Corbett woke early, still sweating after his nightmare. He had been standing on a red, dusty plain under black, howling skies, surrounded by thick green forests. At the edge of this stood a huge manor house built entirely of iron. In his nightmare Corbett walked towards it, noticing a shutter banging. As he approached, this was suddenly flung open. A hooded figure peered out, the cowl was pulled back, and Corbett stared into the narrow, red-bearded face of his adversary, Amaury de Craon.
'Welcome to Hell!' de Craon cried. 'What took you so long?'
After he had woken, Corbett lay for a while, wondering what the dream meant. He felt agitated and slightly anxious. He hoped that all was well with Maeve at Leighton Manor then recalled the fire arrows the night before and became aware of the date and how time was passing whilst he floundered about in Nottingham. Across the chamber, Ranulf lay sprawled on his bed sleeping peacefully as a baby. Corbett groaned, got out of bed, washed, shaved and dressed. He remembered de Craon from his dream, wondered if the assassin Achitophel was in Nottingham. He clasped his sword belt round his waist. A distant bell began to sound for morning mass so Corbett went down to the small bleak chapel where Friar Thomas, dressed in a black and gold chasuble for the Mass of the Dead, greeted him.
'I'm offering this for the souls of Sir Eustace and Lecroix.' He smiled at Corbett from the altar. 'May God take them to a place of light.'
A few soldiers from the garrison joined them. Friar Thomas made the sign of the cross and began mass. The service was simple and after the final benediction, as was customary at a Requiem, Friar Thomas recited the Dona Eis three times. Corbett listened to the words. 'Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.'
He remembered the friar's remark at the beginning of mass, about God taking the souls of the two dead men to a place of light, and thought of the three fire arrows he had glimpsed against the velvet night sky. Were those arrows a prayer for someone? Some form of tribute? Or a threat?
Corbett left the chapel and went up to Sir Eustace's room which Ranulf had sealed with Corbett's own insignia. He broke these off and went into the musty chamber, took a sheet from the bed, collected a few items and, closing the door after him, went back to his chamber. He was surprised to see Ranulf up and dressed and sitting beside an aggrieved-looking Maltote.
'So the messenger returns!' Corbett exclaimed, pushing the items he had taken from Vechey's room under his bed.
Maltote rose and limped towards him.
'For God's sake, man,' Corbett cried, 'what happened?'
'I went to Southwell as you said, Master.'
'And?'
'Guy of Gisborne kept me there.'
'Why?' Corbett gazed in astonishment at the bandage round Maltote's knee. 'Sit down and tell us what happened.'
'I'll tell you,' Ranulf spoke up. 'Gisborne has gone into Sherwood.'
Corbett closed his eyes and groaned.
'He moved his force in there last night,' Ranulf continued. 'They begin their hunt at daybreak. Maltote rode through the night to tell us the news. He found the castle barred so he stayed at The Trip to Jerusalem.'
'Why didn't Gisborne let you go immediately?'
'He knew you might stop him,' Ranulf answered for Maltote. 'That's why he detained him.'
Corbett went to stare out of the window. He recalled Gisborne's face: red, weather-beaten, with a flattened nose and eyes as hard as pebbles. An excellent soldier and a born fighter, Gisborne had performed many feats on the Scottish march and, if the clerks at Westminster could be believed, had a special loathing for Robin Hood. Gisborne had never accepted the King's granting the outlaw a pardon. However, if chancery gossip could be believed, whilst serving in Scotland, Edward had made Gisborne swear an oath over holy relics that he would never raise a hand against Robin Hood. When the outlaw returned to his depredations, Gisborne, a local landowner with considerable knowledge of Sherwood Forest, had immediately offered his sword to hunt the outlaw down. King Edward had refused but, after the attack on Willoughby, had ordered Corbett north. He'd also sent writs to Gisborne to raise troops but these were only to be deployed when Corbett gave his consent. But Gisborne had been cunning. He had taken Maltote's arrival as Corbett's tacit consent to move and, by detaining the messenger, made sure Corbett was in no position to object.
'Who else knows?' Corbett rasped over his shoulder.
'Sir Peter Branwood,' Maltote spluttered. 'The castle guard called him down immediately.'
Corbett pressed his hot cheek against the cold stone.
'And, of course,' he muttered, 'Sir Peter is furious at Gisborne's actions.'
'Worse,' Kanuit answered. 'He and Naylor have taken a small force out to the fringes of the forest – whether to assist Gisborne or stop him, I don't know.'
Corbett spun round, came back and glared down at the boyish face of his messenger.
'Couldn't you have returned earlier? And how were you wounded?'
Maltote looked at the floor.
'Two reasons,' Ranulf replied cheerily. 'First, he got drawn into a game of dice and lost everything. Secondly,' Ranulf clapped Maltote on the shoulder and grinned at Corbett, 'he tried to redeem his losses by accepting a challenge from an archer.'
Corbett gaped.
'You see,' Ranulf chattered on, 'our good messenger here shot one arrow, picked up a second, tripped over the bow and somehow or other,' Ranulf compressed his mouth to stop himself laughing, 'tripped and gashed his knee.'
Corbett stared disbelievingly at him. He would have given the young messenger his usual lecture about not touching any weapon but Maltote already looked so miserable. His face was pallid, emphasising the pock marks round his eyes, the legacy of an attack some months previously when Corbett had been hunting the insane murderer of London prostitutes. Corbett tapped him gently on the shoulder.
'Let's forget that. Listen, whilst Branwood is gone, I am travelling to Kirklees. Don't ask me why. Just watch what happens here. And, Ranulf, before you ask, I'll see your friend Rahere on my return.'
Corbett left the castle an hour later, Ranulf and Maltote seeing him as far as the Middle Gate. The clerk led his horse through the busy teeming streets of Nottingham, pulling a cowl over his head so as not to attract anyone's attention. In the market place he had to fight his way through the crowd watching a pack of snarling mastiffs snap at a great black bear. This stood roaring its defiance in a flash of ivory teeth and thrusting cruel paws which delighted the crowd and stirred the blood lust of the dogs. Corbett went down an alleyway near St Mary's church, looking for a scribe. A water-seller directed him to the other side of St Mary's and, as he passed the church steps, he stopped and cursed as he saw the naked corpses of the outlaws sprawled there. In accordance with city regulations, both cadavers had been stripped and placed on public view for anyone to recognise. The bodies lolled sideways in makeshift chests and Corbett saw the ugly purple-red arrow wounds in their backs. He breathed a prayer and pressed on.
In the booths and stalls just inside St Mary's graveyard, he found a scribe who etched a crude map of the surrounding countryside, indicating which route he should take to reach the Priory of Kirklees. The fellow took his time, chattering like a magpie about how hobgoblins had been seen sitting on a tomb and feasting on human flesh, and how such evil sprites plagued the roads round Nottingham. Corbett tapped his boot in frustration but at last the man finished. Corbett grabbed the map, paid the fee and left the churchyard.
The visit to the scribe must have cost him an hour. By the time he left the city gate, joining others as they wound their way along the country track, Corbett found his serenity disturbed. By nature he was a solitary man, accustomed to the subtle intrigue of court around him as well as the dangerous street politics of London. This had given him a heightened sense of danger. Now he felt uneasy, certain he was being watched and followed. At first he felt protected by the other travellers but eventually these left the main highway, returning to outlying villages or farms. At last Corbett travelled alone, the silence broken by scuffling in the hedgerows, the occasional burst of bird song or the steady hum of the crickets. Corbett eased the sword in his belt, letting his horse amble gently as he himselt breathed in deeply and strained his ears to catch any sound of danger.
As he approached the forest, his anxiety increased. Who was tracking him? he wondered. Was it the traitor in the castle or was it Achitophel? Had the French assassin arrived in Nottingham and was he planning to strike here in the lonely countryside? The line of trees drew nearer.
Corbett stopped and looked round. So far he had travelled through open countryside where an assailant would have to use hedges or a small copse for concealment. He urged his horse on and entered the forest. The sunlight faded and, once again, Corbett became aware that the forest was a living thing; the crackling in the undergrowth, the fluttering of birds, the growing darkness and sense of utter loneliness. Suddenly Corbett heard chatter, the noise of conversation somewhere in front of him, but resisted the urge to whip his horse into a headlong gallop. He peered over his shoulder but could see no signs of pursuit whilst ahead of him he glimpsed other travellers. They stopped, looking back in alarm at the sound of his horse's hooves. Corbett saw one of them unstring a bow so reined in his horse and held up his left hand in a sign of peace.
'Who are you?' the man called.
'An honest traveller,' Corbett replied, 'eager for your company.'
'You are alone?' 'Of course.'
'Then come forward slowly.'
Corbett dug his knees into his mount's sides and the group waited to receive him. They, were a mixed band: men, women and children, protected by retainers, a number of families intent on visiting the Blessed Thurstan's tomb at York. Corbett journeyed with them until they arrived at a tavern' at some crossroads in time for the midday meal.
The place was a hive of activity. Peasants and villeins and travellers of every sort thronged the busy stable yard whilst the taproom was packed to overflowing. Ostlers took their horses and Corbett went inside, sitting by an overturned beer barrel near the window. He felt hungry so asked for a jug of ale, a broth of peas and onions with sippets, and a raston or small loaf made of sweetened flour and enriched with eggs. While eating he watched the other travellers take their ease. A pardoner appeared, pretending to speak Latin but now and again telling the pilgrims anecdotes full of coarse merriment. The taproom was filled with the clatter of jugs and basins, the cries of children, the braying voice of the pardoner, and the low hum of conversation as traders, tinkers and merchants exchanged gossip about the roads and markets.
Corbett stared round. He could see no one who might pose a threat. No one he could recognise from the castle or the town. One of the pilgrims, a young girl, stood up to sing a song in a clear voice. Corbett leaned back, eyes closed, and listened as the girl described the bird song of summer.
'Everywhere summer sings,' she sang.
A tremendous commotion from the yard outside drowned the song as customers sprang to their feet at the alarm: 'Fire! Fire!'
Corbett joined the rest in the yard. Ostlers were dragging horses from the stables and the air was sharp with the acrid smell of burnt straw. Corbett saw a wisp of flame from the end stable but servants carrying buckets of water soon doused the fire. The atmosphere relaxed, the customers laughed and everyone trooped back into the taproom. Corbett took his seat and grasped his tankard, then stopped. He had to stretch out for it, from right to left, but knew he'd never have left his tankard there. Maeve was always nagging him about resting cups and jugs at the edge of tables.
'You are lazy,' Hugh, she would berate him. 'You like to pick up your cup with the minimum of effort. Baby Eleanor loves that too.'
Corbett stared at the tankard. Someone had moved it, but why? A servant rushing by the barrel to get to the door? Or someone with a more sinister intent? He took the tankard and cradled it in his hands. He peered quickly round the tavern. He could recognise no stranger and was sure no one was watching him. He lifted the tankard, sniffed it carefully, and beneath its malty tang caught something more subtle, sharp and acrid. Corbett put the tankard down and breathed deeply, trying to control his panic. Had it been poisoned or was he losing his wits? He remembered the rat-catcher he had seen outside, sprawled on the cobbles, his back to the tavern wall, sunning himself. Corbett went out and stood over him. The seamy yellow-faced man looked up.
'You have business with me, sir?'
Corbett produced a coin and gestured at the man's empty rusting cages. 'Could you catch me a rat?'
The fellow caught the glint of silver and his mouth broke into a toothless smile.
'Can a bird fly?'
He picked up one of his small cages and shuffled across to one of the outhouses where hay and grain were stored.
Corbett sat and waited for a quarter of an hour. At last the fellow returned. Now his cage contained a long-tailed, fat-bellied rat which pushed its snout aggressively against the wire, yellow teeth protruding, blood-red eyes gleaming in fury.
'A prince among rats,' the fellow declared. 'You wanted it alive?' He held out a dirty claw for the coin. Corbett handed it over.
'There's another for a piece of cheese and your tongue remaining silent about what you see.'
The man shrugged, dug into his greasy wallet and handed Corbett a piece ot spongy cheese so putrid it stank. Corbett placed the small cage on the ground, the piece of cheese next to it. The rat pushed its snout against the bars, tantalised by the smell. Corbett then poured the contents of his tankard over the cheese and, using a stick, pushed it into the cage. The rat attacked it voraciously, peeling off strips like a man would an apple. The cheese disappeared, the rat raised its head, sniffing at the air, then suddenly moved sideways. It rolled on its back, dirty underbelly up, clawing the air. A greenish substance trickled between its jaws as it convulsed in its death throes.
'That's the last time I'm eating that bloody cheese!' The rat-catcher's beady eyes studied Corbett. 'Or better still, Master, perhaps you should be more careful what you drink!'
Corbett went back into the tavern, shouting for the landlord as he tried to control his own fear at the horrible death he had just escaped. He handed over the tankard as well as another coin.
'That is the most expensive meal I have ever bought.'
The taverner looked at him quizzically.
'I want that tankard destroyed,' Corbett insisted. 'And a cup of your best claret. But I will choose the cup and broach the cask myself.'
Guy of Gisborne stopped and peered through the trees on either side. His red face glistened with sweat under his heavy iron helm and mailed coif. He smiled in satisfaction as he surveyed his line of foresters and verderers.
'I'll show the King,' he whispered, 'his sombre clerk and that bastard Branwood how to kill an outlaw!'
Gisborne's heart skipped a beat in pleasure at what he planned for Robin Hood. Gisborne detested the wolfshead with his much vaunted love for the common man, his consummate skill with a bow, his knowledge of the forest and, above all, the way he had on several occasions tricked and ambushed Gisborne himself only to receive the King's grace and favour.
Gisborne ground his teeth and winced in pain at an abscess high in his gum. He had been forced to watch Robin Hood become a member of the King's own chamber, stroll like any lord through the streets of Nottingham or amongst the silken pavilions of Edward's generals in Scotland. Gisborne had seen how the King had favoured the outlaw, granting him special privileges, using the outlaw's skills as the English hunted the Scottish rebel leader Wallace through the wild glens and woods of Scotland. But now Robin had returned to Sherwood. Gisborne forgot his pain for this time the outlaw had put himself beyond the law, stealing the King's taxes and executing his officers as if they were common malefactors. Today would be different. Gisborne would hunt the outlaw down, but not with an armed band of knights, clattering like a peal of bells through the forest. These verderers and foresters would flush out Robin as they would a hart or a wild boar. Gisborne would trap him, mete out punishment, then tie him to the horn of his saddle and ride the wolfshead naked through Nottingham so all could see Gisborne's glory and the outlaw's downfall.
'Sir Guy? My Lord of Gisborne?'
Guy glanced sideways at the dark, elfin face of his chief huntsman, Mordred.
'My Lord, you are pleased?' 'Your lord is pleased.'
Gisborne stared into the green darkness ahead of him. He couldn't position the sun but guessed it was past midday and already he was driving bands of outlaws deeper into the forest. A mile on either side of him, lines of well-armed huntsmen prepared to close the next net. Gisborne had deployed his soldiers like the horns of a bull, sweeping the dirt and refuse of the forest before them. Sooner or later he would flush out Robin Hood and trap him against a marsh or rocky escarpment. Or, better still, out in the open countryside where Gisborne's horsemen would seal the trap. Guy rocked himself to and fro as he peered through the surrounding forest. He had spent every penny he had on this venture but the King would repay him and Branwood would have to eat the dust from his cloak.
'My Lord of Gisborne?' Mordred spoke up again.
Sir Guy caught the note of anxiety in the man's voice.
'What is it, man?'
'My Lord, we are moving too fast.'
'Good. It will give the outlaws little time to re-group.'
'Sir Guy, I beg you, the outlaws are fleeing but could be leading us into a trap.'
'Nonsense!' Gisborne snapped. He gripped his sword tighter. 'Give the order to advance!'
'My Lord…' Mordred's words were cut off.
Gisborne angrily raised his horn, giving three long haunting blasts, and then ran forward in a half-crouch.
They came to the edge of a glade. Mordred scrabbled at Gisborne's arm but the knight shrugged him off. He felt the blood beat in his temples. He ran across the sun-dappled grass, Mordred and the others loping beside him. In the dark greenness before them, a single horn blast greeted them. Mordred and the foresters stopped. Sir Guy ran on. Another blast of that horn, sombre, sinister, and the air was full of speeding death. The grey, goose-quilled arrows fell like a silent deadly rain. Mordred saw men to his right and left drop, kicking and spluttering, as arrows took them in the throat and chest.
'Sir Guy!' he screamed.
But Gisborne ran on. Another flight of arrows. Now the glade was full of screams. Men sprawled on the ground, jerking in their death throes, dark bloody pools glistening on the green grass. Mordred raised his own horn. One shrill blast and his men fled back into the shelter of the trees. Sir Guy, however, charged on, forcing his way through the bracken on the other side of the glade, his sword held out in front of him. No arrow hit him. He felt protected, a sure sign that God's favour was with him. A hooded figure, face masked, stepped out from behind a tree.
'Welcome to Sherwood, Sir Guy!'
Gisborne turned, his mind seething with fury. He half-lifted his sword and ran, shouting curses at this man who had taunted him for years. Gisborne's foot caught a root and he fell headlong, sword flying out of his grasp. He stared up at the cowled figure bending over him. Gisborne's lips curled in a smile.
'You!'
It was his last word. The dark figure raised his sword then brought it crashing down on the line of exposed flesh between Gisborne's coif and hauberk.