Assassin in the Greenwood hc-7

by Paul Doherty

  The giant's clear blue eyes never left Corbett's face and the clerk could see he was wondering whether to attack or concede.

  'I mean you no harm, John Little,' Corbett repeated softly. 'Come.' He waved the man in. The giant bowed his head and shoulders and entered Brother William's cell.

  Corbett left two hours later. Neither John Little nor Brother William had been forthcoming. They had refused to answer his questions but sat staring at him, listening to all he said. At last Corbett had borrowed pen and parchment: he wrote out a letter of safe conduct summoning both to appear before him as the King's Commissioner in Nottingham Castle.

  Corbett spent the next few hours watching Branwood prepare for the military expedition into the forest. The rest of the time he kept to himself, reviewing his theories like any good clerk preparing a memorandum to place before the King. Corbett tried to hide his nervousness. He just hoped Ranulf would carry out his task and that Maltote was able to reach the King.

  On the day after Ranulf and Maltote left Nottingham, Corbett visited the Lady Amisia at the tavern and gently questioned her. He found her intelligent, witty, and clearly innocent of any involvement in her brother's crimes. He listened with amusement to the promises Ranulf had made to her on his behalf.

  'It's true, My Lady,' Corbett confirmed, getting to his feet. When I return south, I will be honoured if you will join us. We shall ensure your safe lodging with the Minoresses.'

  With the girl's thanks ringing in his ears, Corbett went back to the castle.

  He attended Rahere's funeral mass later that day, listening with half an ear to how the priest deplored the 'dreadful murder' of this stranger in their midst. Corbett watched the body being taken out to the graveyard and escorted the tearful Amisia, resting on the arm of the landlord's wife, back to the tavern.

  Corbett slept fitfully that night, his dreams plagued by nightmares of being lost in a dense, sombre forest where the very trees came to life, hunting him down, until he woke bathed in sweat. For the rest of the day he kept to his own chamber; he carefully examined the items he had taken from Sir Eustace's room and almost shouted with relief when he heard the cries of the sentries and the noise of many horsemen entering Middle Gate.

  Corbett made himself presentable and went down to the hall where a dust-stained Ranulf was busy making the aged but still fiery old war horse the Earl of Lincoln as comfortable as possible.

  'Corbett, you bloody scribbler!' the old earl bawled, his fierce face glistening with sweat, bulging blue eyes glaring at Corbett as if he held him responsible for every bump and bruise of his journey. 'Come on, man,' the earl shouted at Ranulf. 'I want some bloody wine. Hello, Branwood!' he bellowed as the sheriff entered the hall. 'Can't catch a bloody outlaw, can you? For God's sake, someone, remove my boots. Lord, my arse is as sore as a maid on her wedding night!'

  Corbett bit back a smile and quietly applauded the earl's cheerful bullying of anyone who came within earshot. Henry de Lacey, Earl of Lincoln, was no fool, however and Corbett caught his sly wink.

  'You've brought your men, My Lord?'

  'Scores of the idle buggers! Men-at-arms, some household knights, and more archers than there are hairs on my arse. And, believe me,' the earl roared with laughter, 'my arse is hairy! Go outside, Corbett, and see for yourself.'

  He took the hint and wandered into the inner bailey where men wearing the red and green livery of the earl thronged the courtyard.

  'Maltote's gone to London,' Ranulf murmured, coming up beside him. 'But that old earl, Master! He curses everyone, and he's drunk at least a pint of wine since entering Nottingham.'

  'That old earl,' Corbett softly replied, 'is a cunning old fox and I think he's guessed why he's here.' Corbett smiled at Ranulf's puzzlement. 'Wait a while, Ranulf, and all will be clear. Oh, by the way, the Lady Amisia sends her regards.'

  They went back into the hall where Lincoln had tossed his boots into a corner. Whilst one of his squires tried to put soft buskins on his feet, another was being drenched in water as the earl washed his hands and face and bellowed for a cup of sack, a goblet of wine, anything to wash the filth from his throat.

  'Oh, by the way,' Lincoln shouted, 'that soft-arsed Prioress! God knows, she's a snooty bitch. She's here too, Corbett. She was in a bloody half-faint when I left her, silly mare! Hadn't she ever heard a man curse before?'

  Ranulf was fighting so hard to stifle his laughter, Corbett thought he would have an apoplexy. He took his leave, hearing the old earl roaring at Branwood that he hadn't travelled to Nottingham for a bowl of stew and he hoped they would dine well that night.

  As Corbett hurried out of the hall, he smelt the savoury fragrances from the kitchen and realised Branwood was preparing a banquet to celebrate the hunting down of Robin Hood.

  'You wait till you see the Prioress,' Ranulf muttered, still stifling his laughter. 'What do you mean?'

  'Well, have you ever heard the story of the lecherous clerk, the miller's daughter and the miller's wife?' 'No, why?'

  'Well,' Ranulf laughed, 'the Prioress has. Lincoln insisted on roaring the story out at the top of his voice with a few choice embellishments of his own.'

  Lady Elizabeth Stainham had recovered at least some of her poise by the time Corbett met her in her comfortable quarters above Middlegate. Nevertheless she stood quivering with fury, her face white, eyes wide dark pools of malice.

  'Master Corbett,' she snarled. 'My Lady, my title is Sir Hugh.'

  'You can call yourself whatever you wish! I shall complain to the King about being dragged from my convent and forced to travel here in the company of that!' She flicked a finger at Ranulf.

  'Ranulf-atte-Newgate, My Lady.'

  'Yes. And the earl, a foul-mouthed…'

  'You mean the King's cousin, Henry de Lacey, Earl of Lincoln, Guardian of the Prince of Wales and the King's most successful general in Gascony?'

  The Prioress bit her lip as she realised she had gone too far.

  'What do you want?' she snapped, flouncing down into a chair.

  Corbett nodded to Ranulf. 'Please wait outside.' He looked at the young nun who had accompanied the Prioress. 'And you too.' He smiled. 'My manservant has a number of droll stories that may interest you.'

  Lady Elizabeth made to rise again.

  'You, My Lady, will sit down!' Corbett ordered. 'I must take some of your time. If you had told me, the King's Commissioner, the truth the first time we met, then your journey and this meeting would not have been necessary. If you have objections to speaking now, then take them to the King. I assure you, you will spend your remaining years on bread and water in some forlorn nunnery at the other end of the kingdom.'

  Ranulf heard these last few words as he closed the door behind him. He was tempted to eavesdrop for he knew Master Long Face was closing in on his quarry. However, the door was thick and the young nun rather pretty. Ranulf soon had her giggling at his own tale about the miller's wife, the miller's daughter and the lecherous clerk.

  An hour later Corbett left the room, a smile on his face.

  'I think your Prioress needs you,' he murmured. 'She has to unpack and prepare herself for this evening's banquet. And you, Ranulf…'

  He took his manservant by the elbow and led him down the stairs, whispering quiet instructions about what he was to do that evening. Corbett then returned to his chamber, prepared himself, and wrapping certain items in his cloak, went down to the great hall for what Sir Peter Branwood grandly termed his 'victory banquet'.

  The under-sheriff had done his best to transform the hall. The floor had been cleaned, tapestries hung against the walls and the great table had been moved from the dais to accommodate all of Sir Peter's household as well as de Lacey, Corbett, Ranulf, and a very grim-faced Lady Prioress. Sconce torches spluttered against the darkness whilst the tables, covered in white cloths, were bathed in pools of candlelight. Sir Peter's cooks had prepared a veritable feast: mutton cooked with olives, royal venison, chicken boiled and stuffed with grapes, a dres
sed peacock, bowls of salad, pike in galantine sauce, buttered vegetables, and the best wines from the castle cellars. Everyone except Corbett ate well and drank deeply, though Lincoln kept a wary eye on the clerk, sensing a mystery. Once the main dishes had been served and cleared away, Sir Peter stood up and gave a charming speech welcoming the Earl of Lincoln, toasting his martial prowess.

  'Well, Corbett,' Branwood concluded with a grin, 'this grand design is all yours. What do you propose?'

  'A story,' he began, rising to his feet and looking around. He pushed back his chair and stood behind it, leaning on the back. 'Many years ago this kingdom was riven by civil war. He glanced at de Lacey who shifted uneasily. 'Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, fought His Grace the King. De Montfort had a dream which turned into a nightmare of treason and treachery – the idea that every man is equal before the law. Now de Montfort met with defeat but one of his followers, Robin of Locksley, kept the dream alive, albeit tinged with self-profit. Robin objected to the harsh forest laws and became an outlaw in Sherwood where he robbed the rich and helped the poor. He fought mailed men, knights, sheriffs, verderers, but to my knowledge never raised a hand against an innocent man, woman or child.'

  Corbett stared round the now silent group at the table. Branwood looked puzzled, Naylor sombre, Roteboeuf had his head in his hands, Maigret the physician seemed half-asleep but Friar Thomas was listening intently, as was the Earl of Lincoln and the Lady Prioress who, by her flushed cheeks, had apparently drunk deeply to hide her discomfort. Corbett glanced down the hall where Lincoln's henchmen and knights of the household were gathered. Ranulf, standing by the door, nodded imperceptibly, his face illuminated by the sconce torch spluttering above him. Corbett could tell from the look on his servant's face that Ranulf had others with him waiting in the shadows. Corbett took a deep breath.

  'Now this outlaw's fame became widely known and when our King came north he offered Robin Hood a pardon. The outlaw accepted and his band broke up. Will Scarlett entered a monastery, Little John, his lieutenant, went back to his small village of Haversage, whilst Robin's love, the Lady Mary, took refuge in a nunnery at Kirklees. Robin went to fight in the King's wars in Scotland but grew sickened of the slaughter and wrote to the King asking to be released from military service. His Grace the King, who always liked a merry rogue, gave Robin licence to return home and sent a copy of the same to Sir Eustace Vechey and Sir Peter Branwood, sheriffs of Nottingham. Robin came south with two companions, William Goldberg and a man called Thomas.'

  'Two companions?' Friar Thomas asked.

  'Yes, they're mentioned in the King's letter of safe conduct.'

  'We know all this,' Naylor interrupted. 'Then for some strange reason the wolfshead broke his word and went back to Sherwood Forest.'

  'Ah!' Corbett smiled. 'You are wrong. Robin came south only to be murdered! I will not go hunting the outlaw tomorrow, Sir Peter, that was a ploy to protect myself until the Earl of Lincoln arrived.'

  Chapter 12

  An immediate clamour broke out but the clerk stood silent. Eventually Lincoln raised his hand as a sign for him to continue.

  'Oh, Robin of Locksley returned,' Corbett continued, walking round to stand behind the Prioress. 'He visited his manor at Locksley, paid his respects to old Father Edmund, then recommenced his journey, eager to see the Lady Mary at Kirklees Priory. He also hoped his henchman, Little John or John Little, would be waiting for him for they had agreed to meet there. However, on that lonely forest track he and his two companions were maliciously attacked. William Goldberg and the man called Thomas were killed immediately. Robin escaped but had received his death wound. Perhaps he crawled away. In any event his assailants left him for dead.' Corbett tapped the Prioress on the shoulder. 'Nevertheless, the wolfshead was made of sterner stuff. He managed to reach Kirklees Priory for the ambush, I suspect, occurred near the Priory gates where John Little was waiting for him. It's fortunate he was, isn't it, my Lady?'

  The Prioress flinched.

  'Now,' Corbett continued, 'our Prioress told me how Robin had ridden into Kirklees. She lied. Robin was a poor horseman, and would have walked. She also said Little John was with him. Another lie. The outlaw's lieutenant had agreed to meet him there.'

  'So?' Lincoln bellowed. 'What happened then?'

  'The dying Robin was taken up to the lonely, isolated gatehouse at Kirklees. True, My Lady?'

  'It's true,' the Prioress replied, entwining her fingers tightly and staring down at the table top. 'The wolfshead had a jagged, bubbling wound in his neck. I did what I could.'

  Corbett glanced round the table. Branwood looked as if he was carved out of marble, his mouth sagging open.

  'Ranulf!' Corbett called. 'Bring in John Little!'

  Ranulf walked into the hall, the huge giant lumbering like a bear behind him whilst Brother William brought up the rear. Naylor stood up, thrusting back his chair.

  'That man's an outlaw and a wolfshead!' he cried, his hand going to his dagger. 'He can be killed on sight!'

  'If you interrupt these proceedings again,' Corbett snapped, 'I'll have my Earl of Lincoln hang you from the beams of this hall! Master Little, you heard what I said. Do I speak the truth?'

  The ragged, bearded giant nodded. Even Corbett flinched at the hatred in the huge man's eyes.

  'Robin was dying,' Little John began, his voice surprisingly soft but tinged with a rustic burr. 'The nun's correct. She did what she could but, there again, God knows what potion she gave Robin. After he had drunk it, he grew a little stronger and asked for my long bow.' The giant's eyes filled with tears. 'He was dying and told me to open the casement window. I fitted an arrow to the string and helped him pull it back. He shot it good and true over the park.' Little John paused. 'Robin laughed. He knew his kinswoman the Prioress hated him but she couldn't refuse him Christian burial. Robin told me to find where the arrow had fallen and bury him there. After that, Maid Marion,' the giant coughed, 'the Lady Mary, came rushing up. Robin was failing.' He shrugged and wrung his great hands. 'That was it. As the light failed, so did Robin. For a while he slept, muttering about days in the forest. Sometimes he would laugh, sometimes shout out Marion's name. Once or twice mine. At last he fell silent. The Lady Mary was prostrate with grief. I bent over the bed. Robin's eyes were closed and his face cold.'

  The man scratched his beard. Despite his great size and girth, he looked like a little boy remembering a terrible accident. 'Next morning I went out. It took me many an hour to find where the arrow had fallen then I dug the grave. She,' he flung out a hand at the Prioress, 'that high-faced bitch, objected!' He smiled mirthlessly. 'But, I threatened to break her neck if she refused. I finished the grave. Before he died, Robin had whispered about poor William and Thomas so I went back along the trackway and found their corpses. They were both dead, arrows in their necks and chests. I laid them alongside Robin. The grave was deep and broad. I covered it with earth. I went back to the nunnery to comfort the Lady Mary but she was witless, beside herself with grief. I told the Prioress I would return every so often to check that grave. I never did. I didn't want to be seen in public. As for the Lady Mary…' Little John shrugged.

  'She's dead!' the Prioress interrupted. 'She had set such hopes on Robin's return. After his death, she pined away. Wouldn't eat or drink, became lost in her own dreams.' Her eyes snapped. 'I told my community she had left with Robin. No one knew the truth. However, in death I bear no man ill will. Robin is gone and so is the love of his life. I placed her alongside him.'

  Corbett stared at the hard, taut face of the Prioress. He wondered if she had secretly loved Robin and her later hatred had stemmed from his indifference.

  'What did Little John mean about the potion?' he asked. The Prioress shook her head.

  'Why didn't you report Robin's death to the King?' Lincoln shouted. 'After all, he was under royal protection, carrying letters of safe conduct.'

  'How could I?' the Prioress protested. 'Robin had been killed near Kirklees! You
've heard the rogue Little John -my dislike of Robin was well known. After all,' she glared at Corbett, 'I was one of the few who knew he was coming!'

  'I thought of that,' Little John added. 'Robin didn't know who his assailants were, describing them as masked and hooded. I came to Nottingham to seek out Brother William. And then,' the fellow scratched his head, 'I began to wonder. Robin was attacked on the thirteenth of December. His assailants must have been waiting for him. Now I reasoned that many knew about Robin's leaving Scotland but few could actually plot his footsteps. Only the King and his clerks at Westminster or someone here who'd received letters saying that Robin was coming back. The only people who knew that were the sheriffs, Sir Eustace Vechey and Sir Peter Branwood. And, of course, their clerk.'

  'Little John shared his anxieties with me,' Brother William interrupted. 'I, too, became frightened. I begged Father Prior to give Little John a position as gardener at our house and he agreed. I listened to what John had told me and drew two conclusions. Either His Grace the King or someone in Nottingham was the murderer.' Brother William stared at Sir Peter Branwood. The King loved Robin. He would not lift his hand against him in such a treacherous way. This left me with one conclusion: someone in Nottingham, who knew Robin was journeying south, planned that ambush. God knows, there were enough lords in this shire who hated Robin. At first I thought his murder was an act of revenge then we heard these mysterious stories of how Robin was once again hunting in Sherwood Forest, but this time he was different. Oh, he bought the peasants' silence but this Robin was harsh, his hand against every man, ruthless in quelling any opposition, even killing those who had once been close to him.' Brother William wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 'Of course, I knew it was not Robin of Locksley but someone using his name.' He spread his hands. 'Yet what could we do? If I tried to object, who would believe me? What proof did I have? And as for Little John here, his size alone prevented him from walking the streets of Nottingham. So we both hid in the friary where no one could harm us, for whom could we trust? Not even you, the King's Commissioner.'