by Paul Doherty
'You slept well, Ranulf?'
The manservant turned and spat.
'A little trouble. I hate forests,' he muttered. 'The darkness, the noises. Give me Southwark's alleyways any day.'
Corbett tried to reassure him but even as they entered the forest, began to share Ranulf's feelings. Sir Peter stopped in a small glade, sending forward scouts on either side of the trackway to search out any possible ambush. Then the whole column was ordered forward, swallowed up by the green darkness. They became acutely aware of the eerie silence. The sky disappeared. Corbett became conscious of every sound from the horses and men on the track and the darkness from the surrounding trees. The sweat broke out on the nape of his neck and he began to scrutinise the forest on either side, his imagination further agitated by the lack of bird song, the sound of bracken snapping and strange scuffling noises from the undergrowth. Corbett urged his horse forward.
'How deeply do we ride, Sir Peter?'
'Perhaps an hour, two hours. Then we'll swing round and march back. We are not hunting anyone.' The sheriff spoke as he too stared into the darkness on either side. 'We must show we are not just visitors from the castle.' He shrugged. 'Who knows? Perhaps we may be fortunate and flush something out of the undergrowth.'
The march continued, the scouts coming back occasionally to grip Branwood's horse and give him messages. Now and again they crossed a welcome glade where the darkness became less oppressive and Corbett recalled the stories people whispered: about the dark wood men, the small people, the eerie nightmare tales about goblins and elves. He was aware that he was in a world totally alien to his own. The King's writ or law had nothing to do with the forest. Corbett started, his stomach curdling with fear as a great stag, his horns high, burst out of the trees before him. The animal glanced arrogantly at the horsemen before quietly slipping away deeper into the forest.
Sir Peter held up his hand, the column stopped and he turned round.
'You see what I mean, Sir Hugh?'
He was about to continue when, from the dark depths of the forest, came the lilting, mournful blast of a hunting horn. The soldiers muttered, horses skittering with fright, and drew swords, the hiss of steel sounding unnaturally loud. Archers unslung their bows. The sound of the horn died away, only to be taken up again, this time closer, more powerful and from the other side of the forest. Arrows whirred round them. Sir Peter drew his sword. Corbett did likewise. Ranulf was almost wild with panic. Naylor shouted orders and the archers returned fire whilst the mounted men tried to protect themselves behind their long, oval shields. Ranulf dismounted and peered amongst the threshing horses.
'Nothing!' he yelled. 'I can't see any of the bastards!'
His shout was echoed by a whirring sound, like the wings of a swooping bird. A soldier stupid enough to lower his shield took a long, feathered arrow full in the chest and the still crisp air became filled with whirring winged death. A horseman fell, eyelids fluttering as the arrow pierced his throat just above his gorget. Corbett turned his horse round.
'Sir Peter!' he yelled. 'Quickly!'
He glimpsed shadows flitting through the trees. Corbett braved the whirring arrows, stood high in the stirrups and pointed. Branwood, his head encased in a great helm, followed Corbett's gaze.
'We'll be surrounded!' Branwood yelled.
He took off his helmet and ordered Naylor to blow three horn blasts, the signal for retreat. The column needed no second bidding. Ranulf remounted and followed Corbett back along the forest track, arrows whirling around him, one even bouncing off the high horn of Ranulf's saddle. Corbett's warning had been prophetic for the outlaws were drawing closer, trying to cut the column off completely. The sheriff's archers were also running or clutching the stirrups of the horsemen. The confusion was indescribable. One horse, maddened with fear, rose up on its hind legs, high in the air, throwing its rider into a clump of bushes. The fellow clambered to his feet to stand, rooted to the spot by panic, until an arrow caught him full in the mouth.
At last the column, in total disarray, managed to distance itself from the ambush. Sir Peter ordered a general halt except for Naylor who galloped back along the track to urge on the few stragglers.
'We cannot stop, Sir Peter!' Corbett gasped.
'We'll retreat in order,' the under-sheriff replied, nursing a small cut on the back of his hand.
Naylor returned. The horsemen threw a screen round the archers and Sir Peter led his bloodied, disorganised troop out of the thinning forest. They did not pause until they were clear of the trees and able to rest in a daisy-filled meadow. A quick count was made whilst soldiers staunched wounds and checked their equipment. Sir Peter sat morosely on the ground, holding the reins of his horse. Eventually he glared sourly at Corbett and Ranulf, still seated on their mounts.
'Master Clerk, you are not going to say I told you so?'
'How many men did we lose?' Corbett snapped.
'All in all,' Naylor replied, 'it could have been worse. One habelor, two archers and three horsemen are missing.'
Sir Peter cursed. 'Tell the men to lead their horses. We'll skirt the town and re-enter the castle by a postern gate.'
Corbett and Ranulf walked with the rest as Sir Peter's soldiers trudged back along the lanes, the horses blown and covered with foam. The men were in no better state. One was grievously wounded, the rest suffering from cuts and slight scratches. The injured soldier, an arrow embedded just below his knee, was forced to sit in the saddle, white-faced and swaying. He would have fallen off if his companion had not removed the arrowhead with his knife, cleansed the wound with some coarse wine and tightly bound the bleeding gash with strips of cloth.
Corbett was thankful to be unscathed. Ranulf seemed relieved just to be out of the forest.
'You look dreadful,' he whispered to Corbett and stared at his master's tousled hair and face scratched by overhanging branches.
'We could all have died!' Corbett exclaimed. 'That was stupid. What is more, it was no chance meeting. Those outlaws were waiting for us.' He raised his voice. 'Sir Peter!'
The sheriff joined him.
'That ambush,' Corbett said, 'who could have told them?'
Branwood shook his head. 'I don't know, Sir Hugh. But if I do find out, I'll tell you just before I hang the bastard!'
Despite Branwood's route, his return to the castle was observed and his disgrace noted. News of their defeat had somehow gone before and townspeople gathered on either side of the cobbled trackway leading up to the postern gate. Corbett bore it philosophically but he felt for the under-sheriff who couldn't fail to hear the sniggers and muffled laughter. Sir Peter's humiliation was complete. He rode more like a man being taken out to death than the King's representative.
Once back in the castle, Physician Maigret and Friar Thomas came down. The former attended the wounded whilst the friar took personal care of Sir Peter, leading him gently away, murmuring softly as if consoling a beaten schoolboy. Corbett threw his reins at an ostler and stood for a while with Ranulf watching the soldiers unsaddle their horses and stack their weapons. Once the news of their return and their losses had spread, the keening and mourning began. Corbett turned away in disgust.
'Come on, Ranulf. This is a royal castle in the King's shire of Nottingham, not some outpost on the Scottish march.'
They went back to their chamber where they washed and cleaned their own wounds.
'Discretion is the wisest course of action,' Corbett muttered, lying down on the bed. 'I do not think Sir Peter will wish to to see us today.'
Ranulf sat on a stool and chewed his lip.
'Master, who could the traitor be?'
'Anyone,' Corbett replied. 'Anyone in this castle who knew we were leaving. Sir Peter had to display his authority, but was it really worth it?'
'But how is the outlaw to be caught?' Ranulf asked. He moved over to the window but stood warily to one side for he had not forgotten the previous day's attack.
'Our sweet Robin,' Corbett sardonica
lly commented, 'will not be caught by floundering about in the forest. I have no intention of returning there to blunder about waiting for an arrow to take me in the throat. The wolfshead must be enticed out, but what can we use as bait?'
'There is another way,' Ranulf replied. 'If you found his spy here…'
Corbett sat up. 'Strange you should say that. Did you notice Naylor went with us into the forest, Maigret and Friar Thomas were waiting for our return, but have you caught sight of Master Roteboeuf?'
'Do you think he could be the traitor?'
'Yes, he might be. He showed little grief over Sir Eustace's death and, as you remarked, is capable of bearing arms. So why didn't he come with us or at least wait for our return?' Corbett chewed the quick of his thumb nail, then grinned at his tousled-headed, white-faced manservant. 'Don't worry, Ranulf, we are hardly likely to go back into the forest but you are right. If we catch the traitor we remove Robin Hood's most powerful supporter and, more importantly, we'll probably hang the murderer of both Sir Eustace and poor Lecroix.' Corbett swung his legs off the bed. 'Let's stay busy, Ranulf.'
'And do what?'
'Well, we can't question Lecroix. He has gone to meet his maker. So let's pretend to be two mummers in a play and re-trace Vechey's steps the night he died. At the same time, we'll send for Roteboeuf.'
Corbett filled his wine cup and went down to the hall. Except for one servant whom Corbett sent to summon Roteboeuf, the place was deserted as the garrison huddled in groups outside in the bailey to hear about the disaster in the forest, tended their injured or, like Sir Peter, sulked morosely in private, licking their wounds.
Corbett went up to the table on the dais. 'Now according to what we know, Vechey left the hall, followed by Lecroix and Maigret.' He walked to the door. 'Our dead sheriff carried a cup of wine which had been tasted for him at table as was everything he put in his mouth. He went up to his chamber. None of the others in the household are affected except Sir Peter, who returned for his wine cup. It tasted rather strange so he threw it away.' Corbett then walked upstairs, Ranulf trailing behind him. They stopped outside Vechey's chamber. 'What happened next?'
'According to our good physician, Vechey made him re-taste the wine. The sheriff then went into the chamber,' Ranulf continued, 'Lecroix with him. The door was locked from the inside and two soldiers stood on guard.'
'Which means,' Corbett replied, 'that Maigret, Friar Thomas, Peter Branwood, Roteboeuf, or indeed anyone else in the castle could have slipped back into the hall and poisoned Branwood's wine.'
'Right.' Corbett pushed the door open and went into the death chamber. It was still squalid and dark: the dirty rushes scuffed into piles, the bed drapes half-pulled, the blankets and sheets all disarranged. The cup holding the stale dregs of wine still stood untouched, as did the scum-covered water in the lavarium bowl and the plate of sweetmeats with the flies hovering over them. Ranulf went and sat on Lecroix's trestle bed whilst Corbett pretended to repeat exactly what Vechey must have done though he was careful not to sip the wine, touch the water or taste any of the decaying sweetmeats. He then pretended to wash and dry his face and hands, careful not to touch the blood-spattered napkin, and went to lie down on top of the stale-smelling blankets.
'Have I missed anything?' he called.
Ranulf shook his head.
'Then in God's name…'
Corbett's words were cut off as the door was pushed open and an anxious-faced Roteboeuf came into the chamber.
'Sir Eustace's death is still a mystery, Sir Hugh?'
'Everything's a mystery,' Corbett snapped, getting up. 'Why did Robin go back to the forest? Why does he kill? How were Sir Eustace and Lecroix murdered? And, above all, who was the traitor who would have had us all killed in the forest?' Corbett glared at him. 'Which is why I sent for you.'
Roteboeuf stepped back.
'Why didn't you go with us?' Ranulf challenged. He pointed to the wrist-guard peeping out from underneath one of Roteboeuf's sleeves. 'You are an accomplished archer.'
'I am a clerk.'
'So am I!' Corbett snapped.
Roteboeuf scratched his head and sat on the stool, pulling his hose so tight Ranulf thought they would split.
'Why didn't you come?' Corbett repeated.
'Oh, what's the use?' Roteboeuf sighed. 'In a word, Sir Hugh, I am a coward. No, that's not right. I hate the forest and have no desire to die there.'
'You are Nottingham born?' Corbett asked, ignoring Roteboeuf's excuses.
'Yes, I was born within the walls.'
'So you know the stories and legends of Robin Hood?'
'Everyone does.' Roteboeuf got to his feet and stared anxiously round. Corbett sensed that beneath his cheery exterior, he was suspicious and worried.
'What's the matter?' Ranulf jibed. 'No one likes to die, particularly with an arrow in the throat in some God-forsaken forest. Anyway, what are you frightened of now?'
Roteboeuf forced a smile. 'Nothing! I just feel sorry for Sir Peter. We all accept there's a traitor in the castle and no man is free from suspicion.' He walked over to Corbett. 'But if you really want to know about Robin Hood,' he whispered, 'why ask me? Go down to the house of the friars which lies at the foot of the castle rock. Ask Father Prior if you can speak to Will Scarlett who serves as a lay brother there.'
'Scarlett? Robin's lieutenant in the old days?'
'The same. You see, Robin was a very young man when he first fled to the forest, Scarlett much older. When the outlaws accepted the King's pardon, Scarlett went home but his wife died of the pestilence. He saw that as God's judgement so now he does reparation behind the friary walls.'
'Why didn't Sir Peter Branwood tell us about this?'
Roteboeuf stared anxiously about. 'What does it matter, Sir Hugh? Scarlett has now accepted the King's peace. If Vechey or Branwood had found out otherwise, they would drag Scarlett from the friary and hang him on the castle walls just for the sake of it. I am telling you because, as the King's Commissioner, you might reassure him.' Roteboeuf stared at them, shrugged and slipped out of the room.
Corbett gazed at the half-open door.
'There goes a very worried man,' he commented. 'Right, Ranulf, let's leave this accursed castle and make hay whilst the sun shines. Let us visit this man Scarlett.'
'What about Achitophel?' Ranulf warned. 'If he is hunting you, surely he'll now be in the town waiting to seize his opportunity?'
Corbett smiled. 'De Craon has been hunting my head for years. So far, thank God, he has never taken it.'
They left the castle by a postern door and followed the winding path down around the crag, past the dark mouths of caves burrowed into the rock. Corbett stopped outside The Trip to Jerusalem.
'No sign of Maltote yet,' he remarked, watching the busy yard full of horses as travellers, tinkers, pedlars and merchants crowded in to spend the profits of a morning's trade.
They walked down a small side street, the gables of the houses jutting out above them. Children waded knee-deep in the sewer, throwing pieces of offal at the dogs or fending off the pigs with sharp little sticks. They turned a corner, went down a small lane and stopped before the main gate of the friary.
A grumbling lay brother answered the jangling bell and ushered them along paved corridors to Father Prior's room. The latter was hardly welcoming: a tall, severe man, Prior Joachim regarded both Corbett and Ranulf with the utmost suspicion. Only when Corbett produced letters and warrants from the King did the Prior relax and offer refreshment which Corbett courteously refused.
'So.' Prior Joachim steepled his spindly fingers and leaned across his desk. 'You wish to see Brother William?'
Corbett stretched out his legs. 'Father Prior, what is the matter? I am the King's Commissioner. Brother William has nothing to fear from me.'
The Prior rustled some parchment sheets on his desk.
'Brother William has now accepted the King's peace,' Corbett insisted. 'He has nothing to fear.'
'He thinks d
ifferently.' The Prior's head snapped back. 'Over the last few months, ever since the outlaw returned to Sherwood, Brother William has refused to meet visitors or accept any gifts. You see. Sir Hugh, Brother William is one of the most famous members of our community. His exploits with Robin Hood are legendary.'
'But now he sees no one?'
'Exactly.'
'Why?'
'I don't know.' The Prior bit his lip. 'We live in turbulent, dangerous times. Perhaps Brother William should answer that himself.'
He led them deeper into the friary, across the cloister garth, past the entrance to the small church and into the gardens. A burly gardener crouched over the herb banks, glowered then turned his back on them as the Prior led his visitors to a stone cell which stood by itself on the borders of a small orchard. He tapped on the door. 'Who is it?' called a reedy voice.
The Prior explained. Corbett heard shuffling steps, a key being turned in the lock and the door was flung open by a tall man dressed in a dark robe. He had a long, scraggy neck and a small, weather-beaten face, but his eyes were surprisingly bright and watchful. Prior Joachim murmured introductions. He said he would wait outside whilst Brother William ushered Corbett and Ranulf into a small, white-washed chamber, stark and severe. The room was dominated by a large crucifix and had only a few sticks of furniture. Corbett noticed how the friar locked the door behind them before gesturing at the bench whilst he sat on a wafer-thin pallet bed.
'I have nothing to offer you.' Brother William's sunburned fingers flickered an apology.
'We have not come to eat and drink.'
The friar smiled, touched his white hair and winked at Ranulf.
'Do you know this was once as red as yours, hence my name.' His smile died as his eyes became watchful. 'You are here to ask questions?'