A short while later, Corbett and Ranulf left the friary and went down into Nottingham market place. Corbett walked slightly ahead, mystified by what he had learnt. Why had Robin returned, and why the change in his behaviour? He passed Pethick Lane which was usually the haunt of prostitutes, but because of the pestilence in the city the street was barred with heavy beams and iron chains slung across.
A funeral procession of three plague victims was making its way down to St Mary's church. The elmwood coffins bobbed on the shoulders of sweating pall-bearers. The chantry priest walking in front of them, a lighted taper in his hand, could hardly be heard muttering the funeral prayers for the antics of a wild man. He was dressed completely in black from head to toe with a crude skeleton painted on his garb, and danced in front of the procession, furiously ringing a bell.
Corbett entered the market place where people bought and sold, impervious to the death around them. The noise was deafening. Piles of rubbish, heaped up between the stalls or choking the broad gulleys which ran through the cobbled market place, reeked under the hot summer sun. The stench was so offensive anyone who went by had to cover their mouth and nose. Apprentices shouted, 'Lincoln cloth!' Another bawled, 'Good eggs!' A small group circled two fish wives who rolled on the ground, tearing at each other's hair and clothes like any city brawlers. The fight stopped immediately when a cart entered the market place driven by two beadles. At its back was tied a baker, his breeches pulled down about his ankles whilst a sweaty bailiff birched the prisoner's large bottom. A notice, scrawled in red and forcibly carried by the baker's apprentices, proclaimed he had sold rat's meat in his pies. Other punishments were being carried out. Two scolds were next, their faces fastened in iron bridles as they were led down to the river to sit on stools and be ducked in the filthy water.
Corbett and Ranulf stood and watched as the bartering sounds died down and the crowd turned, thronging round the stocks to watch two felons scream unremittingly as their ears were barbarously cropped. Next to them, a tanner who had poured horse piss in his rival's ale was made to sit bare-arsed in the stocks.
'Why are we watching all this?' Ranulf whispered.
'When punishments are carried out,' Corbett murmured, 'the low life always crawl from the gutter.'
Corbett's prophecy was proved correct: the flotsam and jetsam of Nottingham life appeared. The pickpockets or foists, the hookers, the night hawks, the cut-throats and the whores in their strange wigs and heavily painted faces. They stood round relishing the punishments whilst keeping a sharp eye for any unsuspecting victim. A group of retainers from a merchant prince's household, drunken and slobbery-mouthed in their stained livery, forced their way through, singing a raucous song. A pardoner screeched that he had one of the stones used to kill St Stephen whilst a hunch-backed harpist drew scraps of parchment from his jerkin and shouted that he had songs for sale.
'So the villains gather,' Ranulf observed.
'Study them carefully,' Corbett insisted, 'for those who seem sharp-eyed or wear wrist-guards.'
'You think outlaws from Sherwood would dare venture here?'
'It's possible. Remember the attack on the castle.'
Ranulf, who prided himself on spying out a villain in a crowded street, studied the mob carefully but saw nothing fitting Corbett's description. The punishments over, the crowd broke up, going back to the stalls. Suddenly, behind Corbett and Ranulf, a voice rang out.
'I challenge you, sirs. I, Rahere of Lincoln, Riddle Master and Keeper of Mysteries north and south of the Trent, from whom no puzzle is proof. I challenge you!'
Corbett and Ranulf turned round and stared at a young man wearing a long tawny robe lined with rat's fur over a blood-red shirt and Lincoln green hose. He stood on a barrel shouting out his challenge across the market place. He was sandy-haired and fresh-faced with cheeky eyes, pointed nose, and a voice which carried like a preacher's. He twirled a silver coin between his fingers as he repeated his challenge and Ranulf grinned. He had seen his type before – gentlemen of the road who could answer any riddle and pose another which would leave even the greatest scholar scratching his head for all eternity.
Ranulf stared at the young woman who stood next to the barrel, dressed in a brown smock with white lambswool fringing the neck and cuffs. Her face was hidden in a hood but suddenly she pulled this back and Ranulf's heart missed a beat. All mourning for the Lady Mary Neville abruptly ceased for this woman was breathtakingly beautiful. An oval ivory-skinned face, perfectly formed nose above full red lips, auburn hair under a white linen veil – and those eyes, ice blue with a touch of fire. Ranulf stared at the way the close-fitting smock pulled sharply across thrusting breasts. Her narrow, hand-span waist was circled by a silver cord and red leather boots peeped out from beneath the hem of her dress. She moved her hair from her face, the movement delicate and beautiful as a butterfly. 'You, sir!'
Ranulf tore his eyes away and looked up at the Riddle Master.
'Tell me any riddle and, within twenty beats of your heart, I will give you the answer or this coin is yours.'
'What happens if there are two answers?' Ranulf jested back, quickly nudging Corbett.
'As long as my answer's correct, the coin stays here.'
'What has two legs, then has three and eventually none?' Ranulf shouted, conscious of the crowd pressing round him.
'Why, a man!' the Riddle Master retorted quickly. 'For we are all born with two legs, then in old age we have three with a walking staff, and then in bed, as we die, none whatsoever.'
Ranulf grinned and nodded.
'Give me another!'
'A vessel there is that is round like a pear, Moist in the middle, coloured and fair. And often it happens that salt is found there,' Ranulf chanted.
'Very good!' the Riddle Master shouted. 'It's the eye of a man!'
Ranulf agreed then Rahere's face became serious.
'I'll buy you a flagon of ale, sir.' He glanced suspiciously at Corbett. 'But not for your sober-sided companion. Rahere the Riddle Master of Lincoln refuses to drink with a man who never smiles!'
Corbett shuffled in embarrassment and tugged at Ranulf's sleeve.
'Come on!' he whispered as others began to shout riddles. 'Let's go back to the castle.'
They fought their way through the crowd. 'Hey, Master Redhead!' Ranulf turned.
'Don't forget,' the Riddle Master shouted, 'my sister Amisia and I owe you a flagon of ale. You'll meet us in the taproom of The Cock and Hoop?'
Ranulf was about to shake his head but the young woman was smiling at him. He reluctantly turned away to follow his master through the crowd back into Friary Lane. They were almost at the foot of the crag, the great castle of Nottingham looming above them, when Corbett stopped.
'You'd best go back.'
'What do you mean, Master?'
'To The Cock and Hoop.' Corbett grinned. 'Ranulf, Ranulf,' he whispered, 'you can never resist three things: a goblet of wine, a game of dice and a beautiful face.'
Ranulf needed no second bidding and ran back down the lane. Corbett watched him go.
'It will do you good,' he shouted but Ranulf was out of earshot, already stopping passersby to ask them directions to The Cock and Hoop.
At last he found it opposite St Peter's graveyard. He burst into the musty taproom, bawling at the landlord for service whilst slipping him a penny to hire a table near the tavern's only window. Ranulf ordered a flagon of ale, sat and sipped its cool tanginess as he tried to control the flutter of excitement in his belly. He felt tired, slightly heavy-eyed, still agitated after the ambush in the forest.
'I hate bloody trees!' he muttered to himself.
He leaned back against the wall and watched a skinner, who sat cross-legged just inside the tavern door, neatly sewing together pieces of mole-skin. Ranulf closed his eyes. He could stand in a dark alleyway in Southwark and not turn a hair but that forest, with its green gloom and haunting sounds, would always unnerve him. He thought idly about the deaths in the castle and then that mysterious refrain contained in the cipher: Three kings go to the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers. 'If I could only unlock the secret,' Ranulf muttered under his breath. He thought of the Riddle Master, opened his eyes and grinned at the thought which suddenly occurred to him.
'So you have come for your flagon of ale?'
Ranulf looked up as Rahere sat down on the stool opposite, his sister just as quietly next to him.
'You move like shadows,' Ranulf remarked, extending his hand.
'Sometimes we have to. Your name, stranger?' 'Ranulf-atte-Newgate, servant in the retinue of Sir Hugh Corbett.'
'Never heard of him.'
Beside Rahere Amisia suddenly giggled, her eyes dancing in gentle mockery. Ranulf could barely look at her, she was so beautiful. Rahere snapped his fingers.
'Two flagons of ale, your best, and a glass of white wine -not from your slops and it has to be cool.'
The servile landlord wiped his sweaty face with his hand, bobbing up and down as if Rahere was some great lord.
'He knows you well?' Ranulf remarked.
'He should do. We hire his best chambers and he charges us well.'
'You make such a profit from your riddle-making?'
Rahere spread his hands and Ranulf suddenly noticed how one eye was green, the other brown with a slight cast in it, giving the Riddle Master a rather saturnine look.
'Every man likes a mystery, a puzzle, a riddle.'
The landlord hurried back with the ale and wine.
'Tell me,' Rahere tapped Ranulf's knee, 'where did you learn that riddle about the eye?'
'My mother told me it.'
Rahere leaned back and sipped from the tankard. 'You have never heard of it, have you, Amisia?'
'No, brother.'
The young woman's voice was soft and melodious, and as she sipped daintily from the cup Ranulf gazed hungrily at her. Everything about her was delicate and fine. She reminded him of a beautiful ivory statue he had glimpsed in the King's chamber. And those eyes… Never had Ranulf seen such fire in such icy blueness. He looked away and shook himself.
'Do you have any more such riddles?' Rahere asked. 'I tell you, Ranulf, we always buy a tankard of ale for the man who poses a riddle we have never heard and it's three years since I have done that. I'll take yours north,' he continued. 'We hope to spend Michaelmas at the court of My Lord Anthony de Bec, Bishop of Durham.'
'There is one riddle,' Ranulf hesitantly began. 'A secret saying.'
Rahere cradled the tankard in his hands and leaned forward, his strange eyes glistening with excitement. 'Tell me.'
'It's a saying which masks a secret.' Ranulf closed his eyes. 'The three kings go to the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers.'
Rahere pulled a face. 'Hell's teeth! Is that all?'
Ranulf shrugged. 'That's all I know.'
'Who contrived it?'
'I don't know,' Ranulf lied. 'But if you could resolve the mystery, or even point to what it means…' He opened his purse and put two silver coins on the table. 'Then these would be yours.'
The Riddle Master extended his hands. 'There, Ranulf, you have my bond.'
Ranulf shook it warmly, pocketed the coins and shouted at the taverner to bring more drink. He felt smug and satisfied, trying hard to hide his excitement. The Riddle Master might help. If he did, Ranulf would profit, and if he didn't, Ranulf would still profit: he was being given an open excuse to slip away from Old Master Long Face and pay court to the beautiful Amisia.
The following morning Corbett rose early. He stared suspiciously at the sleeping Ranulf. His manservant had returned the previous evening, slightly drunk, weaving his way down the corridors of the castle singing the filthiest songs Corbett had ever heard, and he had only with the greatest difficulty extricated Ranulf from a game of dice with some of the surly castle soldiers who were growing increasingly suspicious about his run of luck at every throw. The manservant now sprawled half-dressed, snoring off at least a gallon of ale. Corbett finished dressing, tiptoed out of the room and went down to the hall to break his fast.
Branwood, Naylor, Roteboeuf, Friar Thomas and Physician Maigret were already there. The under-sheriff was morosely chewing snatches of bread and sipping from a tankard. Corbett's salutation was greeted with mumbles and dark looks; the household was obviously still smarting over the previous day's ambush in the forest. Corbett sat on a bench next to Maigret and cut chunks of bread from a newly baked loaf. He felt refreshed and reflected on the recent attack.
'Strange,' he murmured aloud before he could stop himself.
'What is?' Naylor snapped, his pig-like eyes red-rimmed with tiredness.
'Yesterday in the forest those outlaws could have killed us all yet we escaped. It's almost as if…'
'They were sending a warning?' Roteboeuf finished the sentence.
'Yes.' Corbett bit off a piece of bread. There's something elusive there, he thought, like staring into murky water and glimpsing something precious lying on the bottom.
'Sir Peter,' he asked, 'do you wish the King to confirm you as sheriff?'
Sir Peter shrugged. 'That's the King's prerogative. He appointed me under-sheriff.' He smiled sourly. 'Perhaps he will insist I step into poor Vechey's shoes?'
Corbett nodded diplomatically and was about to reply when Maigret coughed and cleared his throat.
'I have been thinking over what you asked me, Sir Hugh, about Sir Eustace's death.' The physician's quick eyes darted around as if challenging the others to object. 'The poison,' he continued, 'may have been deadly nightshade or some potion distilled from mushrooms, those poisonous ones which grow under the oak and elm. They are most noxious, especially when picked under a hunter's moon.'
'Would they kill immediately?'
'If the potion was strong enough, yes.'
'Sir Peter! Sir Peter!'
All conversation died as a young soldier, a mere boy no more than sixteen summers old, his hair tousled, eyes staring in terror, burst into the hall.
'What's the matter, man?'
'I've seen them! Two of the men who went missing in the forest yesterday.' The soldier's voice faltered. 'They've been executed!'
Sir Peter sprang from the table, the others followed. Branwood ordered Roteboeuf and Maigret to stay in the castle.
'Sir Hugh! Father Thomas! Naylor!'
They hurried into the bailey where retainers were already saddling horses. The sheriff, shouting curses at the soldier, told him to take a nag from anyone and lead them back to what he had seen.
The sun had not yet risen but the grey-blue sky was lightening with streaks of red as they galloped out of the castle gates, down the winding path and into the still-sleeping town. Branwood rode like a man possessed and Corbett found it hard to keep up with him. He noticed with wry amusement that Father Thomas was a better horseman than Naylor who kept slipping in the saddle.
I wonder when Maltote will return? Corbett suddenly thought as they thundered past The Trip to Jerusalem into Friary Lane. Any further speculation ended as he tried to keep his horse away from the sewer and a watchful eye on the overhanging tavern signs and the gilded boards of the furriers, cloth-makers and goldsmiths. Thankfully few people were around and those who were flattened themselves against the walls as Sir Peter and his party thundered by. Shop doors abruptly slammed shut as apprentices, preparing the stalls for a day's business, saw or heard the horsemen and fled for safety. Two dung collectors, their carts half-full of stinking ordure, blocked the route until Sir Peter beat them aside with the flat of his sword.
The city gates were hastily opened and Branwood led them across dew-drenched fields, following the same track as they had yesterday which aimed like an arrow towards the dark sombre line of trees. Corbett's stomach lurched in fear. Surely, he thought, not back there?
'Sir Peter!' he shouted. 'What is this nonsense?'
Branwood failed to hear but spurred his horse faster. Corbett hung on grimly, then suddenly Sir Peter reined in, pulling his horse up savagely, shouting at them to stop.
'Well, where, man?' he bawled at the soldier, who looked as if the recent ride had jarred every bone in his body. The young man blinked and stared at the forest. He turned his horse to the side and galloped along the fringe of trees, Branwood and the rest behind. Abruptly the guide stopped and pointed a dirty, stubby finger.
'I saw them,' he gasped. 'I saw them as I came in after visiting my mother in the village.'
Corbett stared hard. At first he could see nothing then Sir Peter leaned over and clutched his wrist.
'Look, Sir Hugh!' he whispered hoarsely. 'Look at that tree, the huge elm!'
Corbett followed his gaze. The blur of white he had glimpsed before now became clear. Two corpses, their dirty white skin gleaming like the underbelly of landed pike, swung by their necks from one of the high branches of the tree. Friar Thomas pushed his horse further forward, Branwood and Corbett followed, whilst the young soldier leaned over his horse's neck to vomit and retch. The bodies were grotesque in death. They were naked except for loin cloths, their faces a mottled hue; half-bitten tongues protruded from swollen mouths, their staring eyes were glazed and empty.
'Two of the soldiers,' Sir Peter murmured, 'who went missing yesterday.'
The horses smelt the corpses and began to whinny and fret. Corbett turned away in disgust whilst Sir Peter began to roar out orders to Naylor to cut the men down and get a cart from the castle to bring the cadavers in.
'Let's return,' the sheriff moodily announced.
'I cannot,' Friar Thomas spoke up. 'I must visit my church. Sir Hugh, you will stay with me?'
Corbett readily agreed; Sir Peter at the best of times, was a graceless companion, but now he looked like a man awaiting condemnation. Friar Thomas murmured a prayer, sketching a blessing in the direction of the corpses, then led Corbett back to his small parish church. This stood about two miles from Nottingham on the road going west to Newark. Around the church were grouped the stone and wooden houses and tiny garden strips of the villeins and peasants.
'Most of them are free,' Friar Thomas proudly announced. 'Or nearly so. They grow their own crops and only spend two boon days working on the manor lord's domain.'
Corbett nodded. The Franciscan seemed well liked. As they rode into the village he was greeted by a host of thin-ribbed, near-naked children who jumped round like imps from hell, chattering and calling, pointing at Corbett and asking Friar Thomas a stream of questions in high reedy voices. Their parents, faces earth-stained or burnt brown by the sun, also welcomed their priest as they came back from the fields to hear mass and break their fast before returning. Friar Thomas greeted them genially and, by the time they reached the church, a small procession had formed behind him. Outside the cemetery, the friar and Corbett dismounted, two peasant lads taking their horses whilst Thomas led Corbett into the musty darkness of the church. It was a simple building with no pillars or glass windows. The floor was beaten earth, the altar a simple stone slab. Corbett crouched with the rest before a crude wooden altar rail whilst Friar Thomas donned his vestments in an adjoining chamber and came out to celebrate the fastest mass Corbett had ever heard. Friar Thomas did not gabble the words but he spoke swiftly. He moved through the epistle and gospel on to the offertory and consecration before dismissing his parishioners with a swift benediction.
'A quick mass, Father,' Corbett remarked, watching him disrobe in the small vestry.
Friar Thomas grinned. 'It's the belief which counts,' he replied. 'Not the elaborate ritual.' The friar nodded towards the church door. 'My parishioners have fields to tend, crops to harvest, cattle to water, children to feed. If they don't work, they starve. And what then, Master Clerk?'
'Assistance from Robin Hood?'
The friar's fat face creased into a wreath of smiles. 'Well said, Clerk,' he murmured.
'You approve of the outlaw?' Corbett asked.
Father Thomas neatly folded the vestments, placed them in a wooden coffer and padlocked the lid.
'I did not say that,' he replied, straightening up. 'But my people are poor. A girl marries at twelve. By the time she is sixteen she will have had four babies, three of whom will die. She and her husband will wrap the little bodies up in a piece of cheap cloth for me to bury out in the graveyard. I'll say a prayer, wipe the tears from their eyes and quietly curse their misfortune.
'These villagers are the salt of the earth. They rise before dawn, they go to sleep when it's dark, they plough their fields in the depths of winter, leaving their babies under a bush to suck on a wet rag, hoping they will keep warm in the piece of cow hide in which they are wrapped. They make a little profit, and then the tax-collectors come. They fill their barns and the royal purveyors snatch it. The lords of the soil prey on them: if there is a war, their houses burn and they are cut down like grass.'
Father Thomas stuck his podgy thumbs into the dirty white girdle round his waist. 'If the King wants soldiers,' he continued, 'their young go swinging down some country lane, leaving the air full of their chatter and song.' The priest's dark eyes swept up to meet Corbett's and the clerk saw tears brimming there. 'Then the news comes,' he continued, 'of some great victory or some great defeat, and with it a list of the dead. The women come here. They crouch on the dirty floor – the wives, the mothers, the sisters – whilst I,' the friar added bitterly, 'hide like a dog in my vestry and listen to their sobs.' He sighed. 'A year later the wounded return, one without a leg, another maimed. For what?'
'Did you bring us here to tell me this, Father?'
'Yes, I did, King's Commissioner. When you return to Westminster, tell the King what you have seen. Robin Hood is in the hearts of all these people.'
'I know that,' Corbett replied. 'Like you, Father, I come from the soil, and like you I found an escape.' He stepped closer. 'But there's something else, isn't there? You minister here and not at the castle. Your heart's with these peasants. Robin Hood the outlaw, the famous wolfshead, must have made an approach to you.'
Father Thomas turned his back as if busying himself, putting away the cruets in a small iron-bound coffer.
'I asked you a question, Father?'
Father Thomas turned, a defiant look in his eyes. 'If Robin Hood walked into this church,' he retorted, 'I would not send for the sheriff but…' his voice trailed off.
'But what, Father?'
'Well.' The friar leaned against the wall and clasped podgy hands round his generous stomach. 'Yes, I brought you here so you can take messages back to the King. But there's something wrong.' He busily washed his fingers in a small bowl of water and wiped them carefully with a napkin. 'In former years when Robin Hood ran wild with his coven, the villagers were never attacked and the outlaw shared his goods.'
'And this time?'
'Oh, the peasants are safe and the outlaw distributes good silver, but it's to buy their silence.' The friar walked to the door. 'We should go.'
Corbett stood still. 'Father, I asked a question and you did not answer.'
Father Thomas turned. 'I know you did, Sir Hugh. Yes,' he continued wearily, 'I have seen the wolfshead. He came here, late one evening, sauntering up the nave like some cock in a barnyard. I was kneeling at the altar rail. When I turned he was there, dressed in Lincoln green, a hood pulled across his head, a black cloth mask hiding his face.'
'What did he want?'
'He asked for my help. If I would give him information about what I saw in the town and the village. Who was moving where? What monies were being transported? Would I tend to the spiritual comfort of his men?'
'And what was your reply?'
'I told him I'd dance with the devil first under a midsummer moon.'
'Yet you said you understood him?'
'No, Sir Hugh, I understand the poverty of my people.' The priest wriggled his fat shoulders. 'This was before the murders in the castle or the killing of the tax-collectors. But I don't know… I just did not like the man. His arrogance, his coldness, the way he stood leaning on his long bow. I felt a malevolence, an evil.'
'And what was his reply?'
'He just walked away, slipping out into the night, laughing over his shoulder.' 'Did you tell the sheriff?' 'Sir Eustace or Sir Peter? Never!'
Corbett dipped his fingers in the stoup of holy water just inside the vestry door. He blessed himself. 'I thank you, Father. You'll return to the castle?'
'In a while,' replied the friar. 'You go ahead.'
Corbett walked back into the church, stopping to light a taper before the rough hewn wooden statue of the Virgin Mary. He closed his eyes, praying for Maeve and baby Eleanor, unaware of the figure in the shadows at the back of the church, glaring malevolently towards him.