"Assassin in the Greenwood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doherty Paul)

Chapter 3

Corbett and Ranulf opened the door and ran into the corridor beyond. Both men hurriedly wrapped their sword belts round them and followed Naylor as he clattered down the stairs. In the inner bailey all was confusion. Soldiers ran up the steps to the parapet walks. Screaming women grabbed protesting children. Dogs barked in the far courtyard near the stables while another thrashed on the ground, an arrow in its back. Branwood came hurrying out, dressed in half-armour, his sword drawn.

'The bastard!' he shouted, white-faced. 'That bastard outlaw has the impudence to attack us here! Sir Hugh, for God's sake, stay inside!'

And before Corbett or Ranulf could protest, he almost pushed them back into the keep. They stood in the hot darkness watching the shadows lengthen as Branwood, Naylor and other officers of the garrison tried to impose order. The baileys were cleared of people, the howling dog put out of its misery. Two soldiers entered, carrying a third between them, an arrow embedded in his shoulder. An hour passed before Branwood re-appeared, his face grimy and soaked with sweat. In his hand he carried a dirty sheet.

'The attack's over,' he muttered and grinned mirthlessly. 'One soldier wounded, a dog killed. The biggest blow was to our pride. And this.' He led them into the hall, placed the sheet on the ground and undid it carefully. Corbett gagged and Ranulf quietly swore. A severed head lay there. The side of its face was severely bruised, the eyes rolled back in the sockets, the hair blood-soaked. It was difficult even to estimate how old the victim was or what he'd looked like in life. Around the severed neck hung loose tendrils of skin and muscle.

'For sweet Christ's sake!' Corbett breathed. 'Sir Peter, I have seen enough. Who is it?'

'Hobwell. He was my squire.' Branwood pushed the blood-soaked bundle away with his foot. He went across to a small table and slopped wine into three goblets whilst bawling for Naylor to come and take the head away.

'Where to?' the serjeantasked.

'For God's sake, man!' Branwood roared. 'Who gives a damn? Bury it!'

Once Naylor left, Branwood served the wine. They sat on a bench at the table on the dais.

'Who was Hobwell?' Corbett asked. 'Your squire, I know, but why this?'

'A week ago,' Branwood began, 'Hobwell pretended to be a wolfshead, fleeing to the forest for safety. He was to join the outlaw band.' The under-sheriff shrugged. 'The rest you can guess at. Hobwell was betrayed and Robin Hood has sent his answer.'

A serjeant ran into the hall. 'Sir Peter,' he shouted breathlessly, 'news from the town. Five or six outlaws, hooded and masked, attacked from a cart. Under bales of straw they had a small trebuchet.'

'A catapult!' Sir Peter whispered.

The soldier shrugged helplessly. 'The cart's still there but the outlaws have fled.'

The soldier left. Sir Peter sat with his face in his hands.

'So,' Corbett exclaimed, 'Hobwell was betrayed, the outlaws decapitated him and pitched his head back into the castle, along with a volley of arrows, two of which nearly struck us.'

Sir Peter lifted his face. 'Welcome to Nottingham and Robin Hood's greetings to the King's Commissioners!' He stared round the hall. 'Look,' he whispered despairingly. 'Look how dark it is becoming.'

Corbett followed his glance and noticed the dying rays of the sun piercing the arrow slits high in the wall.

'I hate this place,' Branwood continued. 'It's accursed and haunted. It never brought luck to anyone. A hundred years ago, the present King's grandfather hanged twenty-eight Welsh boys, hostages because of a rebellion in Wales. They were left to dangle from the walls and people say their ghosts still walk here, bringing ill luck. Guy of Gisborne will confirm that. Sir Eustace suffered because of it and now it's my turn.'

Branwood's sombre words were interrupted by Naylor bursting into the hall.

'For God's sake, come!'

'What is it, man?'

He leaned against the wall, panting for breath.

'In the cellars – Lecroix has hanged himself!'

They followed Naylor down the stairs and into the darkened cellar.

'I came down to broach a beer cask,' Naylor explained, pointing to the candle placed in a recess.

The flickering flame made Lecroix's body appear even more ghastly as it hung from the rafters, twirling in a macabre jig. Corbett and Ranulf stared, horrified by the poor servant's grotesque appearance; eyes popping, tongue caught between his teeth, his neck and head twisted awry and his breeches urine-stained.

'Get Physician Maigret and Friar Thomas!' Branwood ordered.

'Oh, for God's sake!' Ranulf snarled. 'Master, hold the body.'

Corbett closed his eyes and gripped the corpse round the waist whilst Ranulf sawed through the rope with his sword. They laid the cadaver gently on the damp earth floor just as Brother Thomas and Maigret arrived. The physician took one look at the body and turned away, hand over his mouth.

'Dead as a nail!' he exclaimed. 'How long?' Corbett asked.

Maigret knelt, put the back of his hand against the dead man's cheek and neck. 'Oh, about an hour.'

'So he must have died during the attack?' Corbett asked.

'I would think so,' Maigret snapped, wrinkling his nose disdainfully.

Corbett crouched on one side of the corpse, Friar Thomas on the other. The cleric whispered words of contrition in the dead man's ear and sketched a blessing in the air as Corbett carefully examined the corpse. He satisfied himself that the hands and ankles were free from any rope marks then undid the dead man's belt. He lowered his head and sniffed at Lecroix's mouth, trying to ignore the streaks of saliva drying on the dead man's beard. Corbett pinched his nose and looked up at Branwood.

'He was drunk when he killed himself. His breath stinks of stale wine!'

Naylor, who had been busy lighting the sconce torches, trudged deeper down into the cellar.

'There's been a wine cask broached.'

Corbett stared into the darkness. He saw a wooden box lying lop-sided, beside it a pewter cup.

'He was a toper,' Maigret commented.

Corbett nodded and stared up at the piece of rope still wrapped round the rafters and once again at the box and fallen cup.

'Did any of you see him this evening?' he asked.

'I did,' Friar Thomas replied, his fat face now drained of any trace of humour. 'Just before the attack I met him on the stairs. He was deeply in his cups.'

Corbett once more examined the corpse, paying particular attention to the fingers, noticing how call used those of the left hand were.

'He was left-handed?' he asked.

'Yes, yes,' Branwood murmured. 'Sir Eustace was always cursing Lecroix because he served from the wrong side.'

Corbett got to his feet, wiping his hands on his robe.

'God knows why,' he announced, 'but perhaps the attack tipped the balance of his mind. I suggest Lecroix came down here to hide. He broached the cask of wine and, in his cups, decided to take his own life. He stood on that box, slipped the rope over the beam and the noose round his neck, kicked the box away and his life went out like a candle flame.'

Corbett stared down. Something was wrong but he couldn't place it. He closed his eyes. He had seen enough for one day. He was exhausted after the hot, dusty journey up the ancient Roman highway, Branwood's revelations, Vechey's death, the grisly attacks on the castle, and now this.

'Sir Peter,' Corbett declared, 'you are right, this castle is accursed.'

'Well, tomorrow,' Branwood retorted, 'we will carry the curse back to the forest. I am going to take this outlaw alive and string him up like a rat in the market place. Naylor, remove the body!'

'Where?'

'In the death house next to his master. Friar Thomas, keep a still tongue in your head. No one will miss poor Lecroix, and who cares if he was a suicide? He and his master can be buried together.'

The sheriff led them out of the cellar back into the hall where scullions were laying the high table for the evening meal. Just inside the door of the hall, servants were waiting with bowls of water and napkins. Everyone washed carefully and took their places at the high table. Friar Thomas said the benediction and Sir Peter ordered the evening meal to be served. Both Corbett and Ranulf felt queasy after what they had seen in the cellar as well as their visits to the kitchens earlier in the day but the food proved to be quite delicious: a young piglet, its flesh soft and sweetened, served in a lemon sauce, whilst Sir Peter was generous in filling everyone's wine cup with chilled wine of Alsace. He grinned at his guests.

'I cannot guarantee the food and drink are not poisoned but an armed guard now stands in the kitchen. I have sworn that if anyone else dies, the cook and his scullions will hang.'

'Physician Maigret,' Corbett insisted, 'my apologies for asking you this again, but you do know what poison killed Vechey?'

The physician's eyes snapped up. 'No, but I suggest a concoction ground from a dried noxious plant-henbane or belladonna.'

Corbett sipped from his cup. 'And you cannot guess how it was administered?'

'I have told you once,' the physician retorted, 'we have scrutinised everything Vechey ate or drank at table or in his chamber. Why do you ask now?'

'I was thinking of Lecroix. Could he have been the culprit? Could there have been a private feud between him and his master, and then, overcome by remorse, Lecroix took his own life?'

'I'd thought of that myself,' Maigret trumpeted.

'But why?' Friar Thomas intervened. 'Lecroix was a simple man. He could hardly fill a goblet, never mind buy some deadly potion and then administer it in a way no one can discover.'

Corbett sipped at his wine. Lecroix, he thought, might be the murderer but there was something in that cellar, something he had seen which was out of place, and whilst the conversation turned back to the outlaws' recent attack on the castle, Corbett brooded on what he might have missed.

More courses were served: fish in a tangy sauce, roast beef in an onion stew, small loaves of wheaten bread. Corbett ate quietly, half-listening to Sir Peter's plan for the following morning. His eyes grew heavy. Images of Maeve flickered through his mind then Uncle Morgan bawling out some Welsh song, Edward screaming at him from the throne at Westminster about that damnable cipher, three kings visiting the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers… A grinning Ranulf nudged him awake.

'Master!'

Corbett smiled and picked up his wine cup. His stomach felt heavy, one of those rare occasions when he had eaten far too much and drunk too fast. Corbett loosened the belt around his waist to make himself more comfortable – then sprang to his feet.

'Of course!' he whispered to his startled companions. 'Of course!'

'What's the matter, man?' Branwood shouted.

Corbett looked at him. 'Sir Peter, my apologies but I have just realised that Lecroix was murdered.'

'What do you mean?' Branwood snapped.

'Nothing,' Corbett replied sourly. 'Except the way a man puts on his belt. Where is Lecroix's corpse now?'

'Where it was left, under a sheet in the cellar. You know soldiers, Sir Hugh, they are superstitious and refused to remove the corpse of a suicide except in daylight hours.'

'Then we had better go down,' Corbett insisted.

At Branwood's order, soldiers appeared with torches and led them down to the cellar. Corbett crouched in a pool of light and pulled back the sheets covering the corpse.

'Lecroix was left-handed?' he asked.

'Is this necessary?' Roteboeuf asked languidly. 'God's tooth, man! Having to look at Lecroix when he was alive was enough to put you off your dinner!'

Corbett ignored the sniggers. 'The corpse has not been disturbed?'

'Of course not.'

'Well,' Corbett said, 'look at the belt.' 'Oh, for God's sake!' snapped Branwood. Corbett tapped Lecroix's belt.

'You notice how the tongue at the loose end of the belt lies to the left?' 'So?'

'Lecroix was left-handed. I found that out when we examined the corpse earlier. This belt should be on the other way round, looped through the clasp, with the tongue of the belt hanging to his right.'

'He was so bloody drunk,' Naylor muttered, 'it was a wonder he could put it on at all.'

Corbett shrugged. 'I thought of that, until I remembered something else. See how this belt is fastened?' He undid the belt carefully and held it up. 'Now all the holes on this belt except for one are undamaged, for the simple reason that they were never used. A belt is a very personal article. We fasten it the same way every day – unless, of course, we become fatter.' Corbett moved his finger to a hole further up the belt, well away from the one Lecroix had used. 'See how this hole has been torn, slightly gouged? We can tell, from the specks of creamy leather underneath, that this was very recent.' He put down the belt and got to his feet. 'So I ask you first, why did Lecroix put his belt on the wrong way? Secondly, we have seen the hole he always used – so why is this one, much further up the belt, so recently damaged?'

Everyone stared back, Sir Peter open-mouthed, Naylor blinking as if he could not follow Corbett's reasoning. Friar Thomas looked expectant whilst Corbett caught a glint of understanding in Roteboeuf's eyes.

'My opinion,' Corbett concluded, 'is that this belt, on one occasion, was taken off Lecroix and used to bind something which strained against the belt, forcing the gouge marks around the second hole. I'll go further. This belt was strapped around Lecroix after he died. Or should I say was murdered?' Corbett knelt once more at the side of the corpse and pushed back the sleeves of the dead man's threadbare gown. 'Let us, for the sake of argument, maintain that Lecroix was murdered. Someone either took him down here or found him in a drunken stupor. Remember, Lecroix was not the most intelligent of God's creatures, God bless him, and even without wine often lapsed into a very deep sleep. With so much wine down him, I doubt very much whether he would remember his own name. So,' Corbett concluded, 'the murderer, once Lecroix was deep in his cups, took off the poor fellow's belt and bound it round him in such a way as to secure his arms.' Corbett took the belt and then carefully looped it round the corpse, threading the belt through the buckle and fastening it so Lecroix's arms were tightly pinned to his body.

Ranulf heard the murmur of agreement and grinned to himself. At last Old Master Long Face had shown them he was no fool for the belt fitted exactly at the point where the hole was recently gouged.

'Do you follow my meaning?' Corbett stared round. In the pool of torchlight they all nodded, their faces tense and watchful.

'See,' he repeated, 'the belt is now linked around the arms. Lecroix, in his drunken stupor, cannot move his hands. Our murderer then takes the drunken Lecroix, forces him to stand on that box, slips his neck through the waiting noose and knocks the box away, leaving him to kick and slowly choke to death. Now when I was here first, I thought of this possibility and so carefully examined the wrists.' Corbett undid the belt and pushed the sleeves of the gown even further back, pointing to the angry welts high on each arm just under the elbow.

'He was murdered!' Branwood declared.

'Oh, yes,' Corbett continued. 'A dreadful death, gentlemen. Lecroix may have taken minutes to die. Once he was dead, the murderer slipped out of the shadows, took off the belt and quickly wrapped it round the corpse's waist. As the assassin was right-handed, the belt was fastened differently from the way Lecroix would have tied it. And who would notice it? Who would discover the hole in the belt or the weals round the arm? Or, if they did, put all these items together?' Corbett got to his feet and shook his head. 'I only realised this when I undid my own belt in the hall.'

'But why?' Roteboeuf leaned forward.

Corbett noticed the clerk's face was pallid and covered in a sheen of sweat.

'Why should anyone murder poor Lecroix?'

'For two reasons,' Ranulf intervened, winking at his master. 'Isn't it obvious, sirs? First, if Lecroix committed suicide it's only natural to draw the conclusion that he did so out of remorse for killing his master. Such a death would also hide the real truth.'

'Which is?' Branwood snapped.

'I know what Ranulf is going to say,' Corbett intervened. 'Lecroix brooded over his master's death. Perhaps he saw or remembered something amiss in that chamber and the murderer realised this. But what was it, eh?' Corbett stared round. 'Did the man say anything to anyone here?'

'He spoke to me,' Roteboeuf called from the shadows where he stood. 'He kept saying his master was a tidy man.'

'What did he mean?'

'I don't know. He just kept mumbling about how tidy his master was.'

'But he was not!' Ranulf almost shouted. 'I mean, this castle needs cleaning, painting…' His voice trailed off at the angry murmurs his words provoked.

'What Ranulf is saying,' Corbett tactfully added, 'is that the wolfshead's depredations unhinged Sir Eustace's mind. What is more important,' he continued briskly, 'is that Lecroix was murdered because he saw something which may have unmasked his master's assassin. And, on that, sirs, I bid you good night.'

Corbett left the cellar, Ranulf following behind him. Not until the door closed behind them, did Corbett allow himself a smile. He undid his belt and threw it on the bed.

'Well, well,' he grinned. 'So we have set the cat amongst the pigeons! Vechey's murder we had to accept but we have won one victory. The assassin now knows we are not so stupid as he thought.' He sat down on the bed and stared at Ranulf. 'I'll tell you this, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, faithful servant and would-be clerk: if we discover the murderer of Lecroix or Vechey, we will trap Robin Hood.'

Corbett went to the chest at the bottom of the bed. He took out a small iron-bound coffer no more than a foot long and secured by three locks which he undid with one of the keys which swung from his belt.

'Master?'

'Yes, Ranulf.'

'I accept what you say but look at it another way – we are here alone in a castle surrounded by murderers. What's the use of knowledge if it leads to our own deaths?'

Corbett rummaged in the small coffer, took out a roll of parchment and tossed it to Ranulf.

'True, true,' he murmured. 'But isn't that always the case, Ranulf? Now let me add to your woes. Robin Hood may not be the only person seeking our deaths.'

'You mean the murderer in the castle as well?'

'No, there could be someone else.'

The colour drained from Ranulf's face and he slumped down on the bed.

'Oh, sweet Mary, help us!' He looked down at the parchment Corbett had thrown at him. 'Is it something to do with this business?'

'No, worse.' Corbett drew in his breath. 'Before we left Westminster, after our audience with the King, do you remember he followed us down to the courtyard and took me aside?'

'Yes,' Ranulf replied. 'You and the King went into the small rose garden. You were there some time. I wondered what was wrong. His Grace not only ignored me but left his bosom friend the Earl of Surrey kicking his heels.'

'It was over the cipher,' Corbett blurted out, shamefaced. 'And I should have told you before.'

'What? Does the King know the truth about the tower of the fools and the three kings taking their two chevaliers?' Ranulf jibed.

'No, the cipher is a mystery to him as it is to me.' Corbett licked his lips. 'The French King and his two murderous advisers, our old friends Sir Amaury de Craon, may God damn him, and Nogaret, realise we have the cipher. They know that we know that time is on their side. Soon Philip's armies will cross into Flanders. We know,' Corbett continued caustically, 'that the French will do anything to stop us solving their cipher. Now you are a gambling man, Ranulf. To put it bluntly, the French have decided to protect their wager. They have an assassin, a skilled killer, a murderer whom we know only by the name given to one of Satan's devils – Achitophel.' Corbett now stared directly at his servant. 'Well, Amaury de Craon and others of his ilk believe their cipher will be entrusted to me. One of our spies in the Louvre Palace sent our noble Edward the rather chilling news that Achitophel has been sent to England to kill me. And, if necessary, those who work with me.'

Ranulf's jaw dropped. He stared in stupefaction at his master. He wasn't frightened of danger. Ranulf had been born fighting and raised in the fetid alleys and runnels of Southwark. But if anything happened to Sir Hugh Corbett, who would care for Ranulf? Who would bother if he never became a clerk or received further preferment in royal service?

'Who could it be?' he stuttered.

'Anyone. A strolling player, some priest, a beggar on a corner. Even worse, Achitophel always remains in the shadows. We know he is responsible for the deaths of at least a dozen of our agents in France and the Low Countries. Sometimes he – though it could as well be a woman – strikes himself; at other times he hires someone else to carry out the task. Achitophel may be in this castle now or he may have spent good silver to buy the services of someone here. They will have one task and one task only: to kill me.'

Ranulf leaned back on the bed and groaned.

'Achitophel,' he murmured, 'an assassin in the castle, outlaws in the forest, the King screaming about a cipher no one understands!' Ranulf raised his voice. 'The three kings go to the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers.' He closed his eyes. 'Hell's teeth, Master!'

'But let's leave that,' Corbett replied briskly, getting to his feet. He took out his writing implements, smoothed out a piece of parchment on the table and pulled the candle closer. 'Improve your reading, Ranulf. Tell me again what the clerk at Westminster wrote about Robin Hood.'

Ranulf sat up and unrolled the parchment Corbett had given him, studying it carefully with lips silently moving. Ranulf was proud of his ability to read and never lost an opportunity to demonstrate his skill to his master.

'Sir Peter Branwood has already told us most of it,' Ranulf began. 'The outlaw was born Robin of Locksley. At the age of sixteen or seventeen he fought with Simon de Montfort against the King.'

'Stop!'

Corbett raised his face from the parchment and stared at the sliver of night sky through the arrow slit window. He felt uncomfortable. At Westminster the King had glossed over this. Was there something Edward hadn't told him? Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, had forty years ago led a most serious rebellion against the King. De Montfort, who had owned lands around Nottingham, had only been defeated after a bloody battle at Evesham. Was Robin Hood nurturing old grievances?

'How old does that make Robin now?' Corbett abruptly asked.

Ranulf screwed up his eyes in concentration. 'Evesham took place in 1265 so the outlaw must be in his mid-fifties, about fifty-five or fifty-six.'

'Mm!' Corbett mused. 'Old, but there again, the King and his generals are much older and quite capable of leading the most taxing campaigns in the wild glens of Scotland.'

Ranulf shook his head. 'What I can't understand, Master, is that according to what this clerk has written, Robin Hood was an outlaw who preyed only upon the rich. He was well known for his generosity, especially to the poor who openly supported and protected him. True, he did fight pitched battles in the forest but never once did he engage in wanton killing or secret assassinations such as the murder of the tax-collectors and poor Vechey. So why now?'

'Perhaps his mind has turned?'

Ranulf wearily threw the parchment back on the bed.

'Master, I am tired. This day has been long enough.'

He began to undress and Corbett, feeling his eyelids grow heavy, did likewise. He blew out the candles and lay for a while staring into the darkness. Images pressed in on him. The cipher, Maeve's face as she said farewell, the old King shouting in his fury, Lecroix swinging by his neck from that beam and Vechey's corpse lying cold and forgotten in the death house. Outside a dog howled at the summer moon and bats flitted against the castle walls. From a nearby stand of trees an owl hooted mournfully. Corbett shivered, rolled over and fell asleep wondering what tomorrow would bring.

Just outside the castle, Achitophel the assassin sat drinking in The Trip to Jerusalem. The murderer steeped in the blood of Philip's opponents carefully sipped his wine and stared round the crowded tavern full of soldiers and servants from the castle. Achitophel kept in the shadows. He stared through the open window at the dark mass of the castle and carefully plotted Corbett's death.