Assassin in the Greenwood

received letters saying that Robin was coming back. The only people who knew that were the sheriffs, Sir Eustace Vechey and Sir Peter Branwood. And, of course, their clerk.'
    'Little John shared his anxieties with me,' Brother William interrupted. 'I, too, became frightened. I begged Father Prior to give Little John a position as gardener at our house and he agreed. I listened to what John had told me and drew two conclusions. Either His Grace the King or someone in Nottingham was the murderer.' Brother William stared at Sir Peter Branwood. The King loved Robin. He would not lift his hand against him in such a treacherous way. This left me with one conclusion: someone in Nottingham, who knew Robin was journeying south, planned that ambush. God knows, there were enough lords in this shire who hated Robin. At first I thought his murder was an act of revenge then we heard these mysterious stories of how Robin was once again hunting in Sherwood Forest, but this time he was different. Oh, he bought the peasants' silence but this Robin was harsh, his hand against every man, ruthless in quelling any opposition, even killing those who had once been close to him.' Brother William wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 'Of course, I knew it was not Robin of Locksley but someone using his name.' He spread his hands. 'Yet what could we do? If I tried to object, who would believe me? What proof did I have? And as for Little John here, his size alone prevented him from walking the streets of Nottingham. So we both hid in the friary where no one could harm us, for whom could we trust? Not even you, the King's Commissioner.'
    Corbett tapped the giant on the chest.
    'But you fired the arrows?'
    The giant's face broke into a gap-toothed grin.
    'Three fire arrows,' Corbett declared. 'Your requiem every month on the thirteenth, the date Robin died.'
    'He fired them,' Brother William intervened. 'He would slip out of a postern gate and loose them into the night sky. A reminder to Robin's assassin in Nottingham as well as a prayer, three times repeated, that God would comfort our dead friend's soul.'
    'But you never knew who the assassin was?' Corbett continued. 'And that was the evil beauty of his plan. The Lady Prioress here could not reveal Robin's death. Who would believe her? Some might even accuse her of having a hand in it. After all, her intense dislike for her kinsman was well known. Little John might have his suspicions but he was an outlaw and could be killed on sight. Brother William had no proof. And, as he has said, any of Robin's old companions who did suspect went the same way as their master. Now.' Corbett walked briskly up the table. 'My Lord of Lincoln, I would like a man-at-arms on either side of Sir Peter, his clerk Roteboeuf and Master Naylor.' Corbett drew his own dagger and stood behind the burly serjeant-at-arms. Branwood sat slumped on his chair. Roteboeuf blinked like a frightened rabbit but Corbett saw Naylor's hands go beneath the table.
    'Please sir,' he ordered, 'your hands where I can see them.'
    The serjeant-at-arms peered over his shoulder. Lincoln's soldiers thronged around. Reluctantly Naylor did as Corbett asked. Lincoln barked out orders. Branwood, Naylor and Roteboeuf offered no resistance as their swords were taken from them.
    'In the castle,' Corbett continued, 'Sir Eustace Vechey must have thought a nightmare had returned. He had fought Robin in the old days. Now the outlaw was back, causing even more mischief. Now I don't think the old sheriff knew what had happened but, as the outlaw's depredations grew worse, he did suspect a hjgh-placed traitor in the castle. A lonely, suspicious man, Vechey would trust no one but, as his mind began to ramble, so did his tongue. Perhaps he began to hint at things; even his face or eyes may have betrayed something. So he had to die and you, Sir Peter, killed him, as you murdered Robin Hood and took his place in Sherwood Forest!'
    'This is nonsense!' Branwood shouted, trying to assert himself. 'My Lord of Lincoln, the clerk raves. He is as mad as a hare on a moonlit night!'
    Branwood's protests were belied by the expression on his face and the beads of sweat coursing down his cheeks. One of Lincoln's knights grasped him by the shoulder and pushed him down on to his chair.
    'No, Sir Peter, you are a murderer,' Corbett continued evenly, staring at him from the other side of the table. 'You hated Robin of Locksley for past humiliations. You resented his