Sir Guy of Gisborne's Diary

Entry 17

Well, dear diary, it was good to get back to eating proper food and not having crazy women throwing deadly Christmas decorations at me. Fortunately, the sheriff quickly forgot to take the failure of ransoming Prince Malik out on me, instead launching into another one of his ridiculous schemes. This one even had a name - Festival of Pain.

It all sounded a bit grisly to be honest, but as long as it didn't involve me in anything other than the props department, then I can't say I particularly cared. None of Locksley's peasants have paid me the slightest courtesy in the time I have been their overlord and I believe they all mock me behind their backs. I really should do something to gain their respect but I can't think what. Some of them are of an age to recall my wet bed sheets flapping in the breeze and the only way I can keep them from blabbing is to put the fear of God into them and that's not going to endear them to me, I know.

If only I could marry Marian now I know it would make all the difference. The peasants respect and admire her; some even appear to be her friends. If she were under my roof, I'd hang out my soiled sheets with pride, for they would speak of our love and devotion to each other.

[Sorry, diary, I am feeling a bit squirmy now; time to dig out some naughty parchments to wank over. Will write more later.]

Later

The sheriff gave me the task of escorting the taxes to London. I was glad, as I didn't really want to sit through his stupid Festival of Pain. It would be good to spend some time away from him and his horrible griping at me. In fact, I was feeling in a somewhat buoyant mood. True, Marian was still being offish with me over the Lambert affair, but we were on speaking terms and I had an almost good moment with her when I had a guard deliver her portmanteau to her room (I came along too). I expressed my feelings in my usual less than eloquent way (to Marian, not the guard or the portmanteau, I mean). Although she said that she did not, at that moment, wish to 'know me better' or indeed allow me to 'know her better', she didn't imply that that situation might not change in the future, so progress I think.

My buoyant mood did not last, alas.

No sooner had I and my guards ridden out of the castle gates with the tax monies destined for London than I heard the gates slam behind us and the bars clanking down. I immediately knew something was wrong. I called a halt and used my knife to slit open one of the sacks. Grain spilled onto my boots. The next sack was the same. And the next. We had been tricked, and no guesses who was behind it!

At this point, I seriously considered changing my profession, becoming a laundry maid, perhaps. Oh, yes, I wouldn't mind getting my hands on women's smalls. Wouldn't mind them getting their hands on my smalls either, and I'm not talking small for I am actually rather well-endowed, especially when I'm reading those naughty parchments I keep hidden under the bed. Some even have drawings. I like those ones best. Right then, however, I was stuck with being the sheriff's master-at-arms and responsible for explaining why our sacks of coins were no longer sacks of coins. Somehow, I didn't think that telling the sheriff that we could at least make lots of bread would soothe him. I only hoped that he was enjoying his Festival of Pain; I feared my own festival of pain would not be long in coming.

Eventually, we got the barred gates open and chased back to the castle. The great hall appeared to be empty, but there was a moaning noise coming from behind the sheriff's sheet-covered contraption that made me think otherwise. I feared the worse, or possibly the best! I was right. It was the sheriff, upside down, bound to his torture contraption by his hands and feet, gagged and bare-chested. I suppressed a grin. It made a change for him to be the one trussed up like a chicken. Many a time I had spent in a similar way in the sheriff's bedchamber, him all randy and me all giddy with a blood rush to the head, unable to think of our safe word and sometimes even when I did remember it the sheriff would say that he had changed it and I had to guess. Sometimes I was bound like that for several hours.

Spluttering with rage, the sheriff demanded that I cut him loose. I sent the guards who were with me out of the hall, ostensibly to check for outlaws, but really so I could be alone with the sheriff. I spent ages getting him down, protesting that I was having trouble with the knots. Finally, he yelled at me to use my knife and I did so, being unable to come up with any plausible reason why I would not be carrying any blades. He fell to the floor with a thump. I fussed over him for all my worth, all the while swallowing down my laughter.

So, diary, it hasn't been the best of days, but it certainly hasn't been the worst. I might even make some bread tomorrow if my duties allow.