by Paul Doherty
Corbett left the shop and walked further along the passageway. He opened a small door to a chamber and gasped at the sheer luxury inside. It was like a young noblewoman's parlour. The walls were white-washed and covered in thick woollen cloths of various hues whilst polished gridirons stood under a small carved hearth. There were woollen carpets on the floor, silver candlesticks on the dark polished table, and a half-open cupboard revealed other precious cups and plate. The windows at the back were all glazed with tinted and coloured glass and the room smelt as sweet as a meadow on a summer's day. Two thin-stemmed wine cups stood on the table. Corbett stared around and went into the small buttery in the kitchen at the back of the house. The smell of corruption was stronger here. He pinched his nostrils. Not even his wife Maeve kept her scullery and kitchens so clean and neat yet the stench was terrible.
'In God's name!' he breathed.
He opened a small cupboard door and cursed as the corpse of a grey-haired woman fell out, arms flailing, as if, even in death, she wanted to beat him. Corbett stepped back and stared at the woman's corpse sprawled on the floor, her iron-grey hair spread out around her. Corbett could see no sign of blood or violence. He crouched and turned the body over, pushing the corner of his cloak into his mouth for the woman's face, hatchet-featured in life, was grey and swollen in death, eyes popping, tongue protruding. She had fought for her last breath against the bow string tied tight round her throat. Corbett got to his feet and strode back into Mandrick Alley, gulping the air which now smelt sweet compared to that he had just left.
'Is anything wrong?' one of the soldiers muttered, glimpsing the clerk's white face.
'Yes,' he breathed. 'Hecate's dead.'
The soldier nodded at the tavern where, from the sounds of merriment, they were now spending Corbett's coins.
'They said she'd gone away. She owned a small cottage near Southwell.'
'Well, she's gone!' Corbett snapped. 'And she won't be back! You guard the house.' He nodded to the soldier's companion. 'You go to the castle and tell Sir Peter Branwood: Hecate was a witch and now she's dead so her property belongs to the King.'
Corbett watched the soldier go, paid the urchin, collected his horse and rode back down the alleyways seeking directions to The Cock and Hoop tavern.
He found Ranulf in the small garden, sitting in a flower-covered bower paying court to the beautiful young woman Corbett had glimpsed in the market place. Ranulf rose and sheepishly made introductions. Corbett kissed the woman's cool fingers and studied her closely.
She is lovely, he thought. One look at Ranulf told him that his manservant was smitten. All he could do was stand and stare so adoringly at the girl. Corbett didn't know whether to laugh or cry. If I had a gold coin for every time you were in love, Ranulf, he thought, I'd be the richest man in the kingdom.
'Sir Hugh?'
Corbett smiled at the woman.
'Mistress Amisia, I am sorry, my mind's elsewhere. I am afraid Master Ranulf and I have business to attend to.'
'Yes, yes,' she said. 'A chancery clerk is always busy.'
Ranulf gazed warningly at Corbett.
'Of course,' he answered silkily, 'Master Ranulf is one of the King's most trusted clerks. He will no doubt receive further preferment, if he works hard.'
Ranulf grinned. 'In which case, Master,' he whispered, 'I will finish this wine.'
'As long as you do it in the next mouthful,' Corbett muttered out of the side of his mouth, 'I don't mind. Mistress Amisia, where is your brother Rahere?'
'Spinning his stories in the market place, Sir Hugh. He is most skilled,' she continued proudly. 'Master Ranulf has promised that he will use his good offices with the King to win my brother an invitation to the court at Christmas.'
Corbett stifled a grin. 'Mistress, it's matters such as that which call Ranulf and myself away.'
And, bowing to the young woman, he grasped Ranulf by the sleeve and marched him from the tavern out into the street.
'There was no need for that, Master!'
'Yes, there was,' Corbett retorted. 'Ranulf, I need you.'
He was about to yell that Rahere and Amisia were not just people to while away the time with but one look at Old Master Long Face's sombre expression persuaded him that prudence was the better part of valour. Corbett told him about the corpses of the soldiers, his meeting with Friar Thomas, the fire arrows and the discovery of Hecate's body. Ranulf whistled through his teeth.
'So the good friar has a foot in either camp but has his doubts, whilst the death of Hecate proves that Vechey's killer purchased potions from her. What else, Master?'
'I don't know,' Corbett muttered. 'What perplexes me is the change in Robin Hood's behaviour. He is now more of a killer, an outlaw with only a modicum of care for the common man. And there's this business of the three arrows fired at midnight on the thirteenth of every month.'
'So where are we going now?' Ranulf asked.
'Before I joined you in the tavern I asked the landlord for the name of the most prosperous inn on the roads outside Nottingham. He mentioned The Blue Boar on the Newark road. We passed it on our journey north.'
'What has that to do with Robin Hood?' 'You have met Elias Lamprey?'
'You mean that snotty-nosed clerk in charge of the records in the Court of King's Bench?'
'Well, I am sure he wouldn't agree with your description, Ranulf. However, law and order, the work of Royal Commissioners, Justices of the Peace and the whole question of outlaws are meat and drink to dear Elias.' Corbett grinned. 'I have often nodded off to sleep whilst listening to his stories in some Cheapside tavern. However, one thing Elias always holds as an article of faith is the unholy alliance between outlaws and taverns, the latter being a source of gossip as well as a way of squandering ill-gotten monies.'
They paused at the corner of the street as town pig-killers seized on a sow wandering in defiance of town regulations, pulled it over on its back and cut its throat. Their horses whinnied, startled by the smell of blood. Ranulf yelled at the men to bugger off but the pig-killers replied with obscene gestures and dragged the animal's carcass to a waiting cart. Ranulf spat and looked at Corbett.
'You were saying, Master?'
'Well, two things attract me about The Blue Boar. First, it's the place Willoughby stopped at just after he left Nottingham. Secondly, The Blue Boar seems to prosper during these days of hardship. I think it's worth a visit.'
They made their way out of Nottingham, skirting the city walls till they found the way south to Newark. Ranulf felt more relaxed for the road was packed. Farmers drove their carts; two hedge-priests pushed a wheelbarrow containing all their worldly goods; a group of pilgrims were journeying to Canterbury and a number of peasant families wandering in search of work. After a quarter of an hour's ride, Corbett and Ranulf entered the walled courtyard of The Blue Boar. The place was busy enough, not only with travellers but labourers from the surrounding fields quenching their thirst with stoups of ale. These men sat in the great cobbled yard, backs to the outhouses, sunning themselves whilst their bare-footed children, clothed in rags, played King of the Castle on a great heap of manure. Near the tavern door, peasant women in fustian smocks, their hair piled high on their heads under grimy white rags, stood round a relic-seller, a small squat man with the face of a mastiff and a voice which boomed like a church bell. He had his relics slung on a string round his neck and proudly pointed out the decaying fingers, toes, bits of bone, tissue and clothing of saints Corbett had never even heard of.
Inside the cavernous taproom a more genteel class of customer, the wandering scholars, pilgrims and occasional merchants, broke their fast on small white loaves covered in a fish gravy and pewter jugs of beer. The landlord took one look at Corbett and came bustling up-tall, gross, bald-headed, his face wreathed in a mock smile, eyes a mixture of arrogance and guile. The sort of man, Ranulf thought, who could sniff a profit from across a crowded room. Whilst Corbett ordered the food, Ranulf carefully scrutinised the great taproom
, noting the clean rushes on the floor, the walls painted thickly with lime, huge barrels of beer, ale and malmsey in one corner and polished shelves bearing mugs and cups of the finest pewter.
'You keep a fine house, Master…?'
'Robert Fletcher, your honour.' The landlord bowed to Ranulf as if he was the Emperor or the Great Cham. 'But such a room is not for the likes of your excellencies.'
He led them across the taproom, down a small corridor and ushered them into a small parlour, a well-furnished chamber with tables and stools as well as a bed with clean linen sheets and bolsters.
'My special guests are always taken here,' the landlord explained.
Aye, Ranulf thought, noting the bed. Any young gentleman and his doxy.
'And what is your pleasure?'
'Two cups of watered wine,' Corbett replied. 'Perhaps some bread and cheese.'
'Your wish is my command. My own daughter will serve you.'
Bowing and scraping, the landlord backed out. Corbett and Ranulf sat down, grinning at each other. A few minutes later a slim, blonde-haired girl with the face and eyes of a spoilt angel brought in the wine and bread. Ranulf hastened to help her, whispering one compliment after another. The girl's blue eyes rounded in an affectation of innocence though this was betrayed by a lewd smile and the saucy pertness of her manner.
'We have heard of you,' she announced, stepping back and wiping her hands on a very rounded bodice. 'Friar Thomas says you ask a lot of questions.'
'And you are too saucy.'
An old man hobbled into the room. His lined face seemed to crumple round a huge nose; his eyes were small and rheumy and a blood-crusted patch covered the spot where his right ear should have been. He tapped the girl playfully on the rump.
'Come on, Isolda.' He nodded at the guests. 'Don't play the greenwood wanton with these gentlemen.'
'Shut up, Grandfather!' The girl's mouth pulled into a bitter line. 'Shame on you. I am not even allowed to go into Nottingham by myself, never mind the forest.'
She glanced quickly at Corbett but the clerk pretended to be more interested in his drink. Yet the old man had blundered, made a mistake, the first Corbett had detected since arriving in Nottingham. The old man hobbled out as quickly as he could whilst the girl fled back into the taproom.
'That was a mistake,' Ranulf breathed. 'Perhaps you should arrest her, Master?'
Corbett shook his head. 'I suspect, Ranulf, most of the cottagers and tavern-keepers around Sherwood know something about the outlaw. As Elias puts it, no outlaw worth his salt can move or travel without the connivance of innkeepers and, in this case perhaps, their daughters. But when we go fishing it's the trout we catch. We leave the minnows alone.'
Ranulf was about to object when suddenly there were shouts and sounds of commotion from the courtyard. Corbett heard the customers in the adjoining taproom fall quiet then begin an excited babble. He and Ranulf went out, forcing their way through the throng to see a group of mounted men-at-arms wearing the blue and silver livery of the sheriff. The day had grown hot so they had removed their heavy helmets. Corbett recognised Naylor as he bellowed for a cup of water and a stoup of ale, anything to wash the dust from his throat. The real focus of interest, however, was two men, their clothes tattered and weather-stained, faces and hair covered in thick grey dust. They crouched gasping on the ground, whimpering for relief from the cruel ropes tied around their wrists, the other end being attached securely to the saddle horns of Naylor's men. Corbett strode forward.
'Master Naylor, what is this?'
Naylor's face broke into a smile as he recognised Corbett.
'Two outlaws!' he bellowed triumphantly. 'I caught them red-handed with bows and quivers on the edge of the forest.'
'A surprise catch, Master Naylor,' Ranulf teased. 'They just walked up and surrendered?'
The serjeant-at-arms glowered back. 'No!' he rasped. 'They fell into a trap.' He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. 'One of my men posed as a traveller. These two creatures stopped him on the King's highway with bows drawn. The rest was simple. So concerned were they with plundering, we were upon them before they could recover their wits.' He turned and spat in the direction of the prisoners. 'Robin Hood's men!' he taunted.
One of the prisoners shook his head so Naylor yanked on the rope, pulling the man face down on to the sharp-edged cobbles.
Isolda ran up with a jug of frothing ale in each hand. Naylor drank both in noisy gulps, not caring that the ale ran down his chin and soaked his leather jacket. More flagons were brought for his companions as well as water for the horses. At Corbett's order Ranulf brought tankards of ale for the two prisoners and they lapped greedily, like panting dogs. Naylor watched surlily then put on his helmet, snapped his fingers, and the cavalcade left the inn, the two prisoners stumbling and cursing behind.
'We'd best follow,' Corbett whispered. 'I want to be present when Branwood questions these prisoners.'
They collected their horses and followed Naylor back into Nottingham. The serjeant-at-arms made no attempt to hide his triumph as he moved along the streets, across the crowded market place and up the steep rocky track to the castle gates. Every so often Naylor would stop to proclaim loudly that he had captured two outlaws and that both would swing from the gallows before the day was out.
The castle garrison was awaiting them. Sir Peter Branwood's face was wreathed in smiles. Roteboeuf and Maigret stood beside him, straining to glimpse the two outlaws, now bloody and covered in filth from the city streets.
'God bless you, Master Naylor!' Branwood clapped his hands and helped the serjeant-at-arms down off his horse, shouting for wine to be brought. 'And you, Sir Hugh. You can tell His Grace the King that we do have our successes against these wolvesheads. As well as poisoners,' he continued, lowering his voice. 'Believe me, sir, the city is well rid of Hecate.'
'A pity,' Corbett replied, throwing the reins of his horse to an ostler and peeling off his leather gloves.
'Why so, sir?'
'I believe the killer of Sir Eustace silenced Hecate to stop her chatter.'
'Who cares?' Branwood harshly replied. 'Sir Eustace's death lies at the outlaw's door. The bitch is dead and I will have a little more money to send to the King's Exchequer at Westminster.' He grabbed a cup of wine brought by a servitor, slurped from it and passed it to a grinning Naylor.
Branwood then went across to the two prisoners who seemed little more than bundles of rags as they sprawled amongst the shit and dirt of the castle bailey. He cruelly yanked back each man's head by the hair and spat in their faces. Then he straightened up and glared round at the castle servants, now thronging about: stable boys, ostlers, scullions and wenches from the kitchen.
'This day,' he bellowed, his dark face flushed with emotion, 'we have caught two of the wolvesheads!' Branwood grinned at Corbett. 'According to the law and its usages we will give them a fair trial. And then…' He spread his hands and a servant sniggered at the implications of his words.
Branwood spun on his heel and strode up the steps of the keep. The two captives were dragged to their feet, their bonds cut and, flanked by men-at-arms, were pushed roughly up the stairs after him. By the time Corbett and Ranulf entered the castle the trial was ready to begin. Roteboeuf crouched on a stool, his writing-tray in his lap. Sir Peter, eyes glittering, sat on a high-backed chair on the edge of the dais, Naylor and Physician Maigret standing behind. The two prisoners cowered before him like beaten dogs. Corbett kept in the shadows, an unwilling witness to the quick, brutal sham.
Naylor repeated the circumstances of the two men's capture, reporting every gesture and movement. Corbett half-listened, studying the two prisoners carefully. Before their capture the men's clothes must have been poor, little more than a collection of rags sewn together. When Naylor opened a leather sack and dropped their weapons to the floor, these proved to be equally pathetic. Both men had carried long bows yet they were old and split whilst their swords and daggers were of poor quality, dull and blunt-edged
. Despite their skin being tanned by sun and wind, the prisoners were emaciated, certainly not outlaws who feasted on the juiciest portions of the King's venison.
'Do you have any information about the wolfshead known as Robin Hood?' Branwood shouted at them.
Both men shook their heads.
'We are landless men,' one of them spoke up. 'We were starving.' He moistened his cracked lips. 'So we came south to live in Sherwood. We know nothing of the outlaw.'
Naylor sighed. Rubbing the side of his face, he walked off the dais towards the two prisoners who cringed as he approached. The serjeant-at-arms stood before them, legs apart.
'My Lord Sheriff,' he said evenly, 'asked you a question. You are to tell him the truth, not lies.'
'We do not lie,' one of the prisoners replied, squinting up at Naylor through bruised, half-open eyes. 'We tell the…'
His words were cut off as Naylor smashed him in the mouth and turned back towards the dais.
'My Lord Sheriff,' he commented, 'perhaps a stay in the dungeons might loosen their tongues?'
Branwood nodded. 'Take them away!'
The two men were hustled out, Naylor following. Branwood got up and came towards Corbett.
'A good day's work, Sir Hugh.'
Corbett stared at the sheriff's thin, dark face and noted the cruel malice in his bright shining eyes. You are obsessed, Corbett thought, you hate Robin Hood.
'Torture, My Lord Sheriff, is not permissible.'
'These are outlaws, caught red-handed! They are judged utlegatum, beyond the law.'
'Oh, I agree they are outlaws,' Corbett replied. 'But nothing to do with Robin Hood.'
