Sir Guy of Gisborne's Diary

Entry 14

Miserable Day (Part 2)

While galloping after Hood, I tried not to dwell on my failure of a party and the fact that there were unlikely to be any Twiglets left by the time I got back to Locksley. Instead, I imagined all the ways I would torture the outlaw once I had him in my clutches. In truth, I hadn't expected to catch up with him, knowing that he knew the forest better than I did and that he probably had a dozen boltholes in which to hide. So I was surprised, therefore, to find him unhorsed, standing atop a small rise, quietly waiting for me. It seemed he wanted a confrontation and I was more than happy to oblige.

Hood held up Marian's betrothal ring and then threw it into the leaves, demanding that I tell him who else was involved in the plot to kill the king. I didn't tell him, of course. I didn't have to really, because he knew full well that the sheriff was behind it.

I bent down to pick up the ring, fool that I am, and Hood kicked me in the face. It bloody hurt. Lying on my back, winded, Hood held his stupid curved sword to my throat. I asked if he was about to cut my other arm (a silly thing to say considering he had the sword to my throat, but, as ever, I tend to live in hope). He said that he was going to kill me. Normally, I'd have laughed at this. Robin Hood doesn't kill, we all know that, but he had a murderous look in his eyes and if his gang hadn't turned up at that precise moment and convinced him to leave me be then I think I might have ended up like those roses I destroyed when I jumped through Marian's window, namely headless. Reluctantly, Hood withdrew his sword and punched me instead, knocking me out cold.

When I woke up, I found I'd been gagged and tied to a tree. I hate being tied to trees. As a youngster, I frequently got tied to trees. Often it was Hood and his little playmates who bound me. Sometimes Isabella would trick me when playing hide and seek. She would tell me to stand behind a tree, close my eyes and count to one hundred and then tie me up while I wasn't looking. Mostly, though, it was my parents who tied me to trees, or bed posts, or washing lines, sometimes even a quintain when jousting season was in full swing. They said it was punishment for misdemeanours, though I had my suspicions that they sometimes did it for fun, entertainment being in short supply in our household thanks to my French mother who never understood the English rules for board or card games, my snotty sister who wouldn't play and my father, who mostly was away on crusade, but when he did come home kept losing fingers for some unknown reason so he couldn't hold the pieces or the playing cards (leprosy, I later found out).

Anyway, there I was, bound and gagged with Hood still looking particularly murderous.

However, things then took a strange turn. Hood started arguing with his gang. He wanted to deal with me there and then, his famous justice/trial/evidence code of conduct going right out the window in favour of instant punishment. His gang protested most vehemently, which amused me greatly. Hood grew so exasperated with them that I sniggered and he punched me in the face, twice! It really hurt, though I was more concerned about getting black eyes as my eyeliner wouldn't show up so well if that happened. Then, joy of joys, the big shaggy one knocked Hood out cold with his staff. They dragged the unconscious outlaw to a tree a short distance from my tree and tied him to it. Ha ha! I thought. A taste of his own medicine at last.

Aside from Hood's snivelling manservant, the rest of the gang set off for Nottingham in order to save the Saracen boy, Djaq.

When Hood came too, he and Much had words and Hood convinced the simpleton to untie him. Then Hood stomped over to me and demanded I tell him who else was in the plot to kill the king. He said he would kill me whether or not I talked, at which point I thought that there was no point in telling him if he was going to kill me anyway. I wondered if he'd noticed the flaw in his logic, but decided not to point it out in case he punched me again.

He and Much then exchanged heated words. Hood called Much simple. I chuckled, which was a big mistake, and Hood flung a dagger at me narrowly missing my ear.

After that, I decided to suppress any further sniggering, especially when I saw Hood heating up the end of a sword over the flames of a fire. I've got to admit that as he held the red-hot blade just an inch or so from my cheek I may have slightly wet myself.

Much decided that torture was not his thing and, after flinging angry words at Hood, he grabbed a horse and rode away. Without my last supporter, as it were, I realised I was in grave danger. Hood pointed the sword at me and my undergarments grew a little wetter.

Hood approached. I mumbled a prayer beneath my breath: please, please God, let my underwear have dried before anyone finds me, and, PS. let me have a dignified look on my face and not be wearing some lunatic expression of abject horror at my impending demise. Hood swung the sword overhand at me. Unexpectedly, it hit the tree above my head, severing the ropes binding me. I experienced a further bit of pants wetting, though out of sheer relief this time.

Hood walked away, sword in hand, then turned and threw the sword into the ground, pointy end first. He put up his fists. He wanted a fistfight. I toyed with suggesting that we settle the matter with arm wrestling or rock, paper, scissors, but the outlaw seemed intent on a punch up and I'll admit that this suited me a whole lot better than having my throat slit or being flame-grilled.

What followed was a right ding-dong with neither of us particularly having the advantage. When at last we finally slumped to the ground, I think any judge would have called it a draw, except Hood won because he knocked me out. When I came to, I was once again tied to a tree, gagged and blindfolded to boot. I don't know what went on while I was out cold because I woke to find that the outlaw was unconscious again. Strange days indeed! I wondered whether someone was keeping a tally sheet on which of us, me or Hood, would be knocked unconscious the most times today. I wouldn't have put it past the one called Allan a-Dale. He seems like one who's always on the make.

Shortly after coming to, I was dragged towards Nottingham where I understood I was to be exchanged for the Saracen boy who was being held captive in the castle. The outlaws, sans Robin, who they left in the forest along with the simpleton, took me to the Treeton Mines, where the exchange was to take place.

All was going reasonably swimmingly, in that I was about, or so I hoped, to gain my freedom, plus there wasn't a ruddy tree in sight, when Hood arrived. He told the sheriff about my tattoo and said that the king's guard knew of it and when the king returned from the Holy Land Robin would spill the beans and the sheriff would be done for. The sheriff didn't seem in the least put out. He pulled up my sleeve and said tattoo, what tattoo? and then produced a vial containing a liquid that he poured over my arm. It burned like buggery. I roared in pain.

Suddenly, several guards burst through the wall, courtesy of an old disused tunnel and I gleefully thought that Hood and his friends were done for. I should have known better. Ropes dropped from above - a forgotten mineshaft - and, predictably, the outlaws escaped.

The sheriff told me to stop mewling and that I should think twice before painting myself like a girl. That's not what he said about the small butterfly on the underside of my buttocks, but then I guess he was having a bad day. Nowhere near as bad as mine, though.

When I finally got back to my room in the castle, I plunged my burned arm in a bucket of water for a whole two hours. My fingers and hand went all crinkly. Then, to console myself, I spent an hour or so putting things in and taking things out of my new leather man-bag.

So, there it is, oh diary of mine, another miserable day in my increasingly miserable life. Still, on the bright side, I did get to rough up Hood and it was nice not to be the only one tied to a tree for once. And I didn't get my cheek fire-branded. In fact, I'm going to try to look on the bright side from now on and dwell on all the good things that happen to me, no matter how small, and try not to dwell on the bad, like rope burns, scorched skin and damp undergarments.

PS. The Saracen boy is actually a girl. Shame on me for not spotting this.