Assassin in the Greenwood

clerks. He will no doubt receive further preferment, if he works hard.'
    Ranulf grinned. 'In which case, Master,' he whispered, 'I will finish this wine.'
    'As long as you do it in the next mouthful,' Corbett muttered out of the side of his mouth, 'I don't mind. Mistress Amisia, where is your brother Rahere?'
    'Spinning his stories in the market place, Sir Hugh. He is most skilled,' she continued proudly. 'Master Ranulf has promised that he will use his good offices with the King to win my brother an invitation to the court at Christmas.'
    Corbett stifled a grin. 'Mistress, it's matters such as that which call Ranulf and myself away.'
    And, bowing to the young woman, he grasped Ranulf by the sleeve and marched him from the tavern out into the street.
    'There was no need for that, Master!'
    'Yes, there was,' Corbett retorted. 'Ranulf, I need you.'
    He was about to yell that Rahere and Amisia were not just people to while away the time with but one look at Old Master Long Face's sombre expression persuaded him that prudence was the better part of valour. Corbett told him about the corpses of the soldiers, his meeting with Friar Thomas, the fire arrows and the discovery of Hecate's body. Ranulf whistled through his teeth.
    'So the good friar has a foot in either camp but has his doubts, whilst the death of Hecate proves that Vechey's killer purchased potions from her. What else, Master?'
    'I don't know,' Corbett muttered. 'What perplexes me is the change in Robin Hood's behaviour. He is now more of a killer, an outlaw with only a modicum of care for the common man. And there's this business of the three arrows fired at midnight on the thirteenth of every month.'
    'So where are we going now?' Ranulf asked.
    'Before I joined you in the tavern I asked the landlord for the name of the most prosperous inn on the roads outside Nottingham. He mentioned The Blue Boar on the Newark road. We passed it on our journey north.'
    'What has that to do with Robin Hood?' 'You have met Elias Lamprey?'
    'You mean that snotty-nosed clerk in charge of the records in the Court of King's Bench?'
    'Well, I am sure he wouldn't agree with your description, Ranulf. However, law and order, the work of Royal Commissioners, Justices of the Peace and the whole question of outlaws are meat and drink to dear Elias.' Corbett grinned. 'I have often nodded off to sleep whilst listening to his stories in some Cheapside tavern. However, one thing Elias always holds as an article of faith is the unholy alliance between outlaws and taverns, the latter being a source of gossip as well as a way of squandering ill-gotten monies.'
    They paused at the corner of the street as town pig-killers seized on a sow wandering in defiance of town regulations, pulled it over on its back and cut its throat. Their horses whinnied, startled by the smell of blood. Ranulf yelled at the men to bugger off but the pig-killers replied with obscene gestures and dragged the animal's carcass to a waiting cart. Ranulf spat and looked at Corbett.
    'You were saying, Master?'
    'Well, two things attract me about The Blue Boar. First, it's the place Willoughby stopped at just after he left Nottingham. Secondly, The Blue Boar seems to prosper during these days of hardship. I think it's worth a visit.'
    They made their way out of Nottingham, skirting the city walls till they found the way south to Newark. Ranulf felt more relaxed for the road was packed. Farmers drove their carts; two hedge-priests pushed a wheelbarrow containing all their worldly goods; a group of pilgrims were journeying to Canterbury and a number of peasant families wandering in search of work. After a quarter of an hour's ride, Corbett and Ranulf entered the walled courtyard of The Blue Boar. The place was busy enough, not only with travellers but labourers from the surrounding fields quenching their thirst with stoups of ale. These men sat in the great cobbled yard, backs to the outhouses, sunning themselves whilst their bare-footed children, clothed in rags, played King of the Castle on a great heap of manure. Near the tavern door, peasant women in fustian smocks, their hair piled high on their heads under grimy white rags, stood round a relic-seller, a small squat man with the face of a mastiff and a voice which boomed like a church bell. He had his relics slung on a string round his neck and proudly pointed out the decaying fingers, toes, bits of bone, tissue and clothing of saints Corbett had never even heard