Assassin in the Greenwood

further agitated by the lack of bird song, the sound of bracken snapping and strange scuffling noises from the undergrowth. Corbett urged his horse forward.
    'How deeply do we ride, Sir Peter?'
    'Perhaps an hour, two hours. Then we'll swing round and march back. We are not hunting anyone.' The sheriff spoke as he too stared into the darkness on either side. 'We must show we are not just visitors from the castle.' He shrugged. 'Who knows? Perhaps we may be fortunate and flush something out of the undergrowth.'
    The march continued, the scouts coming back occasionally to grip Branwood's horse and give him messages. Now and again they crossed a welcome glade where the darkness became less oppressive and Corbett recalled the stories people whispered: about the dark wood men, the small people, the eerie nightmare tales about goblins and elves. He was aware that he was in a world totally alien to his own. The King's writ or law had nothing to do with the forest. Corbett started, his stomach curdling with fear as a great stag, his horns high, burst out of the trees before him. The animal glanced arrogantly at the horsemen before quietly slipping away deeper into the forest.
    Sir Peter held up his hand, the column stopped and he turned round.
    'You see what I mean, Sir Hugh?'
    He was about to continue when, from the dark depths of the forest, came the lilting, mournful blast of a hunting horn. The soldiers muttered, horses skittering with fright, and drew swords, the hiss of steel sounding unnaturally loud. Archers unslung their bows. The sound of the horn died away, only to be taken up again, this time closer, more powerful and from the other side of the forest. Arrows whirred round them. Sir Peter drew his sword. Corbett did likewise. Ranulf was almost wild with panic. Naylor shouted orders and the archers returned fire whilst the mounted men tried to protect themselves behind their long, oval shields. Ranulf dismounted and peered amongst the threshing horses.
    'Nothing!' he yelled. 'I can't see any of the bastards!'
    His shout was echoed by a whirring sound, like the wings of a swooping bird. A soldier stupid enough to lower his shield took a long, feathered arrow full in the chest and the still crisp air became filled with whirring winged death. A horseman fell, eyelids fluttering as the arrow pierced his throat just above his gorget. Corbett turned his horse round.
    'Sir Peter!' he yelled. 'Quickly!'
    He glimpsed shadows flitting through the trees. Corbett braved the whirring arrows, stood high in the stirrups and pointed. Branwood, his head encased in a great helm, followed Corbett's gaze.
    'We'll be surrounded!' Branwood yelled.
    He took off his helmet and ordered Naylor to blow three horn blasts, the signal for retreat. The column needed no second bidding. Ranulf remounted and followed Corbett back along the forest track, arrows whirling around him, one even bouncing off the high horn of Ranulf's saddle. Corbett's warning had been prophetic for the outlaws were drawing closer, trying to cut the column off completely. The sheriff's archers were also running or clutching the stirrups of the horsemen. The confusion was indescribable. One horse, maddened with fear, rose up on its hind legs, high in the air, throwing its rider into a clump of bushes. The fellow clambered to his feet to stand, rooted to the spot by panic, until an arrow caught him full in the mouth.
    At last the column, in total disarray, managed to distance itself from the ambush. Sir Peter ordered a general halt except for Naylor who galloped back along the track to urge on the few stragglers.
    'We cannot stop, Sir Peter!' Corbett gasped.
    'We'll retreat in order,' the under-sheriff replied, nursing a small cut on the back of his hand.
    Naylor returned. The horsemen threw a screen round the archers and Sir Peter led his bloodied, disorganised troop out of the thinning forest. They did not pause until they were clear of the trees and able to rest in a daisy-filled meadow. A quick count was made whilst soldiers staunched wounds and checked their equipment. Sir Peter sat morosely on the ground, holding the reins of his horse. Eventually he glared sourly at Corbett and Ranulf, still seated on their mounts.
    'Master Clerk, you are not going to say I told you so?'
    'How many men did we lose?' Corbett snapped.
    'All in all,' Naylor replied, 'it could have been worse. One habelor, two archers and three horsemen are missing.'
    Sir Peter cursed. 'Tell the men to