Assassin in the Greenwood hc-7

by Paul Doherty

  Corbett was surprised at how speedily anger replaced the gleam of triumph in Sir Peter's eyes.

  'What do you mean?'he spluttered. 'What proof do you have?'

  'No real proof,' Corbett replied slowly, watching one of the castle cats leap on to the great table and push his nose into Branwood's cup. 'No proof, just a feeling.' Corbett shrugged. 'These men are fools, acting by themselves. Naylor was almost allowed to take them.'

  'They are Robin Hood's men.' Branwood grinned. 'You will have the proof!'

  He stormed out.

  Corbett pulled a face and tugged at Ranulf's sleeve. 'Let's just watch this for a while.'

  Chapter 7

  They followed Branwood down the steps into the dark runnel of dungeons beneath the keep. The stench was offensive and dirt from the passageway slopped over the edge of their boots. On either side were heavy oaken doors with small grilles in the top. Mad eyes stared out from behind these.

  Branwood led them, turning and twisting, until they came into a large chamber, black as night despite the torches fixed to the wall and the huge glowing bowls of charcoal. Naylor and others from the castle garrison were stripped to the waist and already their bodies gleamed with sweat. Against the far wall were the two prisoners.

  Ropes had been lashed round their wrists and ankles then looped into iron rings fastened to the wall. As Corbett entered, one of the half-naked torturers grunted an order. The soldiers pulled vigorously down on the rope and both prisoners screamed as their arms were stretched to breaking point. The soldiers then went to the blazing bowls of charcoal and picked up glowing piles with their pincers. They shuffled back to the prisoners and pressed the flaming pieces against stomach, chest and armpits. The prisoners screamed, their bodies jerking and dancing against the wall until they became unconscious.

  Ranulf swore under his breath. Corbett felt queasy. Branwood spun on his heel and walked away as Naylor ordered buckets of water to be thrown into the prisoners' faces. The men were roused and the torture recommenced. In between the ominous shuffling of the torturers, Naylor would approach both men and press his mouth against their sweat-soaked ears to ask them questions.

  'Stop it!' Corbett ordered.

  Naylor spun round.

  'I am ordering you to stop it!' Corbett snapped, sickened by the gleam of pleasure in the burly serjeant's eyes. 'I take my orders from the sheriff.'

  'You'll do what I damned well say!' Corbett roared. 'I act for the King in this matter!'

  'You heard him, fellow,' Ranulf added sweetly, drawing his dagger. 'Either you do it or you're guilty of treason.'

  Naylor was about to protest but Ranulf took one step forward and the serjeant-at-arms changed his mind. He grunted an order and the two prisoners were cut down. They slumped to the ground like piles of rags.

  'I want them taken to a dungeon,' Corbett ordered. 'One of the cleanest in this muck pile. I need a wineskin, two cups and a bucket of cold water.'

  Again orders were issued and Naylor hurried off.

  'Wait for it,' Corbett whispered.

  Sure enough there was a clatter in the corridor outside and Branwood hurried into the torture chamber.

  'Sir Hugh, what are you doing? These men are to be tortured and then hanged after Friar Thomas has shriven them!'

  'Sir Peter,' Corbett said tactfully, 'you are the King's under-sheriff but I am his commissioner. There are more ways than one of killing a cat. Naylor has had his way. If he continues, these men will soon be dead. Now I am going to have them taken to a dungeon where I'll question them closely. When I have finished, if they are still lying, you can have them hanged, drawn and quartered for all I care. However, if they tell the truth, I'll issue a pardon.'

  Branwood's face relaxed. 'Have it your way,' he muttered.

  Corbett returned to the castle bailey for some fresh air. He noticed how restless Ranulf had become.

  'What's the matter, man?' he snapped. 'Are you missing your lady love?'

  Ranulf looked down and shuffled his feet. 'He wants to meet you.'

  'Who does?'

  'Rahere the Riddle Master.' 'Ranulf, what have you promised?' 'Nothing, Master, it's just that…' 'He would like an invitation to the King's Crown Wearing at Yuletide?' 'Yes, Master.'

  Corbett turned away. 'For God's sake, Ranulf, we have enough on our minds. Tell him I'll meet him soon. Perhaps we can share a bowl of wine. But at the moment…'

  Ranulf knew when to cut and run; the words were hardly out of Corbett's mouth before he was hurrying away, back up to his chamber to rub fresh oil into his face as well as search for a small bottle of perfume he had been hoping to sell. He had bought it from a high-class courtesan in London.

  'A concoction of ass's milk, balsam and rare ointment,' the woman had lied. 'I bought it from an Egyptian who said it was the same unguent Cleopatra used to rub into her body.'

  Ranulf searched amongst his untidy belongings until he found it, his excitement increasing as he thought of the lovely Amisia letting it drip between her ripe, full breasts.

  Whilst Ranulf prepared himself, Corbett returned to the dungeons. A surly Naylor showed him to the cell where the two prisoners, their hands and feet shackled, lolled side by side on a bed of filthy straw covered by a threadbare blanket. Corbett asked for a stool and, when it was brought, ordered Naylor to leave them alone. He then pushed the bucket of water nearer the men. They were conscious but in sore pain, groaning every time they moved. Corbett splashed water over their faces, filled the two tin cups full of wine and pushed them into their bruised and eager hands.

  'Drink,' he said. 'It will dull the pain.'

  Both men gulped. Corbett re-filled the cups.

  'You are going to hang,' he began softly. 'If you survive the torture, Branwood will tie a noose round your necks, fasten one end of the rope to a hook and kick you both over the castle walls. Do you want to die like rats on a farmer's line?' He showed them his ring bearing the Royal Arms of England. 'My name is Sir Hugh Corbett. I am Keeper of the King's Secret Seal. I have the power of life and death over you. If you tell the truth, I'll have you pardoned and released. If you lie, you'll both be dead by sunset.' He refilled the cups as the men shuffled and looked at each other. 'Now, you are Robin Hood's men?'

  They both nodded.

  'Where do you usually hide?'

  One man licked blood-caked lips. 'We are the outlaw's men and yet we are not.' 'What do you mean?'

  'Go deeper into the forest, Master, and Sherwood is like a city. You have the peasants, the charcoal-burners, the pig tenders, the poachers. Those who live by the law and those who do not. We began as poachers; usually we lived by ourselves, moving from one cave to another or sleeping in this glade or that.'

  'So you did not live in one band?'

  His companion spluttered on a half-laugh and gulped from the cup.

  'For God's sake, Master, I have heard the ballads myself. Any outlaw band which kept together would soon be hunted down. Its camp fires would be seen from Nottingham. No, Robin Hood can usually be found near the glades and oaks of Edmundstowe. At times we were called in.' 'How?'

  'By runners or by hunting horn. Or by messages left pinned to the trunks of certain oaks.' 'And what happened then?'

  'We usually gathered in some glade or other. Robin Hood and Little John would appear.' 'What do they look like?'

  'They wear brown and green so that through the trees they cannot be seen. They are hooded with half-masks over their faces.'

  'Who else is there?'

  'Other members of his coven.'

  'Is there a woman?'

  'Aye, Maid Marion.' The fellow licked his lips. 'Saucy she is, large-bosomed. She, Robin Hood and Little John act almost as one person. Orders are issued.' The fellow shrugged.

  Corbett thought of the wench at The Blue Boar inn but decided not to reveal what he knew.

  'Were you involved in the attack on the tax-collectors?' Both men became agitated. 'You were, weren't you?'

  'We had no pa
rt in the killing, Master, but Robin Hood is a hard taskmaster. The tax-collectors' retinue were hanged because of what they had seen, whilst Willoughby was left alive as a warning.'

  'And the plunder?'

  'Not much, Master. We got a few coins, each according to what he contributed. Nym and I,' he jerked his head at his companion, 'are relative strangers. A few pence is all we got. The band then broke up to wait for other attacks.'

  'So how were you captured this morning?'

  'We were starving, Master. The deer have become wise, they are harder to track. Robin Hood has kept to himself and Branwood's soldiers are all over the forest. We dare not go into the villages because of the rewards posted against us.'

  'Is that all you know?' Corbett got to his feet.

  'We have told the truth,' Nym rasped. 'Robin Hood is mysterious. A will-o'-the-wisp. They say elves and goblins advise him and that he can talk to the trees.' The man held up his hands. 'Master, we are small twigs on a large tree. We have told you all we know.'

  Corbett nodded, opened the door and shouted for Naylor.

  'Give these men a set of clothes, one loaf and a wineskin.' He dug into his purse and drew out two coins. 'They are to be released unharmed.'

  Corbett strode away before Naylor could remonstrate or the prisoners finish their pathetic litany of thanks. He went back into the castle bailey. Branwood was not there. Corbett found him in the hall seated at the great table, a chequer board before him, the black and white squares covered in heaps of coins.

  'I am preparing my accounts for the quarter,' he muttered, not bothering to raise his head. 'You found the prisoners interesting?'

  Corbett told him what he had learnt. Branwood nodded.

  'They'll be released unharmed,' he agreed and leaned back, clinking the coins in his hand and staring at Roteboeuf who sat at the edge of the table carefully inscribing accounts.

  'How long do you think they'll live?' Branwood asked ironically.

  Roteboeuf lifted his head and shrugged. 'What do you mean?' Corbett snapped. 'I mean, King's Commissioner in Nottingham,' Branwood replied, making no attempt to hide his hostility, 'those two outlaws will not see this week's end. They were captured and then released. What do you think their companions will believe? That they have accepted the King's pardon and talked, of course. They are dead men already.'

  'That's none of our business,' Corbett replied. 'And what do you plan now, My Lord Sheriff?'

  Branwood looked up, a false smile on his saturnine face.

  'We shall wait for Sir Guy of Gisborne and see if he can do better than us. You still await your messenger's return?'

  Corbett nodded.

  'Until then,' Branwood continued, 'I will count my coins, Roteboeuf will write his accounts, and you will wonder what to do next whilst your servant, so I gather, spends most of his time slipping in and out of the castle.'

  'I shall do one thing,' Corbett retorted.

  'Which is?'

  'Well, Sir Peter, tonight is the thirteenth of June.' Branwood's eyes narrowed and Roteboeuf's head jerked up.

  'Oh, you mean the fire arrows?' Branwood shook his head. 'God knows what they signify. Perhaps some prank. You'll join us for supper?'

  Corbett agreed and returned to his own chamber. He felt restless and for a while moved about, either staring out of the window or lying on the bed gazing up at the rafters.

  'The thirteenth of June. If I don't break that damned cipher soon,' he exclaimed, 'His Grace the King will want me back in London and others can chase this will-o'-the-wisp of the forest!'

  He sat up in bed and plucked at a loose thread on the blanket, wondering when Maltote would return.

  'Three kings,' he whispered, 'to the two fools' tower go with their two chevaliers.' He wondered who had composed the riddle. De Craon, Nogaret or Philip himself? What could it mean? Were they names of towns in Flanders? Would Philip's armies pour across the frontier and strike at certain vital cities as King Edward had in Scotland? Corbett felt his heart sink in despair. Most of the ciphers used by the French chancery could be solved eventually, simply because they conveyed long messages. The longer the cipher, the easier it was to break.

  But this short phrase? Corbett's mind moved on. He thought of Vechey's death chamber. How could a man be poisoned in a locked chamber with a servant inside, two guards outside, and no trace of the poison ever be discovered?

  'You should apply logic, Corbett,' he declared loudly and thought of the invitation he had recently received from the Chancellor of Oxford, inviting him to give a lecture in the Schools on Aristotle's logic and its effects on the study of the Quadrivium. Corbett smiled. How Maeve had teased him! He wondered how she was faring at Leigh ton Manor. Would she supervise the bailiffs? The harvest looked as if it would be good but the grain merchants in Cornhill couldn't be trusted as far as he could spit; he really should be present when this year's produce was sold. He thought of someone trying to swindle Maeve and grinned. She would have their head! Corbett's eyes grew heavy. He dozed for a while and was abruptly awoken by Ranulf crashing into the room.

  'For God's sake, man, what is it?' Corbett snarled. 'Are we under attack?'

  'No, Master,' Ranulf replied, still fresh and eager from his conversation with Rahere. 'But I have an idea about that cipher.'

  'Go on!'

  'Could it be a poem or a song?'

  Corbett narrowed his eyes. 'What made you think of that?'

  'Just a thought,' Ranulf lied. 'Perhaps a French song or a Flemish poem?'

  Corbett shook his head. 'It might be worth pursuing,' he muttered. 'But for the moment, let's deal with present problems.'

  And Corbett told Ranulf what the prisoners had said. Hiding his disappointment at his master's curt reception of his idea, he listened attentively.

  'They probably told you the truth,' he remarked. 'The same is true of the outlaw bands in Southwark. The human rats usually scavenge by themselves, but when one of the masters of that Devil's Kitchen plans some great stratagem, such as an attack upon a merchant's house or an ill-guarded convoy, they gather together.'

  'The problem is,' Corbett interrupted, 'what Robin and his coven do in between such actions. Where does he hide? Where does he go? Is he well guarded?'

  He went back to the table, sifting amongst the papers there. He picked up a quill, sharpened it, dipped it in the ink horn and listed his conclusions.

  'First, Robin Hood accepted the King's pardon in 1297, five years ago.' Corbett ran his finger down the report drawn up by the clerk at Westminster. 'Secondly, on the twenty-seventh of November, 1301, the chancery at Westminster issued a letter to Robin Hood, serving in the King's army in Scotland, granting his release from military service there and issuing a safe conduct for him and two companies to come south. On the same day, the royal clerks wrote a letter to Sir Eustace Vechey informing him that Robin Hood was returning to Nottingham, that he was still within the King's peace, was not to be molested and should be allowed to draw on the revenues of his manor at Locksley.

  'Now.' Corbett looked up and stared at Ranulf. 'Our outlaw friend must have been back in Nottingham sometime in mid-December. Apparently he did not go back to Locksley but returned to Sherwood where he resumed his old life as an outlaw. At first a little poaching and the occasional assault, but by the spring of this year he was organising ambushes on merchants and convoys, culminating in the murderous attack on Willoughby and his retinue.' Corbett scratched his chin. 'He has the same people with him, a tall man whom Willoughby thought was Little John and a woman, Lady Mary, better known as Maid Marion. He appears to have been dressed in exactly the same way as before, clothed in brown and green, a hood over his head, his face half-masked.

  'However, there are two differences. First, according to Brother William Scarlett, he is responsible for the death of some of his old band. Secondly, he robs the rich but there is very little evidence that he distributes his gains to the poor.' He looked up. 'Have I omitted anything, Ranulf?'

  'N
o. The one thing which cannot be explained is the outlaw's change in conduct. He has become more ruthless, vicious even.'

  'Umm!' Corbett nibbled the tip of the quill. 'That could be old age, growing cynicism, disillusionment with the King – God knows that would be easy-or determination to reinforce his authority over the outlaw gangs in Sherwood.'

  'There are two other matters,' Ranulf added. 'First, he has a confidant here in the castle. Secondly, we suspect a link between the outlaw and The Blue Boar tavern. We could arrest the landlord there and put him to the question.'

  Corbett shook his head. 'I doubt if he'd tell us much and we are wasting time on the minnows.' He stared down at the page and studied the dates. 'Let us think of Robin leaving the army in Scotland. Where would he go to first?'

  'His home at Locksley.'

  'And then where?'

  'Brother William said Lady Mary entered the convent at Kirklees Priory.'

  Corbett threw down the pen on the table. 'In which case he would have gone there. Whatever happens, Ranulf,' he continued, I'll give Maitote one more day, then I'll travel to Kirklees and Locksley to see what I can discover.'

  They talked for a while, Corbett being drawn to the window as soldiers of the castle jeered at the two outlaws hobbling out of the gate. The sun began to set like a fiery ball in the west. Ranulf pleaded some excuse and slipped away, his mind full of the comely Amisia, as Corbett summoned up courage to write a letter to the King. He made it short and terse, openly stating that he had discovered nothing.

  He'd hardly finished sealing it when a surly servant banged on the door, shouting that the evening meal was ready. Corbett washed and walked down to the main hall. He suddenly stopped half-way down; something he had just done had sparked a memory in his mind. He smiled, solemnly promising himself that he would pursue that line of thought at the proper time.

  The evening meal proved to be quite a cheerful affair. Branwood viewed the capture of the outlaws as at least a minor victory against Robin Hood. Maigret was still absorbed in discovering the poison used to kill Vechey and described a long list of possible noxious substances. Corbett listened to them carefully but kept his own counsel. He knew that the traitor and Vechey's assassin was probably seated with them at table. He glanced at Roteboeuf and Friar Thomas who had returned from his parish church, and wondered when the traitor would make a mistake.