by Paul Doherty
'Yes, Brother, and the first is why you are here?'
'To atone for my sins, to pray to God and Christ's mother, to seek reparation for the follies of my youth.'
'What follies, Brother?'
The friar half-grinned and his glance fell away.
'Oh, running as wild as the King's stags,' he murmured wistfully. 'A roaring boy in the forest, taking what I wanted and not caring about tomorrow. Now God has struck me down. My wife is dead and I see the Lord's hand against me. When I die,' he continued as if speaking to himself, 'I'll not be buried here but next to her under the old yew tree in the village graveyard.'
'But why do you hide now?'
'To put it bluntly, Sir Hugh, I am frightened. I lived with Robin, I ran with him, I fought the King's soldiers by his side, I wenched and drank. But now…' his voice trailed away.
Corbett sat and watched as Will Scarlett stroked his smooth-shaven chin and stared down at the floor.
'At first,' he began slowly, 'we all fought for Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Leicester, who wanted to make the lords of the soil account for what they did. After his defeat at Evesham, I and the rest, Robin, John Little, Friar Tuck fresh from ordination, Allan-a-Dale and the others, remained free in the forest. I was the oldest, just past my thirtieth summer, yet the blood beat hot in my veins. We fought the tax-collectors and the fat abbots for Robin's soul was stuffed full of de Montfort's ideas: how Adam and Eve were born naked before God, equal in everything.' The friar shrugged his thin shoulders. 'So we robbed the rich and gave to the poor.' He looked up and smiled. 'Well, not everything. We kept some for ourselves but the rest we gave away. It not only made us feel good but safe. We bribed the foresters and verderers and so kept everyone's mouth shut.' He chewed his lip. 'Robin met Lady Mary – Marion as she was popularly called – and one year passed into another. Then the old king died and Edward came north like some golden-haired Alexander, distributing gold and pardons as if they were apples from the tree. Robin accepted. He joined the King's chamber and fought his wars.' The friar's eyes became fierce. 'I accepted the pardon but would not be bought. I stayed in Nottingham whilst the rest drifted away and, when my wife died, I came here.'
'So why are you frightened?'
Brother William got to his feet and went to stand overlooking the window. 'Have you ever been haunted, Corbett? Do you know what it feels like when ghosts gather at your back? Vindictive ghosts spat from hell? Well, that's what's happening now.' He turned round. 'Oh, yes, Robin's back in the forest. Little John appears to have joined him. Perhaps even Lady Mary has left Kirklees Priory.'
'Why did she go there?' Ranulf interrupted before Corbett could stop him.
'God knows,' the old friar replied. 'There was a serious quarrel between her and Robin. She saw his acceptance of the King's pardon as a betrayal of many of us. Perhaps she was right. Now I hide behind these friary walls because I am frightened of a Robin who kills at a whim former members of his coven.'
Ts that true?' Corbett asked.
'Oh, yes. News trickles in here occasionally. Much the Miller's boy found drowned in a river. Hick the Hay wain strangled in a field. And who knows?' he added softly. 'Perhaps it's old Will Scarlett's turn next?'
'In which case,' Corbett retorted, 'tell us how we can kill him?'
The old friar turned, eyes brimming with tears. 'I can't do that,' he whispered, 'because I don't know this Robin.'
Chapter 5
A short while later, Corbett and Ranulf left the friary and went down into Nottingham market place. Corbett walked slightly ahead, mystified by what he had learnt. Why had Robin returned, and why the change in his behaviour? He passed Pethick Lane which was usually the haunt of prostitutes, but because of the pestilence in the city the street was barred with heavy beams and iron chains slung across.
A funeral procession of three plague victims was making its way down to St Mary's church. The elmwood coffins bobbed on the shoulders of sweating pall-bearers. The chantry priest walking in front of them, a lighted taper in his hand, could hardly be heard muttering the funeral prayers for the antics of a wild man. He was dressed completely in black from head to toe with a crude skeleton painted on his garb, and danced in front of the procession, furiously ringing a bell.
Corbett entered the market place where people bought and sold, impervious to the death around them. The noise was deafening. Piles of rubbish, heaped up between the stalls or choking the broad gulleys which ran through the cobbled market place, reeked under the hot summer sun. The stench was so offensive anyone who went by had to cover their mouth and nose. Apprentices shouted, 'Lincoln cloth!' Another bawled, 'Good eggs!' A small group circled two fish wives who rolled on the ground, tearing at each other's hair and clothes like any city brawlers. The fight stopped immediately when a cart entered the market place driven by two beadles. At its back was tied a baker, his breeches pulled down about his ankles whilst a sweaty bailiff birched the prisoner's large bottom. A notice, scrawled in red and forcibly carried by the baker's apprentices, proclaimed he had sold rat's meat in his pies. Other punishments were being carried out. Two scolds were next, their faces fastened in iron bridles as they were led down to the river to sit on stools and be ducked in the filthy water.
Corbett and Ranulf stood and watched as the bartering sounds died down and the crowd turned, thronging round the stocks to watch two felons scream unremittingly as their ears were barbarously cropped. Next to them, a tanner who had poured horse piss in his rival's ale was made to sit bare-arsed in the stocks.
'Why are we watching all this?' Ranulf whispered.
'When punishments are carried out,' Corbett murmured, 'the low life always crawl from the gutter.'
Corbett's prophecy was proved correct: the flotsam and jetsam of Nottingham life appeared. The pickpockets or foists, the hookers, the night hawks, the cut-throats and the whores in their strange wigs and heavily painted faces. They stood round relishing the punishments whilst keeping a sharp eye for any unsuspecting victim. A group of retainers from a merchant prince's household, drunken and slobbery-mouthed in their stained livery, forced their way through, singing a raucous song. A pardoner screeched that he had one of the stones used to kill St Stephen whilst a hunch-backed harpist drew scraps of parchment from his jerkin and shouted that he had songs for sale.
'So the villains gather,' Ranulf observed.
'Study them carefully,' Corbett insisted, 'for those who seem sharp-eyed or wear wrist-guards.'
'You think outlaws from Sherwood would dare venture here?'
'It's possible. Remember the attack on the castle.'
Ranulf, who prided himself on spying out a villain in a crowded street, studied the mob carefully but saw nothing fitting Corbett's description. The punishments over, the crowd broke up, going back to the stalls. Suddenly, behind Corbett and Ranulf, a voice rang out.
'I challenge you, sirs. I, Rahere of Lincoln, Riddle Master and Keeper of Mysteries north and south of the Trent, from whom no puzzle is proof. I challenge you!'
Corbett and Ranulf turned round and stared at a young man wearing a long tawny robe lined with rat's fur over a blood-red shirt and Lincoln green hose. He stood on a barrel shouting out his challenge across the market place. He was sandy-haired and fresh-faced with cheeky eyes, pointed nose, and a voice which carried like a preacher's. He twirled a silver coin between his fingers as he repeated his challenge and Ranulf grinned. He had seen his type before – gentlemen of the road who could answer any riddle and pose another which would leave even the greatest scholar scratching his head for all eternity.
Ranulf stared at the young woman who stood next to the barrel, dressed in a brown smock with white lambswool fringing the neck and cuffs. Her face was hidden in a hood but suddenly she pulled this back and Ranulf's heart missed a beat. All mourning for the Lady Mary Neville abruptly ceased for this woman was breathtakingly beautiful. An oval ivory-skinned face, perfectly formed nose above full red lips, auburn hair under a white linen veil – and those eyes, ice b
lue with a touch of fire. Ranulf stared at the way the close-fitting smock pulled sharply across thrusting breasts. Her narrow, hand-span waist was circled by a silver cord and red leather boots peeped out from beneath the hem of her dress. She moved her hair from her face, the movement delicate and beautiful as a butterfly. 'You, sir!'
Ranulf tore his eyes away and looked up at the Riddle Master.
'Tell me any riddle and, within twenty beats of your heart, I will give you the answer or this coin is yours.'
'What happens if there are two answers?' Ranulf jested back, quickly nudging Corbett.
'As long as my answer's correct, the coin stays here.'
'What has two legs, then has three and eventually none?' Ranulf shouted, conscious of the crowd pressing round him.
'Why, a man!' the Riddle Master retorted quickly. 'For we are all born with two legs, then in old age we have three with a walking staff, and then in bed, as we die, none whatsoever.'
Ranulf grinned and nodded.
'Give me another!'
'A vessel there is that is round like a pear, Moist in the middle, coloured and fair. And often it happens that salt is found there,' Ranulf chanted.
'Very good!' the Riddle Master shouted. 'It's the eye of a man!'
Ranulf agreed then Rahere's face became serious.
'I'll buy you a flagon of ale, sir.' He glanced suspiciously at Corbett. 'But not for your sober-sided companion. Rahere the Riddle Master of Lincoln refuses to drink with a man who never smiles!'
Corbett shuffled in embarrassment and tugged at Ranulf's sleeve.
'Come on!' he whispered as others began to shout riddles. 'Let's go back to the castle.'
They fought their way through the crowd. 'Hey, Master Redhead!' Ranulf turned.
'Don't forget,' the Riddle Master shouted, 'my sister Amisia and I owe you a flagon of ale. You'll meet us in the taproom of The Cock and Hoop?'
Ranulf was about to shake his head but the young woman was smiling at him. He reluctantly turned away to follow his master through the crowd back into Friary Lane. They were almost at the foot of the crag, the great castle of Nottingham looming above them, when Corbett stopped.
'You'd best go back.'
'What do you mean, Master?'
'To The Cock and Hoop.' Corbett grinned. 'Ranulf, Ranulf,' he whispered, 'you can never resist three things: a goblet of wine, a game of dice and a beautiful face.'
Ranulf needed no second bidding and ran back down the lane. Corbett watched him go.
'It will do you good,' he shouted but Ranulf was out of earshot, already stopping passersby to ask them directions to The Cock and Hoop.
At last he found it opposite St Peter's graveyard. He burst into the musty taproom, bawling at the landlord for service whilst slipping him a penny to hire a table near the tavern's only window. Ranulf ordered a flagon of ale, sat and sipped its cool tanginess as he tried to control the flutter of excitement in his belly. He felt tired, slightly heavy-eyed, still agitated after the ambush in the forest.
'I hate bloody trees!' he muttered to himself.
He leaned back against the wall and watched a skinner, who sat cross-legged just inside the tavern door, neatly sewing together pieces of mole-skin. Ranulf closed his eyes. He could stand in a dark alleyway in Southwark and not turn a hair but that forest, with its green gloom and haunting sounds, would always unnerve him. He thought idly about the deaths in the castle and then that mysterious refrain contained in the cipher: Three kings go to the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers. 'If I could only unlock the secret,' Ranulf muttered under his breath. He thought of the Riddle Master, opened his eyes and grinned at the thought which suddenly occurred to him.
'So you have come for your flagon of ale?'
Ranulf looked up as Rahere sat down on the stool opposite, his sister just as quietly next to him.
'You move like shadows,' Ranulf remarked, extending his hand.
'Sometimes we have to. Your name, stranger?' 'Ranulf-atte-Newgate, servant in the retinue of Sir Hugh Corbett.'
'Never heard of him.'
Beside Rahere Amisia suddenly giggled, her eyes dancing in gentle mockery. Ranulf could barely look at her, she was so beautiful. Rahere snapped his fingers.
'Two flagons of ale, your best, and a glass of white wine -not from your slops and it has to be cool.'
The servile landlord wiped his sweaty face with his hand, bobbing up and down as if Rahere was some great lord.
'He knows you well?' Ranulf remarked.
'He should do. We hire his best chambers and he charges us well.'
'You make such a profit from your riddle-making?'
Rahere spread his hands and Ranulf suddenly noticed how one eye was green, the other brown with a slight cast in it, giving the Riddle Master a rather saturnine look.
'Every man likes a mystery, a puzzle, a riddle.'
The landlord hurried back with the ale and wine.
'Tell me,' Rahere tapped Ranulf's knee, 'where did you learn that riddle about the eye?'
'My mother told me it.'
Rahere leaned back and sipped from the tankard. 'You have never heard of it, have you, Amisia?'
'No, brother.'
The young woman's voice was soft and melodious, and as she sipped daintily from the cup Ranulf gazed hungrily at her. Everything about her was delicate and fine. She reminded him of a beautiful ivory statue he had glimpsed in the King's chamber. And those eyes… Never had Ranulf seen such fire in such icy blueness. He looked away and shook himself.
'Do you have any more such riddles?' Rahere asked. 'I tell you, Ranulf, we always buy a tankard of ale for the man who poses a riddle we have never heard and it's three years since I have done that. I'll take yours north,' he continued. 'We hope to spend Michaelmas at the court of My Lord Anthony de Bec, Bishop of Durham.'
'There is one riddle,' Ranulf hesitantly began. 'A secret saying.'
Rahere cradled the tankard in his hands and leaned forward, his strange eyes glistening with excitement. 'Tell me.'
'It's a saying which masks a secret.' Ranulf closed his eyes. 'The three kings go to the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers.'
Rahere pulled a face. 'Hell's teeth! Is that all?'
Ranulf shrugged. 'That's all I know.'
'Who contrived it?'
'I don't know,' Ranulf lied. 'But if you could resolve the mystery, or even point to what it means…' He opened his purse and put two silver coins on the table. 'Then these would be yours.'
The Riddle Master extended his hands. 'There, Ranulf, you have my bond.'
Ranulf shook it warmly, pocketed the coins and shouted at the taverner to bring more drink. He felt smug and satisfied, trying hard to hide his excitement. The Riddle Master might help. If he did, Ranulf would profit, and if he didn't, Ranulf would still profit: he was being given an open excuse to slip away from Old Master Long Face and pay court to the beautiful Amisia.
The following morning Corbett rose early. He stared suspiciously at the sleeping Ranulf. His manservant had returned the previous evening, slightly drunk, weaving his way down the corridors of the castle singing the filthiest songs Corbett had ever heard, and he had only with the greatest difficulty extricated Ranulf from a game of dice with some of the surly castle soldiers who were growing increasingly suspicious about his run of luck at every throw. The manservant now sprawled half-dressed, snoring off at least a gallon of ale. Corbett finished dressing, tiptoed out of the room and went down to the hall to break his fast.
Branwood, Naylor, Roteboeuf, Friar Thomas and Physician Maigret were already there. The under-sheriff was morosely chewing snatches of bread and sipping from a tankard. Corbett's salutation was greeted with mumbles and dark looks; the household was obviously still smarting over the previous day's ambush in the forest. Corbett sat on a bench next to Maigret and cut chunks of bread from a newly baked loaf. He felt refreshed and reflected on the recent attack.
'Strange,' he murmured aloud before he could sto
p himself.
'What is?' Naylor snapped, his pig-like eyes red-rimmed with tiredness.
'Yesterday in the forest those outlaws could have killed us all yet we escaped. It's almost as if…'
'They were sending a warning?' Roteboeuf finished the sentence.
'Yes.' Corbett bit off a piece of bread. There's something elusive there, he thought, like staring into murky water and glimpsing something precious lying on the bottom.
'Sir Peter,' he asked, 'do you wish the King to confirm you as sheriff?'
Sir Peter shrugged. 'That's the King's prerogative. He appointed me under-sheriff.' He smiled sourly. 'Perhaps he will insist I step into poor Vechey's shoes?'
Corbett nodded diplomatically and was about to reply when Maigret coughed and cleared his throat.
'I have been thinking over what you asked me, Sir Hugh, about Sir Eustace's death.' The physician's quick eyes darted around as if challenging the others to object. 'The poison,' he continued, 'may have been deadly nightshade or some potion distilled from mushrooms, those poisonous ones which grow under the oak and elm. They are most noxious, especially when picked under a hunter's moon.'
'Would they kill immediately?'
'If the potion was strong enough, yes.'
'Sir Peter! Sir Peter!'
All conversation died as a young soldier, a mere boy no more than sixteen summers old, his hair tousled, eyes staring in terror, burst into the hall.
'What's the matter, man?'
'I've seen them! Two of the men who went missing in the forest yesterday.' The soldier's voice faltered. 'They've been executed!'
Sir Peter sprang from the table, the others followed. Branwood ordered Roteboeuf and Maigret to stay in the castle.
'Sir Hugh! Father Thomas! Naylor!'
They hurried into the bailey where retainers were already saddling horses. The sheriff, shouting curses at the soldier, told him to take a nag from anyone and lead them back to what he had seen.
The sun had not yet risen but the grey-blue sky was lightening with streaks of red as they galloped out of the castle gates, down the winding path and into the still-sleeping town. Branwood rode like a man possessed and Corbett found it hard to keep up with him. He noticed with wry amusement that Father Thomas was a better horseman than Naylor who kept slipping in the saddle.
