Assassin in the Greenwood

chamber, stroll like any lord through the streets of Nottingham or amongst the silken pavilions of Edward's generals in Scotland. Gisborne had seen how the King had favoured the outlaw, granting him special privileges, using the outlaw's skills as the English hunted the Scottish rebel leader Wallace through the wild glens and woods of Scotland. But now Robin had returned to Sherwood. Gisborne forgot his pain for this time the outlaw had put himself beyond the law, stealing the King's taxes and executing his officers as if they were common malefactors. Today would be different. Gisborne would hunt the outlaw down, but not with an armed band of knights, clattering like a peal of bells through the forest. These verderers and foresters would flush out Robin as they would a hart or a wild boar. Gisborne would trap him, mete out punishment, then tie him to the horn of his saddle and ride the wolfshead naked through Nottingham so all could see Gisborne's glory and the outlaw's downfall.
    'Sir Guy? My Lord of Gisborne?'
    Guy glanced sideways at the dark, elfin face of his chief huntsman, Mordred.
    'My Lord, you are pleased?' 'Your lord is pleased.'
    Gisborne stared into the green darkness ahead of him. He couldn't position the sun but guessed it was past midday and already he was driving bands of outlaws deeper into the forest. A mile on either side of him, lines of well-armed huntsmen prepared to close the next net. Gisborne had deployed his soldiers like the horns of a bull, sweeping the dirt and refuse of the forest before them. Sooner or later he would flush out Robin Hood and trap him against a marsh or rocky escarpment. Or, better still, out in the open countryside where Gisborne's horsemen would seal the trap. Guy rocked himself to and fro as he peered through the surrounding forest. He had spent every penny he had on this venture but the King would repay him and Branwood would have to eat the dust from his cloak.
    'My Lord of Gisborne?' Mordred spoke up again.
    Sir Guy caught the note of anxiety in the man's voice.
    'What is it, man?'
    'My Lord, we are moving too fast.'
    'Good. It will give the outlaws little time to re-group.'
    'Sir Guy, I beg you, the outlaws are fleeing but could be leading us into a trap.'
    'Nonsense!' Gisborne snapped. He gripped his sword tighter. 'Give the order to advance!'
    'My Lord…' Mordred's words were cut off.
    Gisborne angrily raised his horn, giving three long haunting blasts, and then ran forward in a half-crouch.
    They came to the edge of a glade. Mordred scrabbled at Gisborne's arm but the knight shrugged him off. He felt the blood beat in his temples. He ran across the sun-dappled grass, Mordred and the others loping beside him. In the dark greenness before them, a single horn blast greeted them. Mordred and the foresters stopped. Sir Guy ran on. Another blast of that horn, sombre, sinister, and the air was full of speeding death. The grey, goose-quilled arrows fell like a silent deadly rain. Mordred saw men to his right and left drop, kicking and spluttering, as arrows took them in the throat and chest.
    'Sir Guy!' he screamed.
    But Gisborne ran on. Another flight of arrows. Now the glade was full of screams. Men sprawled on the ground, jerking in their death throes, dark bloody pools glistening on the green grass. Mordred raised his own horn. One shrill blast and his men fled back into the shelter of the trees. Sir Guy, however, charged on, forcing his way through the bracken on the other side of the glade, his sword held out in front of him. No arrow hit him. He felt protected, a sure sign that God's favour was with him. A hooded figure, face masked, stepped out from behind a tree.
    'Welcome to Sherwood, Sir Guy!'
    Gisborne turned, his mind seething with fury. He half-lifted his sword and ran, shouting curses at this man who had taunted him for years. Gisborne's foot caught a root and he fell headlong, sword flying out of his grasp. He stared up at the cowled figure bending over him. Gisborne's lips curled in a smile.
    'You!'
    It was his last word. The dark figure raised his sword then brought it crashing down on the line of exposed flesh between Gisborne's coif and hauberk.

Chapter 9
    Corbett reached Locksley later that evening, a small hamlet with barn-shaped buildings on either side of a dusty track, a village green, communal well and rough makeshift church, the simple thatched nave built alongside a rough-hewn tower. Corbett stopped at the ale house, a stone-built cottage