Sir Guy of Gisborne's Diary

Entry 22

Dear diary, another month rolls by and I have much to write.

After the humiliating incident with the special armour, I kept myself to myself for a bit, performing my duties for the sheriff and then retiring to my room as soon as possible. Even so, it was difficult to escape ridicule. There were many boil-in-the-tin jokes and the dangers of playing with fire jokes, as well as the servants getting their own back on me by making sure I always returned to a blazing fire in my hearth. Even some visiting mummers got in on the act, so to speak, and performed a play in Nottingham square that involved audience participation, namely throwing buckets of pitch onto the armour-wearing mummers. It was lauded as the best production of the season.

Fortunately, the jokes and innuendo ceased when the sheriff had another of his crackpot schemes, this time to kill the king and his army by way of poison pies, testing them out on the peasants of Pitt Street first. As ever, Robin and his gang stepped in and saved the worthless peasants' lives. They also ended up saving the sheriff's life, more's the pity. Only last week, almost a month since the flaming armour incident, I returned to my room to find my undergarments lying on my bed, full of burn holes, with a note from the sheriff commiserating with me on the recent infestation of fire-moths.

There were more fun and games last week.

It began in the Trip Inn, where I met Allan a-Dale, my spy. He started out by having a go at me for killing Roger of Stoke, as if he didn't know that I'd stick a knife in the man's guts. We quickly moved on. He told me that he knew I had a messenger, Henry of Lewes, arriving the next day. Henry was coming to spill the beans on where the king and his army were going to land once they reached England. I gave Allan some coin in exchange for this information and said there would be more when and if Henry arrived safely in Nottingham.

I was chuffed to bits when, the next day, the coach carrying Henry drew up in the castle courtyard. My moment of puffed up pride lasted but a few seconds, however, as the coach door opened and Henry tumbled to the ground, clearly unwell, possibly dying for all I knew. The sheriff glowered at me and I guessed I would be going without supper that evening. We had no idea what was wrong with the man and I sent for the sheriff's physician, Blight.

The next morning, Henry was still feverish, Blight's leeches having done no good, and not a word had yet passed the man's lips about the king's plans. In typical sheriff fashion, Vaisey lambasted Blight and ordered me to find another quack. There was only one other healer in Nottingham with the expertise to deal with this and that was the witch, Matilda. She'd cured all sorts of ills over the years and she'd attended numerous births, including that of Robin Hood. I disliked her intensely. Wherever she crossed my path, she took great pleasure in calling me all sorts of disparaging names and comparing me to nasty things, fox turd being her favourite. I would have liked to have made her eat said fox turd and then thrown her in the Trent, but my chance never came, until this week, that is.

Oh, you hairy pig-witted fox turd, the witch shouted as my men dragged her from her house. I had to give it to her; she knew how to curse inventively. Slimy little snothead, she said as I presented her to the sheriff. He dismissed Blight and threatened Matilda if she did not cure Henry and get the man to talk. She got him to talk all right - in gibberish. Holy pork, I ask you! Mind you, it was funny. I had real trouble stifling my giggles in front of the sheriff and had to feign a coughing fit. Wish I could get my hands on some of that stuff the witch gave Henry. I'd have a field day with it. I could give it to the guards and watch the sheriff fume as he gave them orders and they answered back in riddles. In fact, I could give it to the sheriff just before a council of nobles meeting; see how his threats come out then! A clue - nose. Hee hee.

Anyway, back to the witch and her punishment for muddling Henry's brain and for colluding with Robin Hood. Not eating fox turd and drowning in the River Trent, alas, but close. A ducking stool over Locksley pond.

All was going well, the sheriff enjoying the sight of Matilda being lowered into and then lifted up out of the water, uncaring of her venomous remarks each time she surfaced. Blight, too, looked beside himself with glee. However, both lost their cheerful demeanour when the chair rose for a fourth or maybe fifth time with no woman seated upon it. All that remained on the chair was the witch's wet underwrappings. I squirmed at the sight, recalling my days as a youngster when I wet the bed. My father once thought to cure me of the habit by humiliating me. He strung several pairs of wet undergarments to a line outside our house. Robin had great fun firing arrows at them, while I risked life and limb running along under the line yanking my wet things from it. Recalling the shameful moment, I was distracted from keeping my eye on holy pork Henry. The next thing I knew the sheriff was shouting at me: Henry's gone!

My guards once again proved their uselessness and failed to find either Matilda or Henry. Perhaps she really was a witch and had spirited both herself and Henry away. Who knows? What I did know was that the sheriff was spitting feathers. He blamed me for losing Henry.

For dinner that evening, the servants brought me a plateful of leeches. Actually, they weren't that bad. They tasted like chicken, only bloodier.

Later, still fuming, the sheriff made me lick the bowl containing the witch's brew she'd fed to Henry. Though I have no recollection of what twaddle I uttered, it cheered the sheriff up no end. Every now and then, for the whole of the next two days, I would catch him chuckling to himself and muttering 'Bobbin Wood' and 'beddy tear'.