Assassin in the Greenwood

betrothed to Isabella, Philip's one and only daughter. The French sent Edward a pair of costly silken gloves with jewels crusted around the cuff. Edward responded with a Book of Hours, each page a glorious tapestry of colour. Philip called Edward 'his dear coz'. Edward replied, sending tender greetings to 'his dear brother in Christ'. Yet in the alleyways and musty taverns, each King waged a silent war.
    In The Fleur de Lys tavern which stood on the corner of Rue des Capucines, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, Corbett's manservant and ostensibly Edward's unofficial envoy to the French court, sat in the corner of the taproom with Bardolph Rushgate. A young man of indeterminate parentage and mysterious past, Bardolph, despite his boyish features and golden love-locks, was a perpetual English student, financed by the English Exchequer to visit this university or that. He was instructed not to take any degree or study the mysteries of the Quadrivium but to collect information on behalf of his masters at home. Now he leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, pretending to be much the worse for drink. Ranulf, too, acted as if in his cups, his red hair tousled, eyes half-closed, mouth slack. He had even rubbed some chalk into his white face to make himself look more pallid. To all outward appearances they were two Englishmen who found the strong wines of Paris too rich to stomach.
    'Do you think the wench can cope?' Bardolph muttered.
    'I hope so.'
    'How many are there now?'
    Ranulf looked through the fug of the noisy tavern and studied the group of relic-sellers. They seemed more interested in staring back than in selling any of the trinkets from their trays which now lay stacked on the floor beside them.
    'How many?' Bardolph repeated. 'Six,' Ranulf replied.
    His stomach churned as his hand went beneath the table, seeking reassurance from the thin, stabbing Welsh dagger stuck into his belt and the dirk at the top of his long riding boots. Once again Ranulf felt his leather sack containing a small crossbow and a sheath of bolts.
    Above them, in one of the narrow closets which the landlord grandly described as 'a chamber', Clothilde, a buxom wench with skin as dark and smooth as a grape, was earning her silver. She bounced across the battered old four-poster bed, her legs and arms wrapped round Henri de Savigny, a cipher clerk from Philip's chancery. Ranulf had been playing him for days. The French clerk, as lecherous as any dog on heat, couldn't believe his luck at finally being favoured by such a high-class courtesan when at first she had refused him. No fool, however, Henri knew the price she asked: a copy of the cipher Philip had sent to his generals on the borders of France.
    At first the clerk had refused. He even protested that he would go to Nogaret and reveal all. Bardolph Rushgate had countered that. Wouldn't the very confession be a partial admission of guilt? De Savigny had licked his thick red lips, peered once more at Clothilde's luscious bosom and reluctantly agreed in exchange for a bag of coins and Clothilde's favours free of charge. And what was the point in refusal? Henri had seen the ciphers, which had meant little to him, so how would any English Goddamn understand them? Now he was lost in his own spiral of pleasure, hands running up and down Clothilde's smooth back. He revelled in the way she thrust back her head and her jet black hair swung like some halo of passion around her, whispering and pleading that he do more.
    Clothilde looked over de Savigny's shoulder at the small roll of parchment he had tossed on the table. She didn't care a whit. Ranulf-atte-Newgate had been an attractive prospect, and even more so with the bag of coins he had offered her. Enough silver for Clothilde to leave Paris, go back to Provence and buy a small farm or even a tavern. Men were so stupid! They'd sell so much for a single night with her. Clothilde continued her pretended gasps and whispers of ecstasy. She saw the door open and momentarily froze. Ranulf-atte-Newgate slipped like a shadow into the room. He tiptoed across, took the parchment, winked at Clothilde and left, gently closing the door behind him.
    'May we have that, Monsieur?'
    Ranulf whirled round. Two of the relic-sellers stood at the top of the stairs. One lounged against the wall chewing on a piece of straw, the other leaned against the rail of the stairs. Ranulf cursed. Somebody had betrayed them. He heard Clothilde giggling in the room behind him. Ranulf smiled