Assassin in the Greenwood

with a quilted leather backing and cushion. Naismith sat himself down in this as grandly as a prince.
    'What do you want?' he asked guardedly.
    Corbett explained and was pleased to see Naismith's hard face soften.
    'Father Edmund's correct,' Naismith replied. 'God knows what happened to the master. He comes back from the wars tired and sickened of blood, yet still full of hope. He was only here a few hours then he says he's off to Kirklees. He wants to see the Lady Mary. So off he goes. He said he would return. He swore he would. He said he had gold to refurbish the manor.' Naismith slumped in the chair. 'But he didn't come back,' he continued weakly. 'I hears he goes to Kirklees then back to Sherwood where the killing began.'
    'Did he say anything?' Corbett queried.
    'He was bitter. Bitter about the King, bitter about life; sad he had left Mary but looking forward to meeting her and John Little at Kirklees. At first I thought that the Robin of Locksley I knew and the murderer in Sherwood were two different people, but they aren't.' Naismith got up and shuffled towards a small coffer. He brought out sheafs of parchment, greasy and finger-marked, and thrust these at Corbett. 'You see, Master, when Robin was in Sherwood he'd often send me messages. Of course, he was wary of any law officer trying to trap him here so we agreed he would always use a purple type of ink and seal each letter with his own secret mark.'
    Corbett studied the manuscripts, some faded, others more recent.
    'Was he literate?' Corbett asked. 'Could he read and write?'
    'A little, but he always got some clerk to write for him. God knows, Master, there's enough wolvesheads, if you'll pardon my saying so, who began their careers in the halls ot Cambridge or Oxford.'
    Corbett smiled and studied the scraps of parchment.
    'And the secret mark?'
    Naismith pointed to a small blob of wax on the corner of a manuscript. Corbett took this over to the light and studied it carefully. The wax bore the imprint, rather crude but effective, of a man standing, bow in one hand, arrow in the other. He knew such signets were common for landowners, even yeomen, had to certify documents and protect themselves against forgery.
    Corbett quickly read the most recent messages, merely requests for Naismith to sell all the manor's moveables, both furniture and stock, and arrange to have the monies collected late at night.
    'What happened?' Corbett asked. 'Did the outlaw return and collect what was his?'
    'Sometimes at night. It only happened on two or three occasions. A man would arrive bearing a message from Robin, I would hand the money over and the fellow would disappear like some will-o'-the-wisp.'
    'Why?' Corbett asked.
    Why what?'
    'Why would the outlaw sell everything he had here?'
    Naismith shrugged as if past caring. 'Like Father Edmund, I am an old man,' he said. 'I have done what I can and can do no more. I have served this family since I could walk. If the master orders something, then Naismith does it. But, to answer your question bluntly, I don't think Robin of Locksley wishes to come back here.' Naismith shrugged and looked around. 'After all, the manor is not much: stables, some pastures, a little arable. Perhaps the master may go away.'
    'And you can tell me no more?'
    'What I know you now know, and that is the end of the matter.'
    Corbett thanked Naismith, collected his horse and rode back to the trackway. The morning mist was now burnt off and the sun already felt hot on his back. For a while he listened to the sounds from the fields: the chatter of insects, the cries of the foraging birds, and the haunting, liquid song of the wood dove. Corbett stared round satisfied he was in no danger. His pursuer had either given up the chase or perhaps was waiting for another day and another place. He kicked his horse gently forward then stopped and stared back at the dilapidated manor. Everything pointed to Kirklees. Something had happened there which had tipped Robin of Locksley's mind into a maelstrom of murderous madness. A man devoted to revenge. But why? And how could Corbett trap him?
    He sat chewing the quick of his thumb nail. It was already approaching the end of June. The King wanted a reply on the matter of the cipher in the next few days. Corbett felt uneasy. But how could he resolve it, keep himself safe from the assassin Achitophel and track down an outlaw who was as elusive as a shadow in the thickness of Sherwood Forest? He stared down at the ring on his