Assassin in the Greenwood

the medal over and Ranulf scrutinised the portrait of a king sitting on a throne.
    'Who is it?' Ranulf asked.
    'Philip's grandfather, the sainted Louis. To an ordinary English harbour official, such a medal would appear innocuous. However, they are only given to very trusted servants of the French King. If Rahere showed such a medal, together with that strip of parchment, he'd be allowed access to any castle or town, be able to draw monies or demand military support. Ranulf, your good friend Rahere, God rest him, was Philip's most trusted agent as well as that skilful assassin, Achitophel!'
    Corbett perused more pieces of the parchment. 'And who would suspect a Riddle Master? I tell you this, Rahere or Achitophel, God damn him, was responsible for the deaths of at least a score of my agents. And if I carried out an investigation into the circumstances surrounding their deaths, I am sure some witness would remember that, coincidence upon coincidence, Rahere the Riddle Master was somewhere in the vicinity when they died. We always did wonder how Achitophel could not only kill people in France but also in England. Of course a travelling minstrel, especially a man of his skill, would be welcome anywhere.' Corbett laughed sourly. 'I wager there are at least six members of the King's own Privy Council who would be prepared to sing his praises, afford him protection, provide hospitality, write out safe conducts and references.'
    'Well, how did he know you were in Nottingham?'
    'Oh, I expect the Lady Maeve, perhaps Lord Morgan Llewellyn, the Earl of Surrey, even the King himself, has been skilfully approached by this trickster and handed the information over to him without a second thought.'
    Ranulf, staring moodily at the floor, nodded and glared at Maltote who was softly tut-tutting under his breath.
    'You can shut up!' he hissed. 'You liked him as much as I did! Master, do you think Amisia is also guilty?'
    Corbett pursed his lips and shook his head. 'I doubt it. It's a fairly common trick. I mean, apart from the Lady Maeve, how many other people know of the human filth we wade through, Ranulf? It's a well-known device,' Corbett continued bitterly, 'and one used time and again. A group of monks go through Dover; seven are genuine, the eighth is a spy. A collection of merchants go to Canterbury; all seem honest burgesses but one's a spy. Or the troupe of jugglers, the gaggle of students. In this case, Ranulf, it's the beautiful sister who'll attract attention, not the merry rhymester.' Corbett added. 'Yet she will still have to be questioned.'
    'But,' Maltote interrupted briskly, 'if Rahere came to Nottingham, Master, he had no guarantee of meeting you.'
    'Achitophel was no back-street thug or roaring boy, Maltote,' Corbett replied. 'He was a skilled assassin. He would search out the terrain, plan his move and carry out murder as swiftly and silently as a plunging hawk. Three days ago I left for Locksley. Ranulf chatters to Amisia, Amisia chatters to her brother who hastens after me. And what better way of killing one of the King's clerks? All the coroner would declare was that I ate something which did not agree with me. I would be dressed for burial, coffined and laid beneath the sod before anyone really knew who I was.'
    'I am sorry, Master,' Ranulf apologised. 'I was tricked like some coney in the hay.'
    Corbett shrugged. 'Don't apologise, Ranulf. Your friendship with Rahere might still bear fruit. You see Rahere, or Achitophel, would have two orders. One was to kill me but the second would be to discover if I had broken the cipher.' Corbett stared directly at his manservant. 'You did discuss the cipher with the Riddle Master?'
    Ranulf closed his eyes. 'Yes,' he mumbled. 'But, as God is my witness, I never gave him the reason why.'
    'You wouldn't have to,' Maltote tactlessly retorted, and got a swift kick in the shins for his pains.
    'Of course,' Corbett continued, ignoring the pantomime, 'Achitophel soon realised we hadn't broken the cipher, and planned my death. That's why he wanted to meet me. Like an executioner who studies a man's weight and stance before putting the noose round his neck and turning him off the ladder. Perhaps I might reveal some weakness or details of a journey I was planning.' He looked over at Ranulf. 'I don't suppose he was any help with the cipher?'
    'No, Master, but what's in those pieces of parchment?'
    'Nothing remarkable. Letters from friends and acquaintances which may be ciphers