by Paul Doherty
'That's the last time I'm eating that bloody cheese!' The rat-catcher's beady eyes studied Corbett. 'Or better still, Master, perhaps you should be more careful what you drink!'
Corbett went back into the tavern, shouting for the landlord as he tried to control his own fear at the horrible death he had just escaped. He handed over the tankard as well as another coin.
'That is the most expensive meal I have ever bought.'
The taverner looked at him quizzically.
'I want that tankard destroyed,' Corbett insisted. 'And a cup of your best claret. But I will choose the cup and broach the cask myself.'
Guy of Gisborne stopped and peered through the trees on either side. His red face glistened with sweat under his heavy iron helm and mailed coif. He smiled in satisfaction as he surveyed his line of foresters and verderers.
'I'll show the King,' he whispered, 'his sombre clerk and that bastard Branwood how to kill an outlaw!'
Gisborne's heart skipped a beat in pleasure at what he planned for Robin Hood. Gisborne detested the wolfshead with his much vaunted love for the common man, his consummate skill with a bow, his knowledge of the forest and, above all, the way he had on several occasions tricked and ambushed Gisborne himself only to receive the King's grace and favour.
Gisborne ground his teeth and winced in pain at an abscess high in his gum. He had been forced to watch Robin Hood become a member of the King's own chamber, stroll like any lord through the streets of Nottingham or amongst the silken pavilions of Edward's generals in Scotland. Gisborne had seen how the King had favoured the outlaw, granting him special privileges, using the outlaw's skills as the English hunted the Scottish rebel leader Wallace through the wild glens and woods of Scotland. But now Robin had returned to Sherwood. Gisborne forgot his pain for this time the outlaw had put himself beyond the law, stealing the King's taxes and executing his officers as if they were common malefactors. Today would be different. Gisborne would hunt the outlaw down, but not with an armed band of knights, clattering like a peal of bells through the forest. These verderers and foresters would flush out Robin as they would a hart or a wild boar. Gisborne would trap him, mete out punishment, then tie him to the horn of his saddle and ride the wolfshead naked through Nottingham so all could see Gisborne's glory and the outlaw's downfall.
'Sir Guy? My Lord of Gisborne?'
Guy glanced sideways at the dark, elfin face of his chief huntsman, Mordred.
'My Lord, you are pleased?' 'Your lord is pleased.'
Gisborne stared into the green darkness ahead of him. He couldn't position the sun but guessed it was past midday and already he was driving bands of outlaws deeper into the forest. A mile on either side of him, lines of well-armed huntsmen prepared to close the next net. Gisborne had deployed his soldiers like the horns of a bull, sweeping the dirt and refuse of the forest before them. Sooner or later he would flush out Robin Hood and trap him against a marsh or rocky escarpment. Or, better still, out in the open countryside where Gisborne's horsemen would seal the trap. Guy rocked himself to and fro as he peered through the surrounding forest. He had spent every penny he had on this venture but the King would repay him and Branwood would have to eat the dust from his cloak.
'My Lord of Gisborne?' Mordred spoke up again.
Sir Guy caught the note of anxiety in the man's voice.
'What is it, man?'
'My Lord, we are moving too fast.'
'Good. It will give the outlaws little time to re-group.'
'Sir Guy, I beg you, the outlaws are fleeing but could be leading us into a trap.'
'Nonsense!' Gisborne snapped. He gripped his sword tighter. 'Give the order to advance!'
'My Lord…' Mordred's words were cut off.
Gisborne angrily raised his horn, giving three long haunting blasts, and then ran forward in a half-crouch.
They came to the edge of a glade. Mordred scrabbled at Gisborne's arm but the knight shrugged him off. He felt the blood beat in his temples. He ran across the sun-dappled grass, Mordred and the others loping beside him. In the dark greenness before them, a single horn blast greeted them. Mordred and the foresters stopped. Sir Guy ran on. Another blast of that horn, sombre, sinister, and the air was full of speeding death. The grey, goose-quilled arrows fell like a silent deadly rain. Mordred saw men to his right and left drop, kicking and spluttering, as arrows took them in the throat and chest.
'Sir Guy!' he screamed.
But Gisborne ran on. Another flight of arrows. Now the glade was full of screams. Men sprawled on the ground, jerking in their death throes, dark bloody pools glistening on the green grass. Mordred raised his own horn. One shrill blast and his men fled back into the shelter of the trees. Sir Guy, however, charged on, forcing his way through the bracken on the other side of the glade, his sword held out in front of him. No arrow hit him. He felt protected, a sure sign that God's favour was with him. A hooded figure, face masked, stepped out from behind a tree.
'Welcome to Sherwood, Sir Guy!'
Gisborne turned, his mind seething with fury. He half-lifted his sword and ran, shouting curses at this man who had taunted him for years. Gisborne's foot caught a root and he fell headlong, sword flying out of his grasp. He stared up at the cowled figure bending over him. Gisborne's lips curled in a smile.
'You!'
It was his last word. The dark figure raised his sword then brought it crashing down on the line of exposed flesh between Gisborne's coif and hauberk.
Chapter 9
Corbett reached Locksley later that evening, a small hamlet with barn-shaped buildings on either side of a dusty track, a village green, communal well and rough makeshift church, the simple thatched nave built alongside a rough-hewn tower. Corbett stopped at the ale house, a stone-built cottage with a stake hooked under its eaves. The ale wife, a slattern with shifty eyes and dressed in a greasy smock, served what she termed 'freshly brewed ale'. The other villagers sipped their beer and gawked at this stranger before returning to listen to one of their number recount how he had seen a demon on the edge of the forest, a shadowy form with a face of glowing iron.
Corbett half-listened to the tale as he sat on a bench and watched the door of the ale house. Since leaving the pilgrims just south of Haversage, he believed his mysterious, murderous pursuer had given up the chase but wanted to be sure. He had ridden thirty miles and was saddle-sore, his horse nearly blown, and he was reluctant to spend the night out in the open. The clerk's eyes grew heavy and he dozed, to be woken by a rough hand shaking his shoulder. Corbett jumped, hand going to his dagger, but the man standing over him was old and venerable, his face thin and ascetic though his eyes were smiling and his manner friendly.
'You are a stranger here?' The voice was soft, burred by a strong accent.
Corbett saw the tonsure on the man's pate, the black dusty robes and sandalled feet.
'You are a priest?'
'Aye, Father Edmund. This is my parish, for my sins. I have served the church of St Oswald for many a year. I was told there was a stranger here so I came down. I thought perhaps you were…'
Corbett, fully awake, gestured to him to sit on the bench.
'You want something to drink, Father?' 'No, no.' The man patted his stomach. 'Never on an empty belly.'
'Who did you think I was, Father? Someone from Robin Hood's band?'
The priest gripped Corbett's wrist. 'Shush!' Father Edmund threw a warning look at him and glanced quickly round the tavern to see if anyone else had heard his words.
'Who are you?' the priest muttered.
'My name is Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King's Secret Seal.'
The priest's eyes widened. 'So it has come to this,' he murmured.
'To what, Father?'
'No, come with me.' The priest stood up. 'You haven't eaten and I suspect you haven't a bed for the night. I can give you some broth, bread which is soft, a bed that is hard, and wine which perhaps has seen better days.'
Corbett grinned and got to his
feet.
'In the circumstances, Father, your offer is princely and generous.'
They went outside. Corbett unhitched his horse and followed the stoop-backed priest through the gathering darkness towards the church. The priest's house was a red-tiled, yellow-brick building standing behind St Oswald's, separated from it by the cemetery, hather Edmund helped him stable his horse in one of the outhouses, sending his own nag, a broken-down hack, to graze amongst the tombstones whilst he brought water, oats and fresh straw for bedding.
Corbett was then taken to the house, stark, simple but very clean. The floor was of beaten earth covered with rushes fresh from the riverside, green, soft and sweet-smelling. A flitch of bacon hung to cure above the small hearth gave off a tangy, salty smell. The rest of the room was filled with a few sticks of furniture, one large parish chest, a number of coffers, and in the corner, partitioned off from the rest of the room, a small cot bed above which hung a huge wooden cross.
Father Edmund pulled up a stool before the fire and gently stirred the pot until it bubbled over the small fire he had lit. Corbett was then served bowls of tasty soup, thick with vegetables and pieces of meat, brown bread made of coarse rye, and red wine that was strong and tangy. Corbett sipped it whilst waiting for the soup to cool. He grinned at the priest.
'I have drunk much worse in many of London's taverns,' he commented. 'In fact, it would be difficult to find better.'
Father Edmund smiled in appreciation.
'It's my one weakness,' he murmured. 'No, no, I am not a toper but I do love red wine. Do you know, the blessed Thomas of Becket, when he became Archbishop, gave up the joys of the world but the one thing he would never sacrifice was his claret.' Father Edmund's eyes grew serious. 'This comes from a small tun given to me by Robin Hood. Or, as he was baptised in the church next door, Robin of Locksley. Why have you come here, Sir Hugh? To trap and hang him?' The priest moved uneasily on his stool. 'We have heard the stories.'
'What stories, Father?'
'The attack upon the tax-collectors, the brutal deaths. The priest cradled his wine cup and stared into the fire. 'God knows why,' he breathed, 'but Robin came back from the wars a bitter man.'
'You've met him?' Corbett asked.
'Yes, at the end of November. He visited me here.'
'How did he seem?'
'Weary. Don't forget, Sir Hugh, he is in his fifties and sickened by the sights seen whilst serving with the King's armies in Scotland. He said he'd had enough of King and court and was going to Kirklees where the Lady Mary was sheltering.'
'Was he by himself?'
'Yes. He just walked into the village on foot, that great long bow slung over his shoulder. I asked him where Little John was, or more appropriately John Little. Robin said that John had deserted from the King's armies and they had agreed to meet at Kirklees.'
'Did Robin say what he was going to do in the future?'
'He said he would take Lady Mary away from Kirklees. They would marry in my church and become "Lord and Lady Stay At Home".'
Corbett broke up his bread, crumbled it into the soup and carefully sipped from the horn spoon.
'But he never came back, did he?' Corbett asked between mouthfuls.
'No,' Father Edmund sighed. 'He left here the next morning. Something happened at Kirklees. Something which changed Robin. He didn't return here and the manor at Locksley is now decaying under the care of an old steward.' The priest shook his head. 'I can't understand it. Robin walked up that road and disappeared.' He sipped from his cup. 'I heard no more until the stories began to circulate, so I went to Kirklees. The Lady Prioress, Dame Elizabeth Stainham, is a distant kinswoman of Robin. She had afforded protection to the Lady Mary.' Father Edmund raised his thin shoulders. 'She could tell me nothing. Robin had arrived. Little John was already waiting for him. The Lady Mary joined them and, instead of going to Locksley, they went back into Sherwood. She, too, was surprised and shocked at the stories she had heard.' Father Edmund stared anxiously at his guest. 'What will happen to him, Sir Hugh?'
Corbett put the earthenware bowl down.
'I won't lie, Father. They'll hunt him down. If Sir Peter Branwood does not catch him, if Sir Guy of Gisborne fails, if I cannot entice him out into the open, the King will send others north. They will double and treble the price on his head and one day they'll find a traitor to betray him.'
The priest looked away but not quickly enough. Corbett saw the tears pricking those sad old eyes.
'Why, Father Edmund? Why did Robin change?'
'Listen,' the priest continued. 'Listen to this, Sir Hugh.'
He shuffled over to the parish chest, unclasped the three padlocks and scrabbled around, muttering. He lifted up the candle, gave a murmur of satisfaction and came back with a small scrap of parchment in his hand. The priest smoothed the parchment out on his lap and, holding the candle over it, began to read.
'Once,' he declared, his finger following the line of words, 'a poor peasant man died but his soul was unclaimed by either angel or devil. However, the peasant was determined to reach Paradise and eventually arrived outside its gates. Here St Peter came before him. "Go away, peasant!" he cried. "Peasants are not allowed into heaven!"
'"Why not?" the peasant shouted back. "You, Peter, denied Christ. I have never done that. You, St Paul, persecuted Christians and I have never done that. You, bishops and priests, have neglected others and I have never done that."
'St Peter,' Father Edmund continued, enjoying the story, 'eventually called for Christ to drive the peasant off and Le Bon Seigneur arrived, clothed in glory, outside the gates of Paradise.
'"Judge me, O Christ!" the peasant cried, "You caused me to be born in misery but I endured my troubles without complaint. I was told to believe in the gospel and I did. I was told to share my bread and water with the poor and I did. In sickness I confessed and received the sacraments. I kept your commandments. I fought to gain Paradise because you told me to. So here I shall stay."
'Christ smiled at the peasant and turned to reprove Peter. "Let this man come in for he is to sit at my right hand and become a lord of heaven."'
Father Edmund finished speaking and stared down at the piece of parchment which he reverently curled up into a thin scroll.
'You may ask, Sir Hugh, who wrote that? I did, but I copied it word for word from a speech Robin of Locksley gave to the villagers on the last Yuletide before he went north to join the King's armies in Scotland. That is why I took you from that ale house. If any man, woman or child in this village thought you meant to harm Robin of Locksley, they would kill you!'
And before Corbett could stop him, the priest threw the piece of parchment into the fire.
'But now it's all over,' the priest murmured. 'The soul of the man who spoke those words is dead.' He smiled and blinked back the tears. 'And I am a babbling old priest who drank strong wine too quickly. I can say no more about Robin Hood.'
They finished their meal. Corbett helped the old priest wash the cups and bowls then Father Edmund insisted that Corbett use his bed.
'You are not taking anything I need,' he declared. 'I am old. From the cemetery outside I have heard the owl hoot my name. Death can't be far off so I spend my nights praying before the altar.' He grinned sheepishly. 'Though I do confess, I spend some of the time sleeping.'
The priest doused the fire, made sure his guest was comfortable and then slipped quietly into the night.
Corbett lay down on the hard bed and thought about what the priest had told him, but within minutes he was fast asleep. He woke refreshed the next morning to find Father Edmund busying himself in the kitchen. Outside the sun had not yet burnt off the thick mist which shrouded the cemetery and church. It was still quite cold. Corbett shivered as he put his cloak round his shoulders and followed the old priest across the graveyard to celebrate the dawn mass.
Afterwards they broke their fast in the kitchen. Father Edmund, in a lighter mood, refused any payment and avidly listened to Corbett's talk of
the outside world. At last the clerk got to his feet.
'Father, I must go. Your generosity is much appreciated. Are you sure I cannot pay?'
The old priest shook his head.
'Only one favour or boon I ask,' he replied. 'If the outlaw is captured alive – and I repeat if – I would like to see him before any sentence is carried out. Now, listen.'
Father Edmund busied himself to hide his distress. He dug into his old leather wallet and brought out a small metal badge depicting the head of St James Compostela. He handed this to Corbett and smiled.
'When I was younger and much more nimble, I went to the shrine in Spain and brought scores of these back as proof. Show this to Naismith. He is the old steward of Locksley. He'll know that I sent you. God speed!'
Corbett thanked the priest, assuring him that he would try and grant his favour. He collected his horse and, remembering Father Edmund's directions, rode through the silent village. He followed the cobbled track which wound through the open fields to where Locksley Manor stood on the brow of a small hill. The mist began to lift, the sun strengthening. Nevertheless Corbett found Locksley Manor an eerie, ghostly place. The double wooden gates hung askew on their hinges, the surrounding wall was beginning to crumble, whilst the pathways up to the main door and the yards and gardens were overgrown by brambles and weeds. One part of the roof had already lost its tiles. The windows were firmly shuttered, the paint and wood on the outside beginning to decay.
Corbett left his horse to crop a small patch of grass which surrounded a disused fountain and hammered on the front door, shouting for Naismith. The sound echoed eerily through the empty house. Corbett thought the place deserted then he heard the shuffle of feet and the jangle of keys. Locks were turned and the door swung open. A small, squat, bald-headed man glared up at him.