Assassin in the Greenwood

both cadavers had been stripped and placed on public view for anyone to recognise. The bodies lolled sideways in makeshift chests and Corbett saw the ugly purple-red arrow wounds in their backs. He breathed a prayer and pressed on.
    In the booths and stalls just inside St Mary's graveyard, he found a scribe who etched a crude map of the surrounding countryside, indicating which route he should take to reach the Priory of Kirklees. The fellow took his time, chattering like a magpie about how hobgoblins had been seen sitting on a tomb and feasting on human flesh, and how such evil sprites plagued the roads round Nottingham. Corbett tapped his boot in frustration but at last the man finished. Corbett grabbed the map, paid the fee and left the churchyard.
    The visit to the scribe must have cost him an hour. By the time he left the city gate, joining others as they wound their way along the country track, Corbett found his serenity disturbed. By nature he was a solitary man, accustomed to the subtle intrigue of court around him as well as the dangerous street politics of London. This had given him a heightened sense of danger. Now he felt uneasy, certain he was being watched and followed. At first he felt protected by the other travellers but eventually these left the main highway, returning to outlying villages or farms. At last Corbett travelled alone, the silence broken by scuffling in the hedgerows, the occasional burst of bird song or the steady hum of the crickets. Corbett eased the sword in his belt, letting his horse amble gently as he himselt breathed in deeply and strained his ears to catch any sound of danger.
    As he approached the forest, his anxiety increased. Who was tracking him? he wondered. Was it the traitor in the castle or was it Achitophel? Had the French assassin arrived in Nottingham and was he planning to strike here in the lonely countryside? The line of trees drew nearer.
    Corbett stopped and looked round. So far he had travelled through open countryside where an assailant would have to use hedges or a small copse for concealment. He urged his horse on and entered the forest. The sunlight faded and, once again, Corbett became aware that the forest was a living thing; the crackling in the undergrowth, the fluttering of birds, the growing darkness and sense of utter loneliness. Suddenly Corbett heard chatter, the noise of conversation somewhere in front of him, but resisted the urge to whip his horse into a headlong gallop. He peered over his shoulder but could see no signs of pursuit whilst ahead of him he glimpsed other travellers. They stopped, looking back in alarm at the sound of his horse's hooves. Corbett saw one of them unstring a bow so reined in his horse and held up his left hand in a sign of peace.
    'Who are you?' the man called.
    'An honest traveller,' Corbett replied, 'eager for your company.'
    'You are alone?' 'Of course.'
    'Then come forward slowly.'
    Corbett dug his knees into his mount's sides and the group waited to receive him. They, were a mixed band: men, women and children, protected by retainers, a number of families intent on visiting the Blessed Thurstan's tomb at York. Corbett journeyed with them until they arrived at a tavern' at some crossroads in time for the midday meal.
    The place was a hive of activity. Peasants and villeins and travellers of every sort thronged the busy stable yard whilst the taproom was packed to overflowing. Ostlers took their horses and Corbett went inside, sitting by an overturned beer barrel near the window. He felt hungry so asked for a jug of ale, a broth of peas and onions with sippets, and a raston or small loaf made of sweetened flour and enriched with eggs. While eating he watched the other travellers take their ease. A pardoner appeared, pretending to speak Latin but now and again telling the pilgrims anecdotes full of coarse merriment. The taproom was filled with the clatter of jugs and basins, the cries of children, the braying voice of the pardoner, and the low hum of conversation as traders, tinkers and merchants exchanged gossip about the roads and markets.
    Corbett stared round. He could see no one who might pose a threat. No one he could recognise from the castle or the town. One of the pilgrims, a young girl, stood up to sing a song in a clear voice. Corbett leaned back, eyes closed, and listened as the girl described the bird song of summer.
    'Everywhere summer sings,' she sang.
    A tremendous commotion from the yard outside