Sir Guy of Gisborne's Diary

Entry 20

As you can see, dear diary, I did not stick my head in boiling pitch following my non-wedding to Marian. However, I did spend almost two weeks drinking myself into a stupor following that disastrous day and then a further two weeks alternating between utter despair and plotting my revenge. Fortunately, the sheriff was much occupied during this time and if he noticed my lack of attendance on him, he did not seem to mind.

As revenge goes, my ideas - varying from cutting up all of Marian's dresses to marrying a trollop from the Trip Inn - were rather feeble. Last evening, when I was no nearer to deciding what to do about Marian, the sheriff summoned me to his war room. He wasn't there when I arrived, so I walked glumly around the giant three-dimensional map that sits in the middle of the room, wishing that the bowls of fire spaced around the circumference of the map were bowls of nibbles rather than flames and wondering whether I might be better off moving to Scotland rather than trying to think up suitable ways to get back at Marian for snubbing me at the altar. I was still considering whether I could cope with eating haggis and wearing tartan when the sheriff silently crept into the room, startling me.

Tell me, he said. You would rather have a woman than all this power. He waved at the map. We are so close, he said. And he gave a dramatic sniff, as if power were some magical herb he could filter up his nostrils. Sadly, it is not. I know this because my own enthusiastic sniffing has given me nothing other than a noseful of some stench or other and the intense desire to sneeze. Talking of our leper friends, the sheriff said, it's time to go and get the pretty one and her daddy. This he said while poking me in the ribs, which I wasn't happy about, but at least he isn't poking me in my nether regions any more, so small mercies and all that. If they resist, shall I use force, I asked. The sheriff told me to use force anyway.

On the ride to Knighton, I mulled over how I could humiliate Marian the way she had humiliated me. To be honest, nothing I could come up with came close, so straightforward nastiness would have to suffice.

On arriving, I shouted for Marian and Edward to leave the house at once. I pounded on the door and then kicked it in for good measure. It felt good, though not as good as stabbing some random peasant with a sword, but satisfying nonetheless.

In the main hall, I smelled soup: minestrone, I think. My mouth watered. If only things were different. If only Marian were standing in front of me smiling and saying: husband dearest, you've been working so hard today you must be exhausted, but see I've made you some soup with chunks of fresh bread to dip into it, and my father is not here because I've sent him off to live elsewhere, the doddery old fool, so it's just you and me and after supper we can . . .

I shook myself out of my silly little daydream and ordered one of my guards to hold Edward, while I waited for Marian to appear. When she did not, I shouted her name and when she still didn't appear, I issued a threat: come down now or I will torch your house.

She rushed down the stairs, calling for her father. You come when I say, I said. You are coming to the castle. The sheriff wants you where he can see you. Marian protested, saying that her father was too frail and demanding I release him. You do not tell me what to do, I yelled, reminding me of a slanging match I'd had with my sister Isabella when we were playing dress up and she insisted that I had to wear the lacy knickers because they gave her a rash. Hood and the other village boys and girls laughed for weeks about it. Recalling this embarrassing episode enraged me further and I ordered one of my guards to burn the house.

Instantly, I wished I hadn't said that. My parents died in a fire that I started, and although they got on my nerves sometimes, I had no wish to see them dead (to be fair, my father was on the way out anyway, but still). However, I could hardly retract my command without looking like an indecisive idiot. What could I say instead? Singe the house a little, burn a couple of chairs outside in a suitable clearing, throw Edward's hot soup over the walls.