Assassin in the Greenwood

'has returned with a vengeance. He not only plunders but kills and maims. The attack on the tax-collectors was particularly murderous. He has a hand in the murder of Eustace Vechey and has tried to kill Branwood.'
    'But why?' Corbett mused. 'Why the deaths? Why the personal vindictiveness?'
    'Perhaps Robin expected higher things after his pardon?'
    'Item – the people in the castle,' Corbett continued. 'What do you think of them, Ranulf?'
    'Branwood has a hatred for Robin. Naylor is a surly bastard. Friar Thomas…' Ranulf shrugged. 'You know these priests. However, it's Roteboeuf who puzzles me. Have you noticed, Master, the two forefingers of his right hand are severely calloused and he wears a leather wrist guard on his left?'
    'In other words, a professional bowman?' 'And Lecroix?' Corbett asked. 'A half-wit, dedicated to his master.' 'And Vechey's death?'
    'God knows, Master, how he was poisoned. But I agree, there's a traitor in the castle. Branwood might know, perhaps Naylor, Father Thomas, or even our good friend Roteboeuf.'
    Corbett stretched for another quill and, as he did so, heard shouting from the parapet walk. At the same time he felt a hiss of air before a steel arrowhead hit the far wall. Corbett just sat astonished, the shouting outside increased and other arrows whirred into the room. Ranulf grabbed his master and hurled him to the floor. Outside in the corridor they heard the sound of running feet. Ranulf looked up towards the window. He heard something thud dully against the wall outside and saw splashes of blood on the window sill. There was a sound of men running along the galleries and Naylor yelling outside the door: 'Sir Hugh Corbett, for God's sake, the castle is under attack!'

Chapter 3
    Corbett and Ranulf opened the door and ran into the corridor beyond. Both men hurriedly wrapped their sword belts round them and followed Naylor as he clattered down the stairs. In the inner bailey all was confusion. Soldiers ran up the steps to the parapet walks. Screaming women grabbed protesting children. Dogs barked in the far courtyard near the stables while another thrashed on the ground, an arrow in its back. Branwood came hurrying out, dressed in half-armour, his sword drawn.
    'The bastard!' he shouted, white-faced. 'That bastard outlaw has the impudence to attack us here! Sir Hugh, for God's sake, stay inside!'
    And before Corbett or Ranulf could protest, he almost pushed them back into the keep. They stood in the hot darkness watching the shadows lengthen as Branwood, Naylor and other officers of the garrison tried to impose order. The baileys were cleared of people, the howling dog put out of its misery. Two soldiers entered, carrying a third between them, an arrow embedded in his shoulder. An hour passed before Branwood re-appeared, his face grimy and soaked with sweat. In his hand he carried a dirty sheet.
    'The attack's over,' he muttered and grinned mirthlessly. 'One soldier wounded, a dog killed. The biggest blow was to our pride. And this.' He led them into the hall, placed the sheet on the ground and undid it carefully. Corbett gagged and Ranulf quietly swore. A severed head lay there. The side of its face was severely bruised, the eyes rolled back in the sockets, the hair blood-soaked. It was difficult even to estimate how old the victim was or what he'd looked like in life. Around the severed neck hung loose tendrils of skin and muscle.
    'For sweet Christ's sake!' Corbett breathed. 'Sir Peter, I have seen enough. Who is it?'
    'Hobwell. He was my squire.' Branwood pushed the blood-soaked bundle away with his foot. He went across to a small table and slopped wine into three goblets whilst bawling for Naylor to come and take the head away.
    'Where to?' the serjeantasked.
    'For God's sake, man!' Branwood roared. 'Who gives a damn? Bury it!'
    Once Naylor left, Branwood served the wine. They sat on a bench at the table on the dais.
    'Who was Hobwell?' Corbett asked. 'Your squire, I know, but why this?'
    'A week ago,' Branwood began, 'Hobwell pretended to be a wolfshead, fleeing to the forest for safety. He was to join the outlaw band.' The under-sheriff shrugged. 'The rest you can guess at. Hobwell was betrayed and Robin Hood has sent his answer.'
    A serjeant ran into the hall. 'Sir Peter,' he shouted breathlessly, 'news from the town. Five or six outlaws, hooded and masked, attacked from a cart. Under bales of straw they had a small trebuchet.'
    'A catapult!' Sir Peter whispered.
    The