Assassin in the Greenwood

blood had been washed from the jagged neck, but the decapitated, bruised head still lay askew. Corbett recognised Gisborne's features despite the face being covered with purple-red bruises, as if the head had been bounced like a ball. He sat down on the altar steps and watched as Branwood re-sealed the coffin.
    'So Gisborne met with failure?'
    'You could say that,' Branwood sarcastically replied. 'He lost over a dozen of his own men. My Lord of Gisborne,' he tapped the side of the coffin, 'would not be advised and tried to take on the outlaw horde. We went to assist but returned within the hour. Gisborne was already too deep in the forest.' Branwood sheathed his dagger. 'Yesterday evening his body was pitched on the Brewhouse stairs with his head alongside in a barrel of pickled pork. If I may advise, Sir Hugh, in your next letter to the King, perhaps you could tell His Grace that with regard to Nottinghamshire outlaws, their capture and execution should be entrusted to those officers the King has appointed here.'
    'I shall tell him that,' Corbett muttered as Branwood strode out of the chapel.
    The clerk got wearily to his feet, picked up his saddlebag and cloak, genuflected to the altar and wandered across the inner bailey to his own chamber in King John's tower. He found this deserted but checked that everything was as he had left it, including those items he'd filched from Vechey's room. He washed, changed and lay for a while on the bed, half-dozing until woken by Ranulf and Maltote.
    'Was your journey successful?' his manservant asked.
    Corbett pulled a face.
    'You have heard of Gisborne's defeat and death?' 'The whole town is buzzing with the news,' Ranulf replied.
    Corbett rubbed his eyes.
    'And you, Ranulf, any success with that cipher?' He mournfully shook his head.
    Corbett rose and stretched. 'Maltote, be so kind as to fetch some wine and perhaps some bread from the buttery. Tell that surly cook the King's Commissioner demands it.'
    He waited until the messenger had slipped out of the room.
    'Ranulf, this mystery of the outlaw.' Corbett threw up his hands in exasperation. 'If a man like Gisborne cannot trap him then what chance do you and I have? The cipher is still a mystery and time is passing. Once those French troops cross into Flanders, the King will need us in London. Oh, by the way.' He walked over to Ranulf. 'On my journey to Kirklees, someone tried to poison me. Did you tell anyone here where I was going?'
    Ranulf's face looked the picture of innocence as he raised his hands. 'As God is my witness, Master, I did not even discuss the matter with Maltote.'
    'Well, someone tried to kill me. Either the traitor in the castle or…'
    'Achitophel?'
    Corbett nodded.
    Maltote returned with a jug of wine, three cups and a platter containing some small white loaves and strips of dried bacon. They sat round the table, Corbett sharing out the food as he listened to Ranulf chatter about what had happened in the castle since his departure.
    'And the fair Amisia?' he interrupted. 'Have you seen her today?'
    'No.' Ranulf grinned. 'Maltote and I were separating some of Sir Peter's soldiers from their coins.'
    Corbett chewed his bread and half-listened as Ranulf gleefully described how some of Gisborne's foresters, after their return to the castle following their master's death, had boasted how easy it was to beat Maltote at hazard. Ranulf had been only too eager to put the matter straight with what he called his 'miraculous dice'.
    Corbett had finished eating and taken out his writing implements when there was a loud knocking on the door.
    'Come in!' he shouted.
    A castle servant entered, a man Corbett did not recognise behind him.
    'It's Halfan!' Ranulf exclaimed. 'The landlord of The Cock and Hoop.' His smile faded at the landlord's sombre look.
    'He wants to see you,' the servant explained. 'Sir Peter Branwood told me to bring him here.'
    'Very well,' Ranulf replied. 'You may go. Halfan, what's wrong?'
    The taverner waited until the servant closed the door behind him.
    'Master,' the landlord's eyes flickered, 'I have bad news!'
    'What is it? The Lady Amisia?'
    'No, no, the wench is well. It's her brother, Rahere the Riddle Master. He was found murdered this morning in an alleyway just off from the tavern. Someone had garrotted him.'
    'What?' Ranulf sat down on a stool.
    'Probably thieves,' the landlord continued. 'He always carried a heavy purse and this has now gone. They took his belt and boots. The rogues must