Assassin in the Greenwood

finger. The King had given him one final choice.
    'If you can't do it, Corbett,' he had roared, 'if you can't stop this bloody outlaw, then offer him a pardon, an amnesty for all crimes, provided he returns my taxes and pays blood-money for the men he killed!'
    Corbett gazed unseeingly across the fields. Should he do so? A bird fluttered in a tree nearby, making him think about the great oaks and elms which surrounded Leighton Manor. A sudden thought made his heart jump. What if Achitophel was not tracking him? Perhaps the murderous assault at the tavern was the work of the outlaw, intent on killing Corbett as he had Sir Eustace Vechey? If that was the case where was the assassin? Was he in Nottingham? London? Or, even worse, out at Leighton Manor, perhaps threatening Maeve and his household? Should he go back there? Corbett kicked his horse forward.
    'De Craon would like that,' he spoke aloud. 'That would warm the cockles of his cold heart. Corbett being so distressed he leaves everything to protect his own kith and kin…'
    In a secret chamber high in the Louvre Palace, Philip Le Bel, King of France, knelt before a statue of his sainted ancestor the Blessed Louis, and prayed for the success of his armies in Flanders. The French King was noted both for his beauty and impassivity, his marble white face, strange green eyes and bloodless lips framed by the lustrous Capetian blond hair.
    Yet Philip felt both distracted and excited. He closed his eyes and thought about the troops now camped along his northern borders. Squadrons of heavy cavalry. Rank after rank of Genoese bowmen. The great lords with their foot soldiers, the banners, the golden lilies on a sea-blue background and, furled in the tent of his own commander, the Sacred Oriflamme, the King's own banner, usually kept behind the high altar at St Denis. When Philip gave the word, this banner would be taken out and flown as a sign to the rebellious Flemings that Philip's soldiers would take no prisoners.
    He breathed in deeply. His spies in the Flemish towns had sent letters south full of good news. How, in each city those Flemings partial to his cause, the 'Lileantists' or Lily Men, were ready to open the gates to his soldiers. Philip could have hugged himself with glee. Those Flemings who resisted were hopping like fleas on a hot plate, sending plea after plea to Edward of England for help and assistance. But Edward couldn't do that, he was bound by treaty. Oh, he could send gold secretly but what use would that be? The Flemings might hire soldiers and buy arms from the princes across the Rhine, but where would they deploy such men? As one of Philip s spies put it, they were like rabbits huddled in their burrow, not knowing through which hole the ferret will come'. Philip knew, his two counsellors seated behind him at the table also, the dark-faced William of Nogaret and pale, red-bearded Amaury de Craon.
    Philip crossed himself and got to his feet. He heard a faint cry from the courtyard below and opened the stained-glass window to peer out. For a while he watched the scene below. A huge wheel had been fixed against the wall of the courtyard and a man had been strapped to it, hands and feet lashed to the spokes. One executioner turned the wheel whilst another, using a slim iron bar, broke the man's arms and legs and pounded his naked body. Now and again the prisoner would regain consciousness and scream for mercy as his bruised body quivered in pain, but the torture went on. Philip watched the scene: the soldiers on guard, the great mastiffs near the execution platform barking excitedly at the scent of blood, the careful precise movements of the executioner.
    'How long?' he said softly over his shoulder.
    'A week, Your Grace.'
    Philip nodded and closed the window. The man had suffered enough.
    'If he's still alive by tomorrow morning, hang him in the small orchard near the chancery. That will encourage my clerks to be more careful with the secrets entrusted to them.'
    'It's good for the man to suffer,' de Craon began slowly. 'But Corbett now has that cipher, Your Grace. If he unlocks the secret…'
    'I agree,' Nogaret added harshly. 'Your Grace, I beg you to change your plans.'
    'Nonsense!' Philip replied. 'I devised that cipher myself. To change it now would cause confusion, perhaps even delay. Edward of England's envoys are already busy at the papal court, trying to urge that fat lump who calls himself Pope Boniface VIII to issue letters condemning our