by Paul Doherty
The whole convoy was turned round and forced to retrace their tracks for a while before the horses were unhitched, their chests taken from the wagons and the long line of outlaws, their prisoners and the gold, disappeared into the green darkness.
Willoughby had never been in a forest so dense. The trees closed in, blocking out the sun. All the clerk could do was trudge helplessly, following his captors along a trackway known only to them which ran between the trees. Only once did they stop to slake their thirst at a small brook, then the march continued. One of the carters, who had bravely stumbled on despite an arrowhead in his thigh, eventually collapsed. The outlaw leader whispered quietly to him. The carter smiled. The outlaw went behind him. Willoughby saw the glint of a knife. He heard a hissing sound and the carter writhed as his life blood spurted.
The day drew on. Darkness fell but the march continued. Now and again they crossed an open glade. Looking up, Willoughby glimpsed the star-studded sky and a hunter's moon. The undergrowth came to life with the sounds of small animals. Now and again an owl softly swooped to its prey which shattered the silence with a terrible scream.
At last, as Willoughby thought he could plod no further, the line of trees broke and they entered a broad moonlit glade. Pitch torches had been lit and fastened to poles dug into the earth. Willoughby looked around. At one end of the clearing rose a huge escarpment of rock, the caves at the base probably serving as living quarters. Near these a huge fire was being lit, logs being thrown on by other outlaws who greeted their fellows with cheers and the prisoners with derisive calls.
'Guests for our banquet!' one shouted.
He came up, face covered in dirt, and peered at Willoughby.
'Rich venison!' he muttered. 'The King's own deer. Look.' He pointed to where a fat buck was being gutted and cleaned by a nearby stream in preparation for roasting. The outlaw leader approached.
'The banquet is for you, Master Tax-collector!'
'I will not eat with you,' he replied.
Immediately arrows were notched to bows.
'You have no choice,' the outlaw leader challenged.
'What is your name?' Willoughby asked.
'Oh come, sir, you know my name and my title. I am Robin Hood, Robin of the Greenwood, the Great Wolfshead, the Master Archer.'
'You are a murdering knave!' retorted Willoughby. 'And a liar to boot. You took the King's pardon. When you are caught, you will hang!'
The outlaw leader stepped closer and grasped Willoughby by the wrist. The tax-collector flinched at the hate-filled eyes behind the mask.
'This is my palace,' the wolfshead continued. 'This is my cathedral. I am King of the Greenwood and you, Master Tax-collector, are my servant. You need to be taught the due respect owing to me. Take his hand!'
Immediately three outlaws sprang forward and, before the tax-collector could resist, thrust his open hand against a tree trunk, splaying out his fingers. The outlaw leader, humming a tune, drew his dagger and neatly sliced off the top of the tax-collector's fingers. Willoughby, screaming in agony, collapsed on to the grass. Blood pumped out from the stumps, covering his robes with small pools of glistening red.
The outlaw leader strode away and returned, bearing a small bowl filled with black tar. Willoughby's hand was grasped again as the man styling himself Robin Hood coated the stumps with hot tar.
Willoughby could bear no more. He closed his eyes and screamed himself into a dead faint. When he recovered the pain had receded to a savage ache. The tax-collector, holding his damaged hand against his chest, stared round the glade. The chests taken from the carts had now been emptied and were being thrown on to the roaring fire. The horses had disappeared. Willoughby glimpsed the weapons of his escort piled beneath a tree whilst their former owners sat in a long line near the fire, pale and frightened in the glare of the torchlight. All fight had gone out of them; they looked terrified by the cold-blooded ruthlessness they had witnessed.
The outlaw leader came and squatted before Willoughby. He thrust a piece of roasted venison into his good hand and placed a goblet of thick red wine beside him. Willoughby looked away. The meat roasting over the fire gave off mouth-watering smells and the tax-collector, despite his pain, realised he hadn't eaten since the previous evening.
'I am sorry,' murmured Robin Hood, the mask still over his face, 'but I had no choice. Look around you, Tax-collector. These are savage men, wolvesheads. If they had their way they would kill you all. They hate you, despise your royal master, and see the money from those chests as rightfully theirs. Now come, sit with us by the fire – and keep a civil tongue in your head.'
He pulled the unresisting tax-collector to his feet and pushed him across the clearing, giving him a place before the fire. Willoughby watched as the outlaws began to carve huge chunks of glistening meat; braving the flames of the fire, each outlaw hacked off a chunk and forced it into his mouth, chewing vigorously until the juice ran down his chin. Willoughby, despite his discomfort, nibbled at his meat and took the occasional sip from his wine cup. Did they intend to kill him? he wondered. Would any of them survive? Beside him the outlaw leader remained silent.
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.
Chapter 1
'Murder, Sir Peter, that's why the King has sent me north!'
Sir Hugh Co
rbett, 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.
'Am I the King?' Edward roared. 'To be made a mockery of in my own kingdom? You will go north, Corbett, you understand? You will go to bloody Nottingham and see Robin Hood hang!'
So Corbett had come to Nottingham. He bore the King's message of angry disapproval to the sheriff Sir Eustace Vechey but, on his arrival at the castle, discovered Vechey had been poisoned in his own chamber.
'Tell me again,' Corbett said, breaking free from his reverie, 'how Sir Eustace died.'
'Sir Eustace,' Branwood began slowly, 'was in the blackest pit of depression. On Wednesday evening he dined here in the hall. He hardly spoke. He ate sparingly though he drank well. At last he got to his feet, said he was retiring early and, followed by Lecroix his manservant, took a goblet of wine up to his chamber. Vechey slept in a great four-poster bed, Lecroix on a pallet in a corner of the same chamber.'
'Was there any food in the room?'
Branwood made a face. 'A little. A plate of sweetmeats, and of course the cup of wine. However, when Vechey's corpse was discovered, Physician Maigret tasted both the sweetmeats and what was left of the wine. Both were found to be harmless.'
'Did anyone visit him in the night?'
'No. Vechey locked his chamber door, leaving the key in the lock. Two soldiers stood guard outside, Vechey's personal retainers. No one came near that chamber.'
'You talked of secret passageways?'
'Oh, they may exist under the castle but Sir Eustace's chamber is on the floor above. Not even a rat could squeeze in there.'
'And the windows?'
'As here, mere arrow slits.'
'So,' mused Corbett, 'a man is poisoned in a locked chamber. No one entered, no one could force their way through a window and there are no secret passageways. And you say he only ate and drank what you did?'
Branwood snorted. 'Even better. He made myself, Lecroix, and Physician Maigret taste everything before he did. You see, Sir Eustace had nightmares about Robin Hood. He believed the outlaw wanted him dead, if not by an arrow or dagger then by poison.'
Corbett shook his head and went back to the table.
'So this man leaves the table in good health. He takes a goblet of wine upstairs, perhaps eats a sweetmeat, yet neither of these was tainted?'
'Yes,' Branwood said softly. 'Go to the chamber yourself, Master Clerk. Naturally Sir Eustace's corpse has been removed, but on my orders and those of Physician Maigret, nothing else. The wine and sweetmeats – everything is still there.'
'I would like to question the servant Lecroix.'
'He will be found for you but is surely not responsible,' Branwood explained. 'Lecroix is simple-minded and deeply loved his master.'
Ranulf-atte-Newgate spoke up clearly, tired of the way Naylor was glaring at him. 'But you said, Sir Peter, that Lecroix slept in the same chamber. Surely Sir Eustace Vechey's death throes would have woken him?'
Branwood shrugged. 'Vechey had drunk deep, as had Lecroix. The fellow sleeps like a log. And according to Physician Maigret, certain noxious potions can kill quietly and swiftly.'
Corbett rubbed his face and walked over to the window, drawn there by a clamour from the castle bailey below. He stared down at the small crowd of retainers who had gathered round a makeshift execution platform on which a red-masked headsman was standing. Corb
ett stood transfixed as a man was hustled up the steps, hands bound behind his back. His head was thrust down on the block, the axe rose, glinting in the sunlight, and fell with a loud thud. Corbett flinched and looked away as hot blood spurted in a curving arc. 'Master, what is it?'
Ranulf and Maltote left the table and peered over Corbett's shoulder.
'See,' Ranulf whispered to Maltote, 'the eyes still flutter and the lips are moving.'
The round-faced Maltote, who could not stand the sight of blood, his or anyone else's, briskly walked away, praying not to faint. Corbett looked at the sheriff.
'A bloody business, Sir Peter?'
'No, a lesson,' Branwood replied, toying with a ring on his slim brown hand.
Corbett flinched as the axe fell again. He caught the glint of amusement in Branwood's eyes.
'What is happening?' Corbett jerked his head towards the window.
'You are a visitor to Nottingham, Sir Hugh. There's an outbreak of plague in the city.'
Corbett shivered and turned away. Thank God, he thought, he hadn't brought Maeve and baby Eleanor here.
'A house in Castle Street,' Branwood explained, 'was taken by the plague and a group of night watchmen, in accordance with city regulations, had the place shut up, marking the door and windows with crosses.'
Corbett breathed a prayer; if the plague visited any house, all the occupants suffered.
'Anyway,' continued Branwood, 'a man, his wife, a girl, a boy, and two servants were declared dead. The corpses were to be removed to the lime pits outside the city gates. Now usually everyone stays away in these cases but this time an inquisitive relative, braver than the rest, came to pay his last respects. He hid in the shadows and, when one of the corpses was dragged out, saw the head roll to one side. The throat had been cut.' Branwood nodded at the window. 'The night watchmen were murderers. They'd killed the entire family and plundered the house. Now they pay the price, to the King and to God.'
Corbett walked back to the table, trying to close his mind to the repetitive thuds followed by murmurs from the small crowd of spectators.
