flotsam and jetsam of Nottingham life appeared. The pickpockets or foists, the hookers, the night hawks, the cut-throats and the whores in their strange wigs and heavily painted faces. They stood round relishing the punishments whilst keeping a sharp eye for any unsuspecting victim. A group of retainers from a merchant prince's household, drunken and slobbery-mouthed in their stained livery, forced their way through, singing a raucous song. A pardoner screeched that he had one of the stones used to kill St Stephen whilst a hunch-backed harpist drew scraps of parchment from his jerkin and shouted that he had songs for sale.
'So the villains gather,' Ranulf observed.
'Study them carefully,' Corbett insisted, 'for those who seem sharp-eyed or wear wrist-guards.'
'You think outlaws from Sherwood would dare venture here?'
'It's possible. Remember the attack on the castle.'
Ranulf, who prided himself on spying out a villain in a crowded street, studied the mob carefully but saw nothing fitting Corbett's description. The punishments over, the crowd broke up, going back to the stalls. Suddenly, behind Corbett and Ranulf, a voice rang out.
'I challenge you, sirs. I, Rahere of Lincoln, Riddle Master and Keeper of Mysteries north and south of the Trent, from whom no puzzle is proof. I challenge you!'
Corbett and Ranulf turned round and stared at a young man wearing a long tawny robe lined with rat's fur over a blood-red shirt and Lincoln green hose. He stood on a barrel shouting out his challenge across the market place. He was sandy-haired and fresh-faced with cheeky eyes, pointed nose, and a voice which carried like a preacher's. He twirled a silver coin between his fingers as he repeated his challenge and Ranulf grinned. He had seen his type before – gentlemen of the road who could answer any riddle and pose another which would leave even the greatest scholar scratching his head for all eternity.
Ranulf stared at the young woman who stood next to the barrel, dressed in a brown smock with white lambswool fringing the neck and cuffs. Her face was hidden in a hood but suddenly she pulled this back and Ranulf's heart missed a beat. All mourning for the Lady Mary Neville abruptly ceased for this woman was breathtakingly beautiful. An oval ivory-skinned face, perfectly formed nose above full red lips, auburn hair under a white linen veil – and those eyes, ice blue with a touch of fire. Ranulf stared at the way the close-fitting smock pulled sharply across thrusting breasts. Her narrow, hand-span waist was circled by a silver cord and red leather boots peeped out from beneath the hem of her dress. She moved her hair from her face, the movement delicate and beautiful as a butterfly. 'You, sir!'
Ranulf tore his eyes away and looked up at the Riddle Master.
'Tell me any riddle and, within twenty beats of your heart, I will give you the answer or this coin is yours.'
'What happens if there are two answers?' Ranulf jested back, quickly nudging Corbett.
'As long as my answer's correct, the coin stays here.'
'What has two legs, then has three and eventually none?' Ranulf shouted, conscious of the crowd pressing round him.
'Why, a man!' the Riddle Master retorted quickly. 'For we are all born with two legs, then in old age we have three with a walking staff, and then in bed, as we die, none whatsoever.'
Ranulf grinned and nodded.
'Give me another!'
'A vessel there is that is round like a pear, Moist in the middle, coloured and fair. And often it happens that salt is found there,' Ranulf chanted.
'Very good!' the Riddle Master shouted. 'It's the eye of a man!'
Ranulf agreed then Rahere's face became serious.
'I'll buy you a flagon of ale, sir.' He glanced suspiciously at Corbett. 'But not for your sober-sided companion. Rahere the Riddle Master of Lincoln refuses to drink with a man who never smiles!'
Corbett shuffled in embarrassment and tugged at Ranulf's sleeve.
'Come on!' he whispered as others began to shout riddles.
'So the villains gather,' Ranulf observed.
'Study them carefully,' Corbett insisted, 'for those who seem sharp-eyed or wear wrist-guards.'
'You think outlaws from Sherwood would dare venture here?'
'It's possible. Remember the attack on the castle.'
Ranulf, who prided himself on spying out a villain in a crowded street, studied the mob carefully but saw nothing fitting Corbett's description. The punishments over, the crowd broke up, going back to the stalls. Suddenly, behind Corbett and Ranulf, a voice rang out.
'I challenge you, sirs. I, Rahere of Lincoln, Riddle Master and Keeper of Mysteries north and south of the Trent, from whom no puzzle is proof. I challenge you!'
Corbett and Ranulf turned round and stared at a young man wearing a long tawny robe lined with rat's fur over a blood-red shirt and Lincoln green hose. He stood on a barrel shouting out his challenge across the market place. He was sandy-haired and fresh-faced with cheeky eyes, pointed nose, and a voice which carried like a preacher's. He twirled a silver coin between his fingers as he repeated his challenge and Ranulf grinned. He had seen his type before – gentlemen of the road who could answer any riddle and pose another which would leave even the greatest scholar scratching his head for all eternity.
Ranulf stared at the young woman who stood next to the barrel, dressed in a brown smock with white lambswool fringing the neck and cuffs. Her face was hidden in a hood but suddenly she pulled this back and Ranulf's heart missed a beat. All mourning for the Lady Mary Neville abruptly ceased for this woman was breathtakingly beautiful. An oval ivory-skinned face, perfectly formed nose above full red lips, auburn hair under a white linen veil – and those eyes, ice blue with a touch of fire. Ranulf stared at the way the close-fitting smock pulled sharply across thrusting breasts. Her narrow, hand-span waist was circled by a silver cord and red leather boots peeped out from beneath the hem of her dress. She moved her hair from her face, the movement delicate and beautiful as a butterfly. 'You, sir!'
Ranulf tore his eyes away and looked up at the Riddle Master.
'Tell me any riddle and, within twenty beats of your heart, I will give you the answer or this coin is yours.'
'What happens if there are two answers?' Ranulf jested back, quickly nudging Corbett.
'As long as my answer's correct, the coin stays here.'
'What has two legs, then has three and eventually none?' Ranulf shouted, conscious of the crowd pressing round him.
'Why, a man!' the Riddle Master retorted quickly. 'For we are all born with two legs, then in old age we have three with a walking staff, and then in bed, as we die, none whatsoever.'
Ranulf grinned and nodded.
'Give me another!'
'A vessel there is that is round like a pear, Moist in the middle, coloured and fair. And often it happens that salt is found there,' Ranulf chanted.
'Very good!' the Riddle Master shouted. 'It's the eye of a man!'
Ranulf agreed then Rahere's face became serious.
'I'll buy you a flagon of ale, sir.' He glanced suspiciously at Corbett. 'But not for your sober-sided companion. Rahere the Riddle Master of Lincoln refuses to drink with a man who never smiles!'
Corbett shuffled in embarrassment and tugged at Ranulf's sleeve.
'Come on!' he whispered as others began to shout riddles.
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