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.
'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 dark-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!'