by Paul Doherty
'Can't a man sleep?' he bawled, scratching his pate, shiny as a pigeon's egg. 'I goes to sleep and wakes to hear a knocking as if Angel Gabriel is here. What's the matter? Is it the last trumpet?'
Corbett hid a smile and politely introduced himself, displaying the ring he wore and, more importantly, Father Edmund's metal badge. Naismith's watery, short-sighted eyes peered up at him.
'Not an angel,' he muttered. 'Perhaps a demon. You'd better come in! You'd better come in!'
Corbett followed him down the dank, dilapidated passageway. He noticed how the plaster on the walls was beginning to flake; the paving-stones underfoot were cracked; some doors were bolted whilst others hung askew. The manor house had been cleared of all its possessions, not even a stick of furniture or a tawdry arras remained. The walls were completely bare. Naismith led Corbett into a small buttery. The clerk gazed round and realised Naismith lived, slept and ate here for it boasted a small cot bed, chest, a table, stools and, rather incongruously, a high-backed chair, cleverly carved with a quilted leather backing and cushion. Naismith sat himself down in this as grandly as a prince.
'What do you want?' he asked guardedly.
Corbett explained and was pleased to see Naismith's hard face soften.
'Father Edmund's correct,' Naismith replied. 'God knows what happened to the master. He comes back from the wars tired and sickened of blood, yet still full of hope. He was only here a few hours then he says he's off to Kirklees. He wants to see the Lady Mary. So off he goes. He said he would return. He swore he would. He said he had gold to refurbish the manor.' Naismith slumped in the chair. 'But he didn't come back,' he continued weakly. 'I hears he goes to Kirklees then back to Sherwood where the killing began.'
'Did he say anything?' Corbett queried.
'He was bitter. Bitter about the King, bitter about life; sad he had left Mary but looking forward to meeting her and John Little at Kirklees. At first I thought that the Robin of Locksley I knew and the murderer in Sherwood were two different people, but they aren't.' Naismith got up and shuffled towards a small coffer. He brought out sheafs of parchment, greasy and finger-marked, and thrust these at Corbett. 'You see, Master, when Robin was in Sherwood he'd often send me messages. Of course, he was wary of any law officer trying to trap him here so we agreed he would always use a purple type of ink and seal each letter with his own secret mark.'
Corbett studied the manuscripts, some faded, others more recent.
'Was he literate?' Corbett asked. 'Could he read and write?'
'A little, but he always got some clerk to write for him. God knows, Master, there's enough wolvesheads, if you'll pardon my saying so, who began their careers in the halls ot Cambridge or Oxford.'
Corbett smiled and studied the scraps of parchment.
'And the secret mark?'
Naismith pointed to a small blob of wax on the corner of a manuscript. Corbett took this over to the light and studied it carefully. The wax bore the imprint, rather crude but effective, of a man standing, bow in one hand, arrow in the other. He knew such signets were common for landowners, even yeomen, had to certify documents and protect themselves against forgery.
Corbett quickly read the most recent messages, merely requests for Naismith to sell all the manor's moveables, both furniture and stock, and arrange to have the monies collected late at night.
'What happened?' Corbett asked. 'Did the outlaw return and collect what was his?'
'Sometimes at night. It only happened on two or three occasions. A man would arrive bearing a message from Robin, I would hand the money over and the fellow would disappear like some will-o'-the-wisp.'
'Why?' Corbett asked.
Why what?'
'Why would the outlaw sell everything he had here?'
Naismith shrugged as if past caring. 'Like Father Edmund, I am an old man,' he said. 'I have done what I can and can do no more. I have served this family since I could walk. If the master orders something, then Naismith does it. But, to answer your question bluntly, I don't think Robin of Locksley wishes to come back here.' Naismith shrugged and looked around. 'After all, the manor is not much: stables, some pastures, a little arable. Perhaps the master may go away.'
'And you can tell me no more?'
'What I know you now know, and that is the end of the matter.'
Corbett thanked Naismith, collected his horse and rode back to the trackway. The morning mist was now burnt off and the sun already felt hot on his back. For a while he listened to the sounds from the fields: the chatter of insects, the cries of the foraging birds, and the haunting, liquid song of the wood dove. Corbett stared round satisfied he was in no danger. His pursuer had either given up the chase or perhaps was waiting for another day and another place. He kicked his horse gently forward then stopped and stared back at the dilapidated manor. Everything pointed to Kirklees. Something had happened there which had tipped Robin of Locksley's mind into a maelstrom of murderous madness. A man devoted to revenge. But why? And how could Corbett trap him?
He sat chewing the quick of his thumb nail. It was already approaching the end of June. The King wanted a reply on the matter of the cipher in the next few days. Corbett felt uneasy. But how could he resolve it, keep himself safe from the assassin Achitophel and track down an outlaw who was as elusive as a shadow in the thickness of Sherwood Forest? He stared down at the ring on his finger. The King had given him one final choice.
'If you can't do it, Corbett,' he had roared, 'if you can't stop this bloody outlaw, then offer him a pardon, an amnesty for all crimes, provided he returns my taxes and pays blood-money for the men he killed!'
Corbett gazed unseeingly across the fields. Should he do so? A bird fluttered in a tree nearby, making him think about the great oaks and elms which surrounded Leighton Manor. A sudden thought made his heart jump. What if Achitophel was not tracking him? Perhaps the murderous assault at the tavern was the work of the outlaw, intent on killing Corbett as he had Sir Eustace Vechey? If that was the case where was the assassin? Was he in Nottingham? London? Or, even worse, out at Leighton Manor, perhaps threatening Maeve and his household? Should he go back there? Corbett kicked his horse forward.
'De Craon would like that,' he spoke aloud. 'That would warm the cockles of his cold heart. Corbett being so distressed he leaves everything to protect his own kith and kin…'
In a secret chamber high in the Louvre Palace, Philip Le Bel, King of France, knelt before a statue of his sainted ancestor the Blessed Louis, and prayed for the success of his armies in Flanders. The French King was noted both for his beauty and impassivity, his marble white face, strange green eyes and bloodless lips framed by the lustrous Capetian blond hair.
Yet Philip felt both distracted and excited. He closed his eyes and thought about the troops now camped along his northern borders. Squadrons of heavy cavalry. Rank after rank of Genoese bowmen. The great lords with their foot soldiers, the banners, the golden lilies on a sea-blue background and, furled in the tent of his own commander, the Sacred Oriflamme, the King's own banner, usually kept behind the high altar at St Denis. When Philip gave the word, this banner would be taken out and flown as a sign to the rebellious Flemings that Philip's soldiers would take no prisoners.
He breathed in deeply. His spies in the Flemish towns had sent letters south full of good news. How, in each city those Flemings partial to his cause, the 'Lileantists' or Lily Men, were ready to open the gates to his soldiers. Philip could have hugged himself with glee. Those Flemings who resisted were hopping like fleas on a hot plate, sending plea after plea to Edward of England for help and assistance. But Edward couldn't do that, he was bound by treaty. Oh, he could send gold secretly but what use would that be? The Flemings might hire soldiers and buy arms from the princes across the Rhine, but where would they deploy such men? As one of Philip s spies put it, they were like rabbits huddled in their burrow, not knowing through which hole the ferret will come'. Philip knew, his two counsellors seated behind him at the table also, the d
ark-faced William of Nogaret and pale, red-bearded Amaury de Craon.
Philip crossed himself and got to his feet. He heard a faint cry from the courtyard below and opened the stained-glass window to peer out. For a while he watched the scene below. A huge wheel had been fixed against the wall of the courtyard and a man had been strapped to it, hands and feet lashed to the spokes. One executioner turned the wheel whilst another, using a slim iron bar, broke the man's arms and legs and pounded his naked body. Now and again the prisoner would regain consciousness and scream for mercy as his bruised body quivered in pain, but the torture went on. Philip watched the scene: the soldiers on guard, the great mastiffs near the execution platform barking excitedly at the scent of blood, the careful precise movements of the executioner.
'How long?' he said softly over his shoulder.
'A week, Your Grace.'
Philip nodded and closed the window. The man had suffered enough.
'If he's still alive by tomorrow morning, hang him in the small orchard near the chancery. That will encourage my clerks to be more careful with the secrets entrusted to them.'
'It's good for the man to suffer,' de Craon began slowly. 'But Corbett now has that cipher, Your Grace. If he unlocks the secret…'
'I agree,' Nogaret added harshly. 'Your Grace, I beg you to change your plans.'
'Nonsense!' Philip replied. 'I devised that cipher myself. To change it now would cause confusion, perhaps even delay. Edward of England's envoys are already busy at the papal court, trying to urge that fat lump who calls himself Pope Boniface VIII to issue letters condemning our design on Flanders.'
'And we are paying the Holy Father to delay,' Nogaret replied.
'In which case,' the French King breathed, 'Edward of England may have to wait until hell freezes over!' He sat down in the high-backed chair. 'We still have Achitophel. Has he written back?'
De Craon pulled a face. 'He could find no news in London so forged messages to Corbett's manor at Leighton to discover his whereabouts.' De Craon smiled. 'Achitophel was in Nottingham before Edward's beloved clerk arrived there.'
'Nottingham?' Philip looked puzzled.
'Good news, Your Grace. Edward of England is having difficulties in controlling the roads north to Scotland. There's talk of murder and outlaws.' De Craon grinned. 'Another fly in the English ointment.' His face became hard. 'But is it wise to kill Corbett?'
Philip stared at his enigmatic Master of Secrets then burst out laughing. His two counsellors watched, stony-faced.
'Your Grace?'
Philip wagged a finger at de Craon.
'You are concerned, Amaury! I can follow your mind. If we kill Edward of England's beloved clerk then Edward will retaliate by killing one of mine.' He leaned over and pinched de Craon's wrist. 'In this case, perhaps you?'
De Craon blinked and schooled his features. He had no illusions about his royal master. Men said Philip of France had a stone instead of a heart, dedicated to one pursuit and one pursuit only: the glory of the Capetian name. His dream was to build an empire as great as Charlemagne's. De Craon stared obliquely across the table. He or even Nogaret were mere stepping stones in such a grand design.
Philip shook his head and stared at the alabaster carved statue of St Louis.
'Don't worry about Master Corbett. Achitophel has his orders. The clerk is to die in a way which will provoke very little suspicion, and Edward of England will soon have more to worry about than the death of a mere commoner. Now.' He moved the chess pieces aside and quickly sifted amongst the parchments on the table. 'Everything is ready?'
'Everything,' Nogaret agreed. 'Except the date.'
Philip leaned back in his chair and rocked himself gently. He was sure God would give him a sign. He heard another cry from the courtyard and stared at the number of candles flickering in front of St Louis' statue.
'By the end of June,' he murmured, 'the harvest should be ready and ripe for plucking.' He counted the number of candles again, ten in all. Philip leaned forward. 'Send the cipher to the Marshal. Tell him he is to cross into Flanders at first light on the tenth of July. Oh, by the way,' he jerked his silvery head towards the window, 'the fellow's cries are disturbing me. I have changed my mind. If he's still alive by dusk, hang him!'
Chapter 10
Corbett found his reception at Kirklees Priory far from cordial. For a while he was forced to kick his heels in the great gatehouse before a grumbling lay sister led him across the dry grass to the Prioress's private parlour. Dame Elizabeth Stainham was just as frosty in her welcome. Tall and thin, with sharp features, she coldly acknowledged Corbett's greetings. Dame Elizabeth only mellowed, inviting him to sit and partake of some wine and sweetmeats, when the clerk brusquely informed her of his status at court and the King's confidence in him.
'Well, well, well!' she murmured and sat back in her chair, pulling at the sleeves of her dark brown gown. Corbett noticed with amusement how these were edged with white fur and the smock beneath fashioned out of glistening satin. He gazed round the opulent room: the woollen rugs on the floor, the heavy polished furniture, the slender wax candles in their holders, the bowls of rose water, the Venetian glasses on a silver tray and cloths of gold, silver and damask hanging on the walls. Dame Elizabeth, he concluded, lived as grandly as any countess and the white wine she served him was cool and fragrant to the taste, proof that the Prioress bought her wines from the best merchants in York or London.
'Sir Hugh?'
Corbett blinked. The Prioress had asked a question.
'My Lady, I am sorry, the journey was fatiguing.' Again the false smile.
'Sir Hugh, I asked you what has the King's Commissioner to do with our humble house?'
'Nothing really, My Lady. We are more interested in a visitor you had quite recently, as well as a woman who stayed here. You know them both well: Robin of Locksley, a distant kinsman of yours, and the Lady Mary?'
Dame Elizabeth may have been able to mask her emotions with a cold demeanour but Corbett could have sworn she nearly dropped her wine glass. The Prioress put this back on the table and Corbett caught the nervous shaking of her hands and the flicker of anxiety in her eyes.
'Dame Elizabeth, you seem upset?'
The Prioress licked her thin lips.
'Not upset, Sir Hugh, more angry. We have heard of the outlaw's depredations. I am ashamed that we share the same blood! Even more distressed that we gave shelter to a woman who now runs wild with wolvesheads in the darkness of a forest!'
'My Lady.' Corbett leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk which separated them. 'The King is determined that this outlaw be brought to book and yet, according to what I have discovered, Robin of Locksley left the King's army in Scotland determined to marry the Lady Mary and live out his days in peace at Locksley. The priest there, Father Edmund, has said this. The outlaw's old steward repeats it. So, what happened to change Robin's mind?'
The Prioress rose to her feet and began pacing up and down, pretending to adjust the wimple on her head or smoothe the voluminous sleeves of her gown. Corbett could see she was still trying to hide her agitation.
'My Lady,' he added softly, 'I am the King's Commissioner in this matter and have asked you a question.'
The Prioress stood still and glared at him. Corbett flinched at the hatred in her eyes.
'I detest Robin of Locksley!' she spat out. 'I always have! His love of the common man. The way the vulgus recount his exploits. His swaggering arrogance and his violation of the King's laws, only to be rewarded by that same King himself.' Dame Elizabeth paused, clenching her hands.
'So why?' Corbett interrupted, studying the woman's hate-filled face. 'Why did you give sanctuary to his love?'
'Because he asked me to!' she spat back. 'Because I felt sorry for the Lady Mary. Because I thought I could rescue her and lead her back to the path of righteousness.'
Oh, I am sure you did, Corbett thought. You would have been only too happy to see the relationship end. To hide a woman Robi
n loved away from his eyes and those of the world.
'Did the Lady Mary become a nun?'
'No, she professed no vows but stayed here like other ladies, widows and women who seek refuge from the world of men. And she was happy until…'
'Until Robin returned?'
'Exactly!'
'Why did the Lady Mary come here in the first place?' Corbett asked.
'When Robin accepted the King's pardon, one of the conditions was that he serve for a while with the royal army in Scotland. Lady Mary was disappointed, deeply hurt that Robin could forget her so quickly and put the King's wishes before her.' Dame Elizabeth smiled thinly. 'Like many men, Robin made promises he never kept.'
'But he did come back?'
'Oh, yes, swaggering through the gatehouse. He and that great hulk, John Little, sitting on their war horses like lords come to judgement.'
'And the Lady Mary?'
'For a while she and Robin were closeted in the guest house.'
'And then?'
The Prioress shrugged and sat back in her chair.
'Like any silly girl, Lady Mary's head was turned. She packed a few belongings and rode off with the love of her life.'
'Yet they did not return to Locksley but to their outlaw ways in Sherwood?'
'I cannot answer for that,' Dame Elizabeth snapped. 'But when you catch him, if you catch him, Sir Hugh, you can ask him that question just before he's turned off the ladder on the gallows.' She leaned back, steepling her fingers. 'If you do not believe me, ask any of the sisters in this nunnery.'
Corbett was glad to escape that oppressive room. He was uneasy at what Dame Elizabeth had told him but there was nothing he could do. Whatever had turned Robin from a peace-loving soldier into an outlaw, ever ready to violate the King's peace, was still not resolved.
The problem was nagging at Corbett when he arrived back in Nottingham the following day. He found the castle in an uproar. Sir Peter Branwood met him in the outer bailey and, before Corbett could even ask for Ranulf or Maltote, led him across, through the Middle Gate, to a coffin which lay before the altar in the small chapel. Corbett, tired and bruised after his journey, watched wordlessly as Sir Peter swept away the purple pall, prised open the coffin lid with his dagger and pulled back the gauze covering.