, he fought his way back through the crowd, into the cool darkness of the archway of St Bartholomew's Priory where a white-faced Maltote stood holding their horses' reins.