Assassin in the Greenwood

scampered back into the tavern and returned carrying a rough bench. A greasy-haired landlord came out to protest. Corbett told him to shut up and diverted the rest of the crowd by throwing a handful of coins on to the dirty cobbles. All resentment vanished like mist under the sun. Corbett stood back. The soldiers began ramming the bench against the door until it creaked, buckled and snapped back on its leather hinges.
    'Stay outside!' he ordered.
    He went down a dank, dimly lit passageway. The first entrance on the right led into the shop and Corbett gagged and swore at what he saw and smelt. The shop was tidy enough, nothing more than a chamber with shelves bearing jars of various sizes, small pouches and wooden boxes clasped and locked. But Hecate was also a skinner, a person skilled at removing the entrails of animals then stuffing them with herbs, turning them into mummified likenesses. A red-coated, glassy-eyed fox stared up at him from the floor. A rabbit, ears back, crouched in frozen stillness. The putrid smell came from the corpse of a small squirrel which lay on the table, its entrails spilling out from its slit stomach. Above these a mass of black flies buzzed.
    Corbett left the shop and walked further along the passageway. He opened a small door to a chamber and gasped at the sheer luxury inside. It was like a young noblewoman's parlour. The walls were white-washed and covered in thick woollen cloths of various hues whilst polished gridirons stood under a small carved hearth. There were woollen carpets on the floor, silver candlesticks on the dark polished table, and a half-open cupboard revealed other precious cups and plate. The windows at the back were all glazed with tinted and coloured glass and the room smelt as sweet as a meadow on a summer's day. Two thin-stemmed wine cups stood on the table. Corbett stared around and went into the small buttery in the kitchen at the back of the house. The smell of corruption was stronger here. He pinched his nostrils. Not even his wife Maeve kept her scullery and kitchens so clean and neat yet the stench was terrible.
    'In God's name!' he breathed.
    He opened a small cupboard door and cursed as the corpse of a grey-haired woman fell out, arms flailing, as if, even in death, she wanted to beat him. Corbett stepped back and stared at the woman's corpse sprawled on the floor, her iron-grey hair spread out around her. Corbett could see no sign of blood or violence. He crouched and turned the body over, pushing the corner of his cloak into his mouth for the woman's face, hatchet-featured in life, was grey and swollen in death, eyes popping, tongue protruding. She had fought for her last breath against the bow string tied tight round her throat. Corbett got to his feet and strode back into Mandrick Alley, gulping the air which now smelt sweet compared to that he had just left.
    'Is anything wrong?' one of the soldiers muttered, glimpsing the clerk's white face.
    'Yes,' he breathed. 'Hecate's dead.'
    The soldier nodded at the tavern where, from the sounds of merriment, they were now spending Corbett's coins.
    'They said she'd gone away. She owned a small cottage near Southwell.'
    'Well, she's gone!' Corbett snapped. 'And she won't be back! You guard the house.' He nodded to the soldier's companion. 'You go to the castle and tell Sir Peter Branwood: Hecate was a witch and now she's dead so her property belongs to the King.'
    Corbett watched the soldier go, paid the urchin, collected his horse and rode back down the alleyways seeking directions to The Cock and Hoop tavern.
    He found Ranulf in the small garden, sitting in a flower-covered bower paying court to the beautiful young woman Corbett had glimpsed in the market place. Ranulf rose and sheepishly made introductions. Corbett kissed the woman's cool fingers and studied her closely.
    She is lovely, he thought. One look at Ranulf told him that his manservant was smitten. All he could do was stand and stare so adoringly at the girl. Corbett didn't know whether to laugh or cry. If I had a gold coin for every time you were in love, Ranulf, he thought, I'd be the richest man in the kingdom.
    'Sir Hugh?'
    Corbett smiled at the woman.
    'Mistress Amisia, I am sorry, my mind's elsewhere. I am afraid Master Ranulf and I have business to attend to.'
    'Yes, yes,' she said. 'A chancery clerk is always busy.'
    Ranulf gazed warningly at Corbett.
    'Of course,' he answered silkily, 'Master Ranulf is one of the King's most trusted