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.'
Corbett tapped the giant on the chest.
'But you fired the arrows?'
The giant's face broke into a gap-toothed grin.
'Three fire arrows,' Corbett declared. 'Your requiem every month on the thirteenth, the date Robin died.'
'He fired them,' Brother William intervened. 'He would slip out of a postern gate and loose them into the night sky. A reminder to Robin's assassin in Nottingham as well as a prayer, three times repeated, that God would comfort our dead friend's soul.'
'But you never knew who the assassin was?' Corbett continued. 'And that was the evil beauty of his plan. The Lady Prioress here could not reveal Robin's death. Who would believe her? Some might even accuse her of having a hand in it. After all, her intense dislike for her kinsman was well known. Little John might have his suspicions but he was an outlaw and could be killed on sight. Brother William had no proof. And, as he has said, any of Robin's old companions who did suspect went the same way as their master. Now.' Corbett walked briskly up the table. 'My Lord of Lincoln, I would like a man-at-arms on either side of Sir Peter, his clerk Roteboeuf and Master Naylor.' Corbett drew his own dagger and stood behind the burly serjeant-at-arms. Branwood sat slumped on his chair. Roteboeuf blinked like a frightened rabbit but Corbett saw Naylor's hands go beneath the table.
'Please sir,' he ordered, 'your hands where I can see them.'
The serjeant-at-arms peered over his shoulder. Lincoln's soldiers thronged around. Reluctantly Naylor did as Corbett asked. Lincoln barked out orders. Branwood, Naylor and Roteboeuf offered no resistance as their swords were taken from them.
'In the castle,' Corbett continued, 'Sir Eustace Vechey must have thought a nightmare had returned. He had fought Robin in the old days. Now the outlaw was back, causing even more mischief. Now I don't think the old sheriff knew what had happened but, as the outlaw's depredations grew worse, he did suspect a hjgh-placed traitor in the castle. A lonely, suspicious man, Vechey would trust no one but, as his mind began to ramble, so did his tongue. Perhaps he began to hint at things; even his face or eyes may have betrayed something. So he had to die and you, Sir Peter, killed him, as you murdered Robin Hood and took his place in Sherwood Forest!'
'This is nonsense!' Branwood shouted, trying to assert himself. 'My Lord of Lincoln, the clerk raves. He is as mad as a hare on a moonlit night!'
Branwood's protests were belied by the expression on his face and the beads of sweat coursing down his cheeks. One of Lincoln's knights grasped him by the shoulder and pushed him down on to his chair.
'No, Sir Peter, you are a murderer,' Corbett continued evenly, staring at him from the other side of the table. 'You hated Robin of Locksley for past humiliations. You resented his acceptance into the King's grace and, I suspect, despised the King himself for showing such mercy to a man you would have killed. You, together with Sir Eustace, received the letter from the royal chancery at Westminster, saying that Robin was returning to Nottingham under royal protection. You noticed the dates and the times and planned that ambush. Your two creatures here, Naylor and Roteboeuf, were responsible. I am sure, when my story's finished, one of them will be wise enough to turn King's Evidence and confirm this. You killed William Goldberg and the man called Thomas. You left Robin of Locksley for dead.
'Perhaps at first you thought you might leave it at that but then you saw what opportunities presented themselves. What a way to revenge yourself on the dead man's name and reputation! On the King himself, as well as line your own pockets! And it would be so easy. Who could prove what you had done? Everyone else, from the King in London down to the lowliest serf in Nottingham, believed Robin of Locksley had returned to his old ways. As I have demonstrated, only three other people knew of his death. One, a former outlaw, would not be believed and could be killed on sight; then there was a friar, old and weary, immured in his own monastery and a Prioress who hated Robin;'
'But it's impossible.' Lincoln spoke out. 'How could Branwood here move from the castle to the forest?'
'My Lord, beneath this castle lies a warren of secret tunnels and passageways known only to a few. Everyone is concerned that someone could steal into the castle by these secret routes, it is equally true that such tunnels can be used for people to leave the castle – as Sir Peter discovered to his own profit.' Corbett sipped from his wine cup before continuing. '1 have studied the attacks of the outlaw over the last three months. They did not occur daily but once or twice a month, the most profitable being the attack on the King's tax-collectors. In their role as outlaws, Sir Peter, Naylor and Roteboeuf left the castle by their secret routes. Perhaps the clerk occasionally stayed behind to cover for his master's absences. Some of the tunnels, I understand, come out into the town, a few well beyond the city walls.
'In one of these passageways Branwood and Naylor would change into Lincoln green, as well as their hoods and masks, and go to their pre-arranged meeting place in the forest. Those two outlaws Master Naylor is supposed to have captured provided some insight on how the outlaws would assemble at a certain place when the signals were given. Let us take, for example, the attack on the tax-collectors.' Corbett drummed his fingers against his belt. 'It would have taken Sir Peter no more than a few hours. Naylor acted the role of Little John and the wench from The Blue Boar that of Maid Marion. The outlaws would assemble, orders would be issued and the attack made.'
'You claim we could do all that?' Naylor sneered.
'Oh, yes,' Corbett retorted. 'The wench from the tavern would not know your true identities but just act a part. The rest of the outlaws would be summoned before the tax-collectors even left Nottingham, closely followed by one of your coven. The tax-collector's cavalcade would be slower than men moving on foot through a forest.' Corbett narrowed his eyes at the candle flame. 'Willoughby said he was captured late in the afternoon and fell asleep after dark. No more than five or six hours. Once he was asleep, his retinue was massacred, the spoils shared out and Branwood returned to the castle.' Corbett pointed at Roteboeuf. 'Perhaps you stayed to explain away Sir Peter's absence, claiming he was in his chamber or the town? Anyway, who would notice? Father Thomas busy in his parish? Poor old Vechey, troubled and confused? Or Lecroix, slow-witted and anxious about his master?'
'But surely,' Friar Thomas interrupted, 'Branwood would be recognised.'
'Oh, come, Father. A mask and a hood, the voice deliberately changed. Words kept to a minimum. After all, didn't you tell me yourself that the outlaw approached you in your own church? Did you suspect?'
Friar Thomas smiled and shook his head.
'No, of course not, Father,' Corbett continued. 'In your mind Robin was still alive. And who would suspect the upright, law-abiding under-sheriff was really the outlaw in disguise? The wench from the tavern? Well, as I've said, she played her part. Tomorrow morning she and her father will wake up to find my Lord of Lincoln's men searching every nook and cranny of their house.'
'Did Vechey suspect?' Father Thomas asked.
'Oh, no! He was too busy hunting the traitor in the castle who was providing the outlaws with vital information. Branwood skilfully planned his death.' Corbett pulled the bundle from underneath his chair and took out a soiled napkin. 'Do you remember, Physician Maigret, where you saw this last?'
'Why, yes,' the physician cried, peering across the table. 'That's the one from Vechey's chamber. He used it to wipe his mouth.'
'No, he didn't!' Corbett replied. 'When Sir Eustace went up to his chamber he was carrying a goblet of wine. He sipped that then he and Lecroix ate some of the sweetmeats. Afterwards, Sir Eustace washed his hands and face. He picked up a napkin, dried himself and retired to bed.' Corbett chewed his lip and stared at Branwood. 'But we both know, Sir Peter, that the napkin Vechey used was coated in the most potent poison you could buy from that witch Hecate – deadly nightshade. Oh, yes, I have heard of a case in Italy where a woman dipped one of her husband's shirts in such a potion and killed him. Now, naturally, Lecroix would not use the same napkin as his master, I wonder if that's what Lecroix meant by the last words he said to us before he died? Do you remember, Maigret? "My master was tidy."'
'Yes, I do,' he replied: 'And you are right, Sir Hugh. Vechey would have gone to bed, his lips and hands coated with that noxious substance.'
'Ah, but what would have made it easier,' Corbett continued, 'was that Sir Eustace had sores on his mouth. These would give the poison direct entry into his blood and other humours. Yet that napkin, Sir Peter, was your greatest mistake. The next morning you, with the rest, came up to see Sir Eustace's chamber and, during the confusion, exchanged one stained napkin for another. And you were very cunning. The replacement napkin carried wine stains and sweetmeats, even blood, as if Sir Eustace had opened the sores on his lips. Now, Physician Maigret.' Corbett passed the soiled napkin over. 'Pull across a candle. Examine the napkin left in Sir Eustace's chamber and, bearing in mind what I have told you, what is wrong with it?'
Maigret did as he was told. At first he shook his head but then he glanced up, smiling. 'Of course,' he said. 'There are the stains from the sweetmeats and there are the blood marks, but the two are quite separate. The blood stains are quite distant from the other marks. They should be together, even mingling.'
'Exactly!' Corbett retorted, taking the napkin back and tossing it down the table at Lincoln. 'That's what I concluded when I re-examined it.'
'But,' Maigret exclaimed, 'Sir Peter too was ill.'
'Oh, I think that's due to one of two reasons. Remember, Sir Peter did not go to you until after Sir Eustace's body had been discovered. This could have been due to Sir Peter's trying to pose as a possible victim himself, or perhaps he had tinged himself, or thought he had, with some of the potion from the poisoned napkin.' Corbett pulled a face. 'Who would suspect? Branwood probably left the napkin there before the banquet began. It was the one thing in that room Vechey would not share with Lecroix, a mere servant.'
'You speak true, Sir Hugh.' Friar Thomas spoke up. 'I remember that morning. Sir Peter came to Vechey's chamber wearing gloves. I am sure,' he concluded flatly, 'that those gloves, together with the poisoned napkin, disappeared into a fire.'
'And Lecroix?' Maigret asked.
'Oh, well, he had to die. There was always the risk he may have noticed something or Vechey may even have shared his suspicions with him. Now, do you remember, Sir Peter, I asked you why Lecroix should hang himself in the cellars? You said because the castle was under attack or because Lecroix may have been looking for more wine; after all, we did find a small wine cask smashed. Of course, I know different now. There was plenty of wine in the castle and the cellar with its secret trap doors and passageways would be the last place a man would go if he wanted to hide. Lecroix was not as stupid as he looked. He may have been searching for the secret passageway out of the castle. He may even have suspected the truth, following his master's death, and reached the conclusion that he might discover what the outlaws had taken. In other words, My Lord of Lincoln, if His Grace the King wishes to regain his taxes, I am sure they will be found somewhere in the cellars or secret passageways of this castle.' Corbett paused and stared at Branwood who had now regained his composure and glanced coolly back. 'The rest,' Corbett raised his eyes to the roof, 'was easy. We went into the forest but you had already sent orders ahead and led us into that ambush. The same is true of poor Gisborne.' Corbett smiled ruefully. 'All was confusion that day. I was leaving for Kirklees. You, Sir Peter, were ostensibly furious with Gisborne, hurrying about so no one could really know what you were doing. Naylor and Roteboeuf stayed to sustain the sham whilst you slipped down the tunnels, gathered the outlaws, and Gisborne blundered into your trap.' Corbett looked up at the Earl of Lincoln who sat fascinated by what he was hearing.
'My Lord, you doubted whether anyone in the castle could enter the forest and return. Nottingham is a small city. You are beyond its walls, even after riding through busy streets, in twenty minutes. Can you imagine how quickly it can be left by going down a secret passageway? Who knows? Perhaps we can find one of the tunnels. My reckoning is that after leaving the castle cellars Sir Peter could be in the heart of Sherwood, plan an ambush, carry it out and be back in the castle with an absence of only four or five hours. And who would notice? Sir Eustace, when he was alive, was a broken man, whilst there was always the ubiquitous Roteboeuf ready to say that Sir Peter had gone thither or hither. And, to complicate the mystery, sometimes Branwood would not go but send Naylor instead, just to muddy the waters a little further.'
Corbett sat down and looked around. He had never seen people so motionless, such a captive audience.
'My story is nearly done,' he remarked quietly. 'A clever scheme though flawed from the start. When I wrote down what had happened to me I began to detect a pattern.' Corbett ticked off the points on his fingers. 'First, the attack on the castle on my first day here. How did the outlaws know which room I was in? Secondly, that ambush in Sherwood Forest. At the time I dismissed it but hindsight makes wise men of us all. Wasn't it strange that none of us was hit by those arrows? Branwood and Naylor had to keep me safe because slaying the King's Commissioner would have been pushing matters a little too far.' Corbett stopped and stared down the table. He was sure Branwood was almost smiling. 'You'll hang!' he remarked. 'You are a traitor and a murderer, as are Naylor and Roteboeuf and anyone else who assisted.'
Corbett's sombre words had the desired effect. Roteboeuf, his face white and haggard, sprang to his feet, knocking the chair over. Lincoln's soldiers closed in.
'It's true!' he yelled.
'Shut up!' bellowed Branwood.
'Oh, for God's sake!' Roteboeuf struggled in the arms of the soldiers. 'Sir Hugh, I am a cleric. I claim benefit of clergy and will confess all, giving names and dates.' He stopped and stared beseechingly at Corbett.
'The King's mercy will be recommended,' he replied quietly.
'Shut up, you lying bastard!' Branwood yelled. 'You snivelling coward!'
Roteboeuf, however, heartened by Corbett's words, fell to his knees.
'It's true!' he sobbed. 'Branwood hated Robin Hood. He was obsessed with the outlaw. He found the tunnels leading from the castle. He, Naylor and myself used often to go down there. Sir Eustace never suspected anything. Then, late last autumn, just after the feast of All Saints, the letters came about Robin of Locksley leaving the King's armies in Scotland and Branwood drew up this scheme. We left the castle by a secret route, masked and hooded. Locksley's two companions were killed outright, we left Locksley himself for dead.' Roteboeuf licked his lips. 'We were hasty, frightened of being so close to Kirklees. We took his possessions, including his signet ring. At first Branwood contented himself with thinking the outlaw was dead. He forged letters to his steward under the stolen seal to obtain and sell Robin's few possessions at Locksley.'
Roteboeuf was about to continue when Naylor darted across the table, picked up a knife and, roaring with rage, tried to lunge at him. The knife was knocked from his hand. At Lincoln's command, Naylor's arms were pulled roughly behind his chair and tied together. Roteboeuf talked on. How Branwood had devised the scheme to pose as Robin Hood. How easy it had been to enter the forest and recruit the many outlaws there. How he and Naylor acted as spokesmen. How they had planned the attack on the tax-collectors and other such ambushes. How Sir Eustace at first did not notice anything but then became suspicious about a high-ranking traitor in the castle, whereupon Branwood decided to kill him.
'They killed others,' Roteboeuf sobbed. 'The only fly in the ointment was those fire arrows loosed on the thirteenth of every month. Branwood suspected that one of Robin's old companions knew the truth, so he dispensed ruthless justice to any amongst the outlaws who opposed him. He killed Vechey. Naylor killed Lecroix, Hecate, and the young man in the tavern, the Riddle Master; Sir Peter believed he was another spy. I swear this is the truth!' he cried, eyes wild. 'I will swear the same before the King's Justices!'
Lincoln got to his feet. 'Sir Peter Branwood, King's Under-Sheriff in Nottingham, I ask you solemnly, do you have any defence against these allegations?'
Branwood lifted his face from his hands. 'Defence?' he whispered. 'Defence, you silly, wine-sodden, old man! Against what? Killing an outlaw and doing what he did? After all, if the King can pardon Robin of Locksley and take him into his own chamber, why can't he pardon me?' He turned and glared at Corbett. 'It was worth it!' he snarled. 'I brought the outlaw down with his swagger, his Lincoln green and his love of the common man. I made two mistakes. No, three! I should have taken his head like I took that silly fool Gisborne's. I should have killed Roteboeuf. And above all, Corbett, I should have killed you!'
Lincoln strode down the table and beckoned to his soldiers.
'Make him stand up!'
The soldiers hustled Branwood to his feet. He spat defiantly at Lincoln who struck him across the face then dragged the chain of office from round his neck.
'Sir Peter Branwood, you are a thief, a murderer and a traitor! I arrest you for high treason, as I do you, John Naylor! As for you,' he glanced disdainfully at the kneeling, sobbing Roteboeuf, 'you will be detained until the King's pleasure is known. Sir Hugh.' He looked at Corbett. 'Sir Hugh
Corbett came round the table and stared at Branwood who looked defiant despite his dishevelled appearance and the burgeoning bruise where Lincoln had hit him.
'You are wrong, Branwood,' Corbett murmured. 'Robin of Locksley was an outlaw but he was also a dreamer, an idealist. He had a genuine love for the common man whereas you are a silent assassin, a conniving thief and a bungling traitor. You used your high office for cold-blooded murder as well as for the theft of the King's money. God forgive me! You are the only man I ever wanted to see die!'
'Take them away!' Lincoln ordered.
The soldiers pushed the three prisoners out as Lincoln went to the top of the table and filled wine cups. He brought one back to Corbett and thrust this into the clerk's hand, telling his soldiers to seal the hall doors. Then he stared round the assembled company.
'Robin of Locksley is dead. He deserved a better end, as did those others whom Branwood so coldly murdered. The traitor will stand before King's Bench at Westminster and his trial will be very brief. For the rest, you are bound to silence on what you have seen and heard tonight.' He sipped from the wine cup. 'Though I gather the truth will soon be out.'
Lincoln gazed round the sombre, shadow-filled hall.
'The King must come here,' he murmured. 'This place has to be purged and cleansed!' He summoned one of his household knights, whispered to him then glanced at the Prioress. 'My Lady, I will give you suitable escort back to your convent tomorrow morning. John Little, I suggest you stay in the friary with Brother William till fresh letters of pardon are issued. For the rest,' he shrugged, 'these proceedings are now finished. You are all free to leave.'
Corbett and Lincoln watched as everyone filed out of the hall, still subdued and shocked.
'You are probably right, Corbett,' Lincoln murmured. 'We'll find a great deal in the cellars. Perhaps tomorrow I will visit Sherwood myself and give the outlaws there something to remember, now they are bereft of their leaders.'
'The Blue Boar tavern?' Corbett asked.
Lincoln grinned. 'My mounted serjeants will meet you there before dawn. But, Hugh, listen. Why did Roteboeuf tell you about Scarlett?'
'They couldn't touch the old outlaw,' Corbett replied. 'He was wary and kept hidden by Holy Mother Church. So Branwood gambled. I was given Scarlett's name to see if the old friar knew anything as well as to depict Branwood as the righteously angry royal official!' He shrugged. 'Scarlett knew little but I glimpsed that huge gardener and began to wonder. Was he John Little, and if so why was he hiding? Had Branwood known of his presence, he would never have sent me there.'
'A ruthless man,' Lincoln murmured.
'Yes,' Corbett replied. 'Determined to play both roles. He even sacrificed his squire Hobwell to sustain the sham. It was all a sham,' he murmured. 'The Prioress was unwittingly dragged into it: she couldn't explain Robin's death or that of Marion so pretended they'd both fled back, to Sherwood. Branwood's depredations there only corroborated her story.'
'Well, it's finished,' Lincoln remarked. 'Branwood will go in chains to Westminster. Do you want an escort to London, Hugh?'
Corbett shook his head. 'Ranulf and I will now be safe. And besides, I must return to Locksley. There's one man, an old priest, who must be told the truth.' Conclusion
Smithfield Market in London was already hot and packed with people even before the bells of nearby St Bartholomew's Priory tolled for morning mass. The throng pressed in but not to attend the stalls and booths which had all been packed away. The crowds were drawn by the huge black scaffold set up in the middle of the market place, fascinated by the flames leaping from the massive copper cauldron and the grim, red-masked executioner. In one comer of the scaffold a huge post had been placed, a gibbet with a long rope dangling down; the executioner's apprentice was already setting up a thin narrow ladder in preparation for the grim ceremony about to commence.
Corbett was present, Ranulf beside him. Maltote had volunteered to look after their horses in nearby St Bartholomew's. All of London, even the great barons and ladies in their silks and costly raiment, had fought for a place. Corbett was there only at the King's express command.
'You will see the bastard die!' Edward had roared. 'You will be my witness! And die he will!'
The clerk lifted his face to catch the cool morning breeze. Corbett hated executions. He only wished he could collect his horse and ride past the Barbican north to Leighton Manor. However, the King had been most insistent. Naylor had already been hanged, drawn and quartered: his limbs, oiled and pickled, now hung over Nottingham's city walls as a warning to all would-be wrongdoers. Roteboeuf had been more fortunate: he had pleaded benefit of clergy, turned King's Evidence and been issued a pardon on one condition. He was to be denied food and water or any possessions and ordered to walk barefoot to the nearest port. There he would be exiled, forbidden to re-enter England on pain of death. His master Branwood had been tried before a special Commission of Justices. The former under-sheriff had arrogantly confessed to all his crimes, openly deriding the King. He'd passively accepted the sentence of the Chief Justice of King's Bench that he 'be taken to a lawful place of execution and there, at a time appointed by the court, hanged by the neck, cut down whilst still living, his body sliced open and disembowelled, his head to be struck off and his limbs quartered. The head to be set upon London Bridge and the quarters of his body sent to four principal cities of the kingdom'.
Corbett opened his eyes. 'I don't care what the King said!' he muttered out of the side of his mouth. 'Once Branwood is here, I'm leaving!'
Ranulf nodded absentmindedly. He was thinking of the voluptuous Amisia, now a moderately wealthy resident of the convent of the Minoresses, and above all of the King's fulsome praise of his work in breaking the French cipher. Ranulf closed his eyes and muttered a rare prayer. He only hoped Corbett had been right. All he could do was wait and see. The King, at Corbett's insistence, had closed all ports and limited sea passage to and from France. Accordingly, Philip would never know whether Achitophel had been successful or not. Nevertheless, the news from Paris was that something was about to happen. Jacques de Chatillon, Philip's uncle and commander of the French armies in Flanders, had according to one of Corbett's spies paid a quick visit to the Louvre Palace. He was now back on the French border. Edward's allies in Flanders, the mayors and principal burgesses of some Flemish cities, were beginning to report movement by French troops. Little news came, however, of Courtrai. Edward had held on to the secret as long as he could, his spies in Flanders reporting little or no activity in that vicinity.
Ranulf looked up as the crowd suddenly roared. A black-garbed, macabre procession preceded by a blast of trumpets entered the market place. Ranulf glimpsed the nodding black plumes fixed between the horses' ears. Two dark-garbed executioners, a host of city officials following, clustered round the ox-hide hurdle on which Branwood had been fastened. Royal archers went before, beating a way through. The procession stopped at the foot of the scaffold. Branwood was untied and, preceded by six tormentors dressed like devils, hustled up the steps.
Corbett took one brief look but Branwood was unrecognisable, hair and beard now straggly, his body one open wound from neck to crotch. Two of the tormentors pushed him to the railing of the scaffold for the crowd to glimpse, then back towards the ladder and the waiting noose.
'I have seen enough,' Corbett whispered.
Followed by Ranulf, he fought his way back through the crowd, into the cool darkness of the archway of St Bartholomew's Priory where a white-faced Maltote stood holding their horses' reins.
'Come on!' Corbett urged.
They mounted and made their way out. Corbett shielded his eyes from the sight of a figure jerking on the end of a rope as the drums began to rattle out their death beat. In a few minutes they were clear of the market place, pushing their way through the narrow alleyways into Aldersgate. At last Corbett reined in.
'It's all over, Ranulf,' he whispered, leaning over to pat his horse's neck. 'We will ride to Leighton. The Lady Maeve is waiting for us.'
'And Uncle Morgan?' Ranulf interrupted. Corbett rubbed the side of his face. 'Oh, yes, we must not forget dear Uncle Morgan!' 'And after that, Master?'
Corbett half-smiled. 'You are free to go back to London. I think I'll stay at Leighton to see what news arrives from across the channel.' He grasped Ranulf's wrist. 'But whatever happens, by Yuletide, Ranulf, you will be a man of substance, a royal clerk, ready to climb the greasy steps of royal preferment.'
On the same day Corbett rode to Leighton the French army marched on the city of Courtrai. Philip believed no force could withstand the cream of French chivalry: phalanx after phalanx of heavily armoured knights, columns of men-at-arms and serried ranks of Genoese bowmen. The French were confident of success. They, the chivalry of Europe, the finest army in Western Christendom, would ride down the simple artisans, weavers and burgesses of Flanders.
By nightfall of that same day, Philip and all the great lords of Europe were shocked to hear that this army was no more. The French had attacked but the Flemings were waiting: Philip's knights charged courageously, time and again, only to break against the massed cohorts of Fleming foot soldiers with their long pikes and short stabbing swords. Courtrai was a disaster for Philip and what was left of his army fled in haste back across the border. All the French King could do was kneel before the statue of his sainted ancestor and bitterly wonder what had gone wrong.
Around Nottingham the forest stood silent, a sea of green under the darkening sky. Hoblyn the outlaw crouched beneath the spreading branches of a great oak tree, his eyes never leaving the trackway.
Times had changed but Hoblyn, now past his fifty-sixth summer, was philosophical. As a youth he'd run wild with Robin Hood. When the great outlaw leader had accepted the King's pardon, Hoblyn had tried the path of righteousness but found it difficult to follow. He had returned to the forest, killing the King's deer, keeping a wary eye out for royal verderers and looking for the occasional unprotected traveller.
Then Robin had come back and Hoblyn had rejoined the band. Like the rest, he wondered the reason for some of Robin's actions but saw no need to question him. Robin was always a will-o'-the-wisp. He was the son of Herne the Huntsman and wove magic to blend with the trees and talk to the birds and animals as well as the goblins and elves who lurked in the forest. Now Robin had gone again. Something terrible had happened in Nottingham. The taprooms of different taverns were full of tittle-tattle: how Robin had killed the sheriff; how he had wrought vengeance on the sheriff's evil serjeant-at-arms, John Naylor; how Robin had gone away but one day would return. Hoblyn could not make sense of it. All he knew was that the outlaw and his chieftains had gone. No more would the horn sound, summoning him to a meeting or to receive whispered instructions.
Hoblyn shrugged and spat. He did not care. He was sure Robin would come again. He tensed as he heard the jingle of harness, the soft clip-clop of hooves. Round the corner of the forest track came a solitary rider. Hoblyn peered through the gathering darkness and grinned. By the looks of him the traveller was a well-fed priest. Hoblyn slipped his mask over his face, pulled his cowl forward and hurried at a half-crouch to the edge of the track. He fixed an arrow to his bowstring, waited till the rider was almost upon him and stepped out on to the path. Hoblyn pulled the bow string back, the sharp-edged arrow pointed directly at the priest's chest.
What do you want? the cleric shouted, all a fluster, gathering his reins.
'Well, for a start, the wineskin you have hung on your saddle horn.'
The priest released it and the wineskin dropped with a thud to the ground. Hoblyn moved slightly to the right.
'And the purse swinging from your belt. Be careful!' he lied. 'There are a score of others on either side of you!'
The priest licked his thick lips and stared into the darkness. He heard a crackle and rustling in the undergrowth and, gabbling with fright, unhitched the purse and let it fall.
'I am a priest,' he spluttered. 'I do God's work!'
'As do I!' Hoblyn retorted. 'Spreading God's wealth amongst the poor. You may ride on, priest!'
The priest gathered the reins of his horse in his hands. Hoblyn stepped aside to let him pass.
'Who are you?' the priest spat, glaring down at the masked, cowled figure.
Hoblyn smiled. 'Why, don't you know? This is Sherwood. Tell your friends that Robin Hood has come again!' Author's note
The battle of Courtrai was, as described in this novel, a major disaster for Philip IV, a precursor of those great defeats of the fourteenth century when massed knights suffered against groups of disciplined, well-armed and determined peasant foot soldiers.
The secret diplomatic war preceding Courtrai is also as outlined. A survey of the documents in the Public Records Office, particularly in Categories C.47 and C.49, will illustrate the heightened suspicion of the French felt by Edward I and his commanders at this time. Edward was bound by treaty to Philip and could not openly aid the Flemings. His relief at Philip's defeat is clearly evident in his correspondence following news of Courtrai.
The use of ciphers is also interesting. Some are still unbroken; others, such as that used by Edward III in 1330 in his correspondence with the Papacy, could only be solved when the historians gained access to the Vatican archives.
Nottingham too is as described, a Danish burgh built around a castle where secret passageways and galleries abound. Indeed, in 1330, when the young Edward III wished to depose his own mother and her lover Roger Mortimer, he and a number of household knights managed the coup by using one of these secret passageways to enter the castle and arrest Mortimer.
The story of Robin Hood is one of the most famous in western folklore, but did the man himself exist? My theory that he did and fought with Simon de Montfort is based on a very curious Latin poem on Folio 103 of the Registe Premonstratense (Additional Manuscript M.55 4934-5 in the British Library) which indicates that Robin Hood was known by 1304.
Andrew Wyntoun, a Scottish chronicler, in his work 'Original Chronicle of Scotland' written in 1420 also records (under a verse bearing the date 1283) that 'Little John and Robin Hood were alive then and waging their war against the Sheriff in Sherwood'.
Earlier still, in 1341, John Forduen, a canon of Aberdeen, included in his 'Scottish Chronicles' for the year 1266 the following assertion: 'About this time there arose from the dispossessed (i.e. those who fought for de Montfort) and banished that famous Robin Hood and Little John with their companions. They lived as outlaws amongst the woodlands and the thickets.'
The Assassin in the Greenwood is based on the theory that Robin Hood lived in the reign of Edward I and, according to the evidence mentioned above, was pardoned by that King. I have also woven in other references, such as Little John's being a servant of the sheriff, Robin Hood's bitter feud with Guy of Gisborne and his doomed romance with Maid Marion. The outlaw's death at Kirklees may have been as described – eighteenth-century antiquarians described his tomb there which bore an inscription not only to Robin Hood but to 'William Goldberg and a man called Thomas'.
The position of sheriff in Medieval England was also as described in this novel. Many sheriffs entered secret alliances with outlaw bands (e.g. the Coterels in Leicestershire in the mid-fourteenth century, who even had the effrontery to capture the King's Chief Justice). Branwood would not have been out of place among these men. In the end, however, the Robin Hood story is an amalgam of many legends and this novel must be viewed as just one interpretation of them.