Assassin in the Greenwood

half-masks over their faces.'
    'Who else is there?'
    'Other members of his coven.'
    'Is there a woman?'
    'Aye, Maid Marion.' The fellow licked his lips. 'Saucy she is, large-bosomed. She, Robin Hood and Little John act almost as one person. Orders are issued.' The fellow shrugged.
    Corbett thought of the wench at The Blue Boar inn but decided not to reveal what he knew.
    'Were you involved in the attack on the tax-collectors?' Both men became agitated. 'You were, weren't you?'
    'We had no part in the killing, Master, but Robin Hood is a hard taskmaster. The tax-collectors' retinue were hanged because of what they had seen, whilst Willoughby was left alive as a warning.'
    'And the plunder?'
    'Not much, Master. We got a few coins, each according to what he contributed. Nym and I,' he jerked his head at his companion, 'are relative strangers. A few pence is all we got. The band then broke up to wait for other attacks.'
    'So how were you captured this morning?'
    'We were starving, Master. The deer have become wise, they are harder to track. Robin Hood has kept to himself and Branwood's soldiers are all over the forest. We dare not go into the villages because of the rewards posted against us.'
    'Is that all you know?' Corbett got to his feet.
    'We have told the truth,' Nym rasped. 'Robin Hood is mysterious. A will-o'-the-wisp. They say elves and goblins advise him and that he can talk to the trees.' The man held up his hands. 'Master, we are small twigs on a large tree. We have told you all we know.'
    Corbett nodded, opened the door and shouted for Naylor.
    'Give these men a set of clothes, one loaf and a wineskin.' He dug into his purse and drew out two coins. 'They are to be released unharmed.'
    Corbett strode away before Naylor could remonstrate or the prisoners finish their pathetic litany of thanks. He went back into the castle bailey. Branwood was not there. Corbett found him in the hall seated at the great table, a chequer board before him, the black and white squares covered in heaps of coins.
    'I am preparing my accounts for the quarter,' he muttered, not bothering to raise his head. 'You found the prisoners interesting?'
    Corbett told him what he had learnt. Branwood nodded.
    'They'll be released unharmed,' he agreed and leaned back, clinking the coins in his hand and staring at Roteboeuf who sat at the edge of the table carefully inscribing accounts.
    'How long do you think they'll live?' Branwood asked ironically.
    Roteboeuf lifted his head and shrugged. 'What do you mean?' Corbett snapped. 'I mean, King's Commissioner in Nottingham,' Branwood replied, making no attempt to hide his hostility, 'those two outlaws will not see this week's end. They were captured and then released. What do you think their companions will believe? That they have accepted the King's pardon and talked, of course. They are dead men already.'
    'That's none of our business,' Corbett replied. 'And what do you plan now, My Lord Sheriff?'
    Branwood looked up, a false smile on his saturnine face.
    'We shall wait for Sir Guy of Gisborne and see if he can do better than us. You still await your messenger's return?'
    Corbett nodded.
    'Until then,' Branwood continued, 'I will count my coins, Roteboeuf will write his accounts, and you will wonder what to do next whilst your servant, so I gather, spends most of his time slipping in and out of the castle.'
    'I shall do one thing,' Corbett retorted.
    'Which is?'
    'Well, Sir Peter, tonight is the thirteenth of June.' Branwood's eyes narrowed and Roteboeuf's head jerked up.
    'Oh, you mean the fire arrows?' Branwood shook his head. 'God knows what they signify. Perhaps some prank. You'll join us for supper?'
    Corbett agreed and returned to his own chamber. He felt restless and for a while moved about, either staring out of the window or lying on the bed gazing up at the rafters.
    'The thirteenth of June. If I don't break that damned cipher soon,' he exclaimed, 'His Grace the King will want me back in London and others can chase this will-o'-the-wisp of the forest!'
    He sat up in bed and plucked at a loose thread on the blanket, wondering when Maltote would return.
    'Three kings,' he whispered, 'to the two fools' tower go with their two chevaliers.' He wondered who had composed the riddle. De Craon, Nogaret or Philip himself? What could it mean? Were they names of towns in Flanders? Would Philip's armies pour across the frontier and strike at certain vital cities as King Edward had in Scotland?