three years since I have done that. I'll take yours north,' he continued. 'We hope to spend Michaelmas at the court of My Lord Anthony de Bec, Bishop of Durham.'
'There is one riddle,' Ranulf hesitantly began. 'A secret saying.'
Rahere cradled the tankard in his hands and leaned forward, his strange eyes glistening with excitement. 'Tell me.'
'It's a saying which masks a secret.' Ranulf closed his eyes. 'The three kings go to the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers.'
Rahere pulled a face. 'Hell's teeth! Is that all?'
Ranulf shrugged. 'That's all I know.'
'Who contrived it?'
'I don't know,' Ranulf lied. 'But if you could resolve the mystery, or even point to what it means…' He opened his purse and put two silver coins on the table. 'Then these would be yours.'
The Riddle Master extended his hands. 'There, Ranulf, you have my bond.'
Ranulf shook it warmly, pocketed the coins and shouted at the taverner to bring more drink. He felt smug and satisfied, trying hard to hide his excitement. The Riddle Master might help. If he did, Ranulf would profit, and if he didn't, Ranulf would still profit: he was being given an open excuse to slip away from Old Master Long Face and pay court to the beautiful Amisia.
The following morning Corbett rose early. He stared suspiciously at the sleeping Ranulf. His manservant had returned the previous evening, slightly drunk, weaving his way down the corridors of the castle singing the filthiest songs Corbett had ever heard, and he had only with the greatest difficulty extricated Ranulf from a game of dice with some of the surly castle soldiers who were growing increasingly suspicious about his run of luck at every throw. The manservant now sprawled half-dressed, snoring off at least a gallon of ale. Corbett finished dressing, tiptoed out of the room and went down to the hall to break his fast.
Branwood, Naylor, Roteboeuf, Friar Thomas and Physician Maigret were already there. The under-sheriff was morosely chewing snatches of bread and sipping from a tankard. Corbett's salutation was greeted with mumbles and dark looks; the household was obviously still smarting over the previous day's ambush in the forest. Corbett sat on a bench next to Maigret and cut chunks of bread from a newly baked loaf. He felt refreshed and reflected on the recent attack.
'Strange,' he murmured aloud before he could stop himself.
'What is?' Naylor snapped, his pig-like eyes red-rimmed with tiredness.
'Yesterday in the forest those outlaws could have killed us all yet we escaped. It's almost as if…'
'They were sending a warning?' Roteboeuf finished the sentence.
'Yes.' Corbett bit off a piece of bread. There's something elusive there, he thought, like staring into murky water and glimpsing something precious lying on the bottom.
'Sir Peter,' he asked, 'do you wish the King to confirm you as sheriff?'
Sir Peter shrugged. 'That's the King's prerogative. He appointed me under-sheriff.' He smiled sourly. 'Perhaps he will insist I step into poor Vechey's shoes?'
Corbett nodded diplomatically and was about to reply when Maigret coughed and cleared his throat.
'I have been thinking over what you asked me, Sir Hugh, about Sir Eustace's death.' The physician's quick eyes darted around as if challenging the others to object. 'The poison,' he continued, 'may have been deadly nightshade or some potion distilled from mushrooms, those poisonous ones which grow under the oak and elm. They are most noxious, especially when picked under a hunter's moon.'
'Would they kill immediately?'
'If the potion was strong enough, yes.'
'Sir Peter! Sir Peter!'
All conversation died as a young soldier, a mere boy no more than sixteen summers old, his hair tousled, eyes staring in terror, burst into the hall.
'What's the matter, man?'
'I've seen them! Two of the men who went missing in the forest yesterday.' The soldier's voice faltered. 'They've been executed!'
Sir Peter sprang from the table, the others followed. Branwood
'There is one riddle,' Ranulf hesitantly began. 'A secret saying.'
Rahere cradled the tankard in his hands and leaned forward, his strange eyes glistening with excitement. 'Tell me.'
'It's a saying which masks a secret.' Ranulf closed his eyes. 'The three kings go to the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers.'
Rahere pulled a face. 'Hell's teeth! Is that all?'
Ranulf shrugged. 'That's all I know.'
'Who contrived it?'
'I don't know,' Ranulf lied. 'But if you could resolve the mystery, or even point to what it means…' He opened his purse and put two silver coins on the table. 'Then these would be yours.'
The Riddle Master extended his hands. 'There, Ranulf, you have my bond.'
Ranulf shook it warmly, pocketed the coins and shouted at the taverner to bring more drink. He felt smug and satisfied, trying hard to hide his excitement. The Riddle Master might help. If he did, Ranulf would profit, and if he didn't, Ranulf would still profit: he was being given an open excuse to slip away from Old Master Long Face and pay court to the beautiful Amisia.
The following morning Corbett rose early. He stared suspiciously at the sleeping Ranulf. His manservant had returned the previous evening, slightly drunk, weaving his way down the corridors of the castle singing the filthiest songs Corbett had ever heard, and he had only with the greatest difficulty extricated Ranulf from a game of dice with some of the surly castle soldiers who were growing increasingly suspicious about his run of luck at every throw. The manservant now sprawled half-dressed, snoring off at least a gallon of ale. Corbett finished dressing, tiptoed out of the room and went down to the hall to break his fast.
Branwood, Naylor, Roteboeuf, Friar Thomas and Physician Maigret were already there. The under-sheriff was morosely chewing snatches of bread and sipping from a tankard. Corbett's salutation was greeted with mumbles and dark looks; the household was obviously still smarting over the previous day's ambush in the forest. Corbett sat on a bench next to Maigret and cut chunks of bread from a newly baked loaf. He felt refreshed and reflected on the recent attack.
'Strange,' he murmured aloud before he could stop himself.
'What is?' Naylor snapped, his pig-like eyes red-rimmed with tiredness.
'Yesterday in the forest those outlaws could have killed us all yet we escaped. It's almost as if…'
'They were sending a warning?' Roteboeuf finished the sentence.
'Yes.' Corbett bit off a piece of bread. There's something elusive there, he thought, like staring into murky water and glimpsing something precious lying on the bottom.
'Sir Peter,' he asked, 'do you wish the King to confirm you as sheriff?'
Sir Peter shrugged. 'That's the King's prerogative. He appointed me under-sheriff.' He smiled sourly. 'Perhaps he will insist I step into poor Vechey's shoes?'
Corbett nodded diplomatically and was about to reply when Maigret coughed and cleared his throat.
'I have been thinking over what you asked me, Sir Hugh, about Sir Eustace's death.' The physician's quick eyes darted around as if challenging the others to object. 'The poison,' he continued, 'may have been deadly nightshade or some potion distilled from mushrooms, those poisonous ones which grow under the oak and elm. They are most noxious, especially when picked under a hunter's moon.'
'Would they kill immediately?'
'If the potion was strong enough, yes.'
'Sir Peter! Sir Peter!'
All conversation died as a young soldier, a mere boy no more than sixteen summers old, his hair tousled, eyes staring in terror, burst into the hall.
'What's the matter, man?'
'I've seen them! Two of the men who went missing in the forest yesterday.' The soldier's voice faltered. 'They've been executed!'
Sir Peter sprang from the table, the others followed. Branwood
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