Assassin in the Greenwood

with a stake hooked under its eaves. The ale wife, a slattern with shifty eyes and dressed in a greasy smock, served what she termed 'freshly brewed ale'. The other villagers sipped their beer and gawked at this stranger before returning to listen to one of their number recount how he had seen a demon on the edge of the forest, a shadowy form with a face of glowing iron.
    Corbett half-listened to the tale as he sat on a bench and watched the door of the ale house. Since leaving the pilgrims just south of Haversage, he believed his mysterious, murderous pursuer had given up the chase but wanted to be sure. He had ridden thirty miles and was saddle-sore, his horse nearly blown, and he was reluctant to spend the night out in the open. The clerk's eyes grew heavy and he dozed, to be woken by a rough hand shaking his shoulder. Corbett jumped, hand going to his dagger, but the man standing over him was old and venerable, his face thin and ascetic though his eyes were smiling and his manner friendly.
    'You are a stranger here?' The voice was soft, burred by a strong accent.
    Corbett saw the tonsure on the man's pate, the black dusty robes and sandalled feet.
    'You are a priest?'
    'Aye, Father Edmund. This is my parish, for my sins. I have served the church of St Oswald for many a year. I was told there was a stranger here so I came down. I thought perhaps you were…'
    Corbett, fully awake, gestured to him to sit on the bench.
    'You want something to drink, Father?' 'No, no.' The man patted his stomach. 'Never on an empty belly.'
    'Who did you think I was, Father? Someone from Robin Hood's band?'
    The priest gripped Corbett's wrist. 'Shush!' Father Edmund threw a warning look at him and glanced quickly round the tavern to see if anyone else had heard his words.
    'Who are you?' the priest muttered.
    'My name is Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King's Secret Seal.'
    The priest's eyes widened. 'So it has come to this,' he murmured.
    'To what, Father?'
    'No, come with me.' The priest stood up. 'You haven't eaten and I suspect you haven't a bed for the night. I can give you some broth, bread which is soft, a bed that is hard, and wine which perhaps has seen better days.'
    Corbett grinned and got to his feet.
    'In the circumstances, Father, your offer is princely and generous.'
    They went outside. Corbett unhitched his horse and followed the stoop-backed priest through the gathering darkness towards the church. The priest's house was a red-tiled, yellow-brick building standing behind St Oswald's, separated from it by the cemetery, hather Edmund helped him stable his horse in one of the outhouses, sending his own nag, a broken-down hack, to graze amongst the tombstones whilst he brought water, oats and fresh straw for bedding.
    Corbett was then taken to the house, stark, simple but very clean. The floor was of beaten earth covered with rushes fresh from the riverside, green, soft and sweet-smelling. A flitch of bacon hung to cure above the small hearth gave off a tangy, salty smell. The rest of the room was filled with a few sticks of furniture, one large parish chest, a number of coffers, and in the corner, partitioned off from the rest of the room, a small cot bed above which hung a huge wooden cross.
    Father Edmund pulled up a stool before the fire and gently stirred the pot until it bubbled over the small fire he had lit. Corbett was then served bowls of tasty soup, thick with vegetables and pieces of meat, brown bread made of coarse rye, and red wine that was strong and tangy. Corbett sipped it whilst waiting for the soup to cool. He grinned at the priest.
    'I have drunk much worse in many of London's taverns,' he commented. 'In fact, it would be difficult to find better.'
    Father Edmund smiled in appreciation.
    'It's my one weakness,' he murmured. 'No, no, I am not a toper but I do love red wine. Do you know, the blessed Thomas of Becket, when he became Archbishop, gave up the joys of the world but the one thing he would never sacrifice was his claret.' Father Edmund's eyes grew serious. 'This comes from a small tun given to me by Robin Hood. Or, as he was baptised in the church next door, Robin of Locksley. Why have you come here, Sir Hugh? To trap and hang him?' The priest moved uneasily on his stool. 'We have heard the stories.'
    'What stories, Father?'
    'The attack upon the tax-collectors, the brutal deaths. The priest cradled his wine cup and stared into the fire. 'God knows why,' he breathed, 'but Robin came back from