Assassin in the Greenwood

a death would also hide the real truth.'
    'Which is?' Branwood snapped.
    'I know what Ranulf is going to say,' Corbett intervened. 'Lecroix brooded over his master's death. Perhaps he saw or remembered something amiss in that chamber and the murderer realised this. But what was it, eh?' Corbett stared round. 'Did the man say anything to anyone here?'
    'He spoke to me,' Roteboeuf called from the shadows where he stood. 'He kept saying his master was a tidy man.'
    'What did he mean?'
    'I don't know. He just kept mumbling about how tidy his master was.'
    'But he was not!' Ranulf almost shouted. 'I mean, this castle needs cleaning, painting…' His voice trailed off at the angry murmurs his words provoked.
    'What Ranulf is saying,' Corbett tactfully added, 'is that the wolfshead's depredations unhinged Sir Eustace's mind. What is more important,' he continued briskly, 'is that Lecroix was murdered because he saw something which may have unmasked his master's assassin. And, on that, sirs, I bid you good night.'
    Corbett left the cellar, Ranulf following behind him. Not until the door closed behind them, did Corbett allow himself a smile. He undid his belt and threw it on the bed.
    'Well, well,' he grinned. 'So we have set the cat amongst the pigeons! Vechey's murder we had to accept but we have won one victory. The assassin now knows we are not so stupid as he thought.' He sat down on the bed and stared at Ranulf. 'I'll tell you this, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, faithful servant and would-be clerk: if we discover the murderer of Lecroix or Vechey, we will trap Robin Hood.'
    Corbett went to the chest at the bottom of the bed. He took out a small iron-bound coffer no more than a foot long and secured by three locks which he undid with one of the keys which swung from his belt.
    'Master?'
    'Yes, Ranulf.'
    'I accept what you say but look at it another way – we are here alone in a castle surrounded by murderers. What's the use of knowledge if it leads to our own deaths?'
    Corbett rummaged in the small coffer, took out a roll of parchment and tossed it to Ranulf.
    'True, true,' he murmured. 'But isn't that always the case, Ranulf? Now let me add to your woes. Robin Hood may not be the only person seeking our deaths.'
    'You mean the murderer in the castle as well?'
    'No, there could be someone else.'
    The colour drained from Ranulf's face and he slumped down on the bed.
    'Oh, sweet Mary, help us!' He looked down at the parchment Corbett had thrown at him. 'Is it something to do with this business?'
    'No, worse.' Corbett drew in his breath. 'Before we left Westminster, after our audience with the King, do you remember he followed us down to the courtyard and took me aside?'
    'Yes,' Ranulf replied. 'You and the King went into the small rose garden. You were there some time. I wondered what was wrong. His Grace not only ignored me but left his bosom friend the Earl of Surrey kicking his heels.'
    'It was over the cipher,' Corbett blurted out, shamefaced. 'And I should have told you before.'
    'What? Does the King know the truth about the tower of the fools and the three kings taking their two chevaliers?' Ranulf jibed.
    'No, the cipher is a mystery to him as it is to me.' Corbett licked his lips. 'The French King and his two murderous advisers, our old friends Sir Amaury de Craon, may God damn him, and Nogaret, realise we have the cipher. They know that we know that time is on their side. Soon Philip's armies will cross into Flanders. We know,' Corbett continued caustically, 'that the French will do anything to stop us solving their cipher. Now you are a gambling man, Ranulf. To put it bluntly, the French have decided to protect their wager. They have an assassin, a skilled killer, a murderer whom we know only by the name given to one of Satan's devils – Achitophel.' Corbett now stared directly at his servant. 'Well, Amaury de Craon and others of his ilk believe their cipher will be entrusted to me. One of our spies in the Louvre Palace sent our noble Edward the rather chilling news that Achitophel has been sent to England to kill me. And, if necessary, those who work with me.'
    Ranulf's jaw dropped. He stared in stupefaction at his master. He wasn't frightened of danger. Ranulf had been born fighting and raised in the fetid alleys and runnels of Southwark. But if anything happened to Sir Hugh Corbett, who would care for Ranulf? Who would bother if he never became a clerk or received further preferment in royal service?
    'Who could it