Assassin in the Greenwood

meant to harm Robin of Locksley, they would kill you!'
    And before Corbett could stop him, the priest threw the piece of parchment into the fire.
    'But now it's all over,' the priest murmured. 'The soul of the man who spoke those words is dead.' He smiled and blinked back the tears. 'And I am a babbling old priest who drank strong wine too quickly. I can say no more about Robin Hood.'
    They finished their meal. Corbett helped the old priest wash the cups and bowls then Father Edmund insisted that Corbett use his bed.
    'You are not taking anything I need,' he declared. 'I am old. From the cemetery outside I have heard the owl hoot my name. Death can't be far off so I spend my nights praying before the altar.' He grinned sheepishly. 'Though I do confess, I spend some of the time sleeping.'
    The priest doused the fire, made sure his guest was comfortable and then slipped quietly into the night.
    Corbett lay down on the hard bed and thought about what the priest had told him, but within minutes he was fast asleep. He woke refreshed the next morning to find Father Edmund busying himself in the kitchen. Outside the sun had not yet burnt off the thick mist which shrouded the cemetery and church. It was still quite cold. Corbett shivered as he put his cloak round his shoulders and followed the old priest across the graveyard to celebrate the dawn mass.
    Afterwards they broke their fast in the kitchen. Father Edmund, in a lighter mood, refused any payment and avidly listened to Corbett's talk of the outside world. At last the clerk got to his feet.
    'Father, I must go. Your generosity is much appreciated. Are you sure I cannot pay?'
    The old priest shook his head.
    'Only one favour or boon I ask,' he replied. 'If the outlaw is captured alive – and I repeat if – I would like to see him before any sentence is carried out. Now, listen.'
    Father Edmund busied himself to hide his distress. He dug into his old leather wallet and brought out a small metal badge depicting the head of St James Compostela. He handed this to Corbett and smiled.
    'When I was younger and much more nimble, I went to the shrine in Spain and brought scores of these back as proof. Show this to Naismith. He is the old steward of Locksley. He'll know that I sent you. God speed!'
    Corbett thanked the priest, assuring him that he would try and grant his favour. He collected his horse and, remembering Father Edmund's directions, rode through the silent village. He followed the cobbled track which wound through the open fields to where Locksley Manor stood on the brow of a small hill. The mist began to lift, the sun strengthening. Nevertheless Corbett found Locksley Manor an eerie, ghostly place. The double wooden gates hung askew on their hinges, the surrounding wall was beginning to crumble, whilst the pathways up to the main door and the yards and gardens were overgrown by brambles and weeds. One part of the roof had already lost its tiles. The windows were firmly shuttered, the paint and wood on the outside beginning to decay.
    Corbett left his horse to crop a small patch of grass which surrounded a disused fountain and hammered on the front door, shouting for Naismith. The sound echoed eerily through the empty house. Corbett thought the place deserted then he heard the shuffle of feet and the jangle of keys. Locks were turned and the door swung open. A small, squat, bald-headed man glared up at him.
    'Can't a man sleep?' he bawled, scratching his pate, shiny as a pigeon's egg. 'I goes to sleep and wakes to hear a knocking as if Angel Gabriel is here. What's the matter? Is it the last trumpet?'
    Corbett hid a smile and politely introduced himself, displaying the ring he wore and, more importantly, Father Edmund's metal badge. Naismith's watery, short-sighted eyes peered up at him.
    'Not an angel,' he muttered. 'Perhaps a demon. You'd better come in! You'd better come in!'
    Corbett followed him down the dank, dilapidated passageway. He noticed how the plaster on the walls was beginning to flake; the paving-stones underfoot were cracked; some doors were bolted whilst others hung askew. The manor house had been cleared of all its possessions, not even a stick of furniture or a tawdry arras remained. The walls were completely bare. Naismith led Corbett into a small buttery. The clerk gazed round and realised Naismith lived, slept and ate here for it boasted a small cot bed, chest, a table, stools and, rather incongruously, a high-backed chair, cleverly carved