Assassin in the Greenwood

and nodded his head.
    'Your sister?' he mocked. 'She sends her best regards!'
    The straw-chewer shifted and, as he did so, Ranulf smashed his fist into the other relic-seller. Straw-chewer did not have time even to lift his dagger as Ranulf, light as a cat, struck out with his own, slicing a deep gash into the side of his neck. He thundered downstairs, crashing into the taproom.
    'Run, Bardolph, run!' he yelled.
    The perpetual student needed no second bidding. Both he and Ranulf fled from the tavern before the other relic-sellers recovered their wits. Their leader shoved two of his companions towards the stairs.
    'See what's happened!' he rasped.
    The two men kicked their tinker trays aside, brought out the arbalests they had concealed on hooks beneath their cloaks and raced across the taproom and up the stairs. One of their companions was unconscious, the other dying, blood bubbling from the wound at his neck. They ignored him. One sent his boot crashing against the chamber door which flew back on its leather hinges. Clothilde and de Savigny looked up in astonishment but neither the clerk nor the courtesan had time even to protest. Nogaret's men pointed their crossbows and sent a bolt deep into each lover's neck.
    In the darkening streets below, the rest of Nogaret's men were pursuing Ranulf and Bardolph. The two English agents ran like the wind, slipping and scrabbling on the dirty cobbles.
    'Who told them?' Bardolph hissed.
    'Clothilde!' gasped Ranulf. 'Who else? She did not say who she was meeting or de Savigny would never have been allowed to enter the tavern alive. She must have told them merely that tonight we would act. She sold her favours to both camps.'
    Bardolph stopped at a corner, leaned against the wall and gasped for breath.
    'The lying bitch!' he breathed. 'I'll kill her!'
    'No need,' Ranulf answered, pushing him on. 'She and de Savigny will already be dead – as will we be soon if you don't run!'
    The two Englishmen fled deeper into the warren of alleyways. Ranulf had prepared for such an eventuality. As long as they reached the riverside they would be safe. He had the precious roll of manuscript. Others in 'Master Long Face's' service, as Ranulf secretly called Corbett, would provide safe passage to Boulogne and a ship to England.
    At first they could hear the cries of their pursuers but gradually these faded. The streets were black, the cobbled alleyways running off them shrouded in darkness. The good citizens of Paris slept. No one was about except withered, hideous beggars whining fruitlessly for alms. Ranulf and Bardolph thought they were safe. They left a street of dark, high-gabled houses and were half-way across the open square when they heard a shout.
    'There they are! In the King's name, stop!'
    Ranulf and Bardolph fled. A crossbow bolt whirled past their heads. They had nearly reached the mouth of an alleyway when Bardolph suddenly groaned, flung his hands forward and crashed to the cobbles. Ranulf stopped and ran back.
    'Don't leave me!' pleaded Bardolph. Ranulf let his hand run down the man's back and felt the cruel barb embedded at the base of his spine. 'The wound is grievous.' Ranulf looked despairingly across the square at the dark shapes hurrying towards him.
    'Then don't leave me alive!' Bardolph wept. 'Please, Ranulf, do it! Do it now!'
    He shook his sweat-soaked face and peered closer.
    'Please!' Bardolph insisted. 'They'll keep me alive for weeks!'
    Ranulf heard the slap of leather on the cobbles.
    'Look!' he hissed. 'Look over there! We are safe!'
    Bardolph painfully turned his head and Ranulf swiftly slit his throat, breathed a prayer and hurried into the shadows.
    The forest had always stood there, the trees providing a canopy to shield the earth from the sky. Beneath this veil of greenness which stretched as far as the eye could see, the forest had witnessed murder as long as it had seen man himself. First the small dark people who burnt their victims in hanging cages to atone their angry war gods or placate the great Earth Mother whose name should never be mentioned. They were replaced by more warlike men who hung their victims from oak or elm in sacrifices to Thor and one-eyed Woden. These, too, had gone to dust, supplanted by men who, though worshipping the white Christ, built temples to their own captains of power.
    The trees had seen it all: the gnarled oak, the elm with its branches stooped with age. The forest was a dangerous place, a living thing, and through its