Sir Guy of Gisborne's Diary

Entry 23

Dear Diary,

I sometimes wonder why I am still bothering to write in you when my life is a pile of shit! Still, there have been a few bright moments in between all the doom and gloom and I must cling to those as a drowning man might cling to a piece of driftwood, even though, in my case, that piece of driftwood would likely turn out to be a very small twig!

Following the debacle of Holy Pork Henry, I thought seriously about abandoning the sheriff and all ideas of wealth and power. I considered moving to Scotland and opening a trout farm, but quickly dismissed the idea, realising I hated both tartan and trout. London perhaps, I mused.

As it is, I did neither, for the following week proved uneventful and I decided that I would miss my room in the castle, the abundance of wine in the castle cellars, my leathercraft classes and, most of all, the woman of my dreams - Marian.

Yesterday, however, nearly had me rethinking my decision to stay, as there occurred a most unpleasant episode when Marian came close to marrying the despicable Harold of Winchester. Luckily, I was able to stab Winchester to death following the signing of the Great Pact of Nottingham, so there's yet a chance that she might marry me or at least consent to having sex with me. And I did so enjoy seeing Robin Hood briefly turn into some kind of circus knife thrower only to realise that the sheriff had outwitted him for once. Predictably, Hood escaped our clutches once again, but it was fun while it lasted.

The other good thing about that episode was that Marian sat behind me on my horse so I could return her to Nottingham, having cut short the life of her husband-to-be, namely Winchester. I can't begin to tell you how good it felt to have her arms around me. I rode with the biggest smirk on my face all the way back to the castle (not to mention the biggest ramrod in my breeches). The only downside was that when we arrived, my dismount from my stallion, Brutus, was decidedly clumsy!

Despite my recent losses of Mr Paws and dolly Marian, and my not so recent loss of Binky bear, it cheered me to see my leather man-bag lying on my bed. I debated between seeing to my still engorged assets or playing with the bag. In the end, the bag won out and I spent a happy hour before supper putting things into it and taking things out of it.

***

After a couple of uneventful days, yet more drama!

We caught Marian's father, Edward, stealing the Great Pact of Nottingham and, although he escaped, we found him a short while later stabbed to death (not by me!). Of course, poor Marian was distraught and I'll admit I was somewhat shaken by it, but it did at least give me the opportunity to promise to protect her from the sheriff, for it was her knife found in the dead gaoler's chest (the gaoler supposedly keeping an eye on Edward's incarceration). I shouldn't have tried to kiss her, though. Not while she was sobbing her eyes out over her dead father. My timing never has been great.

Later, even my leather man-bag gave me no cheer for I discovered that Marian had left the castle and I had a strong suspicion where she might have gone.

The next morning, the sheriff told me we were going to the Great Hall to meet a very special man. Carter was his name. On arriving in the hall, we watched as Carter wielded his swords in a most impressive manner. Show-off was all I could think. I was hoping he'd accidentally chop his balls off, or at least his little finger. Instead, he knelt before Vaisey and kissed the sheriff's ring. Honestly, I wanted to gag.

Why don't you ever kiss my ring? the sheriff asked me.

I'd sooner gnaw on my own testicles I was tempted to reply. I held my tongue, not least because I was trying to figure out if it was even possible to chew on one's own testicles.

Carter told the sheriff that he would retrieve the Great Pact of Nottingham and kill Robin Hood. That Hood was as good as dead.

Honest to God, I wanted to punch him. And the sheriff. To think of all the times I'd had Hood at my mercy and yet the sheriff had forbidden me to simply do away with the man myself. He wanted to make a spectacle out of Hood's death. So many times it could have been over in a trice. A sword. An arrow. Boiling pitch. A big rock. But no. The sheriff wanted it done his way. Bring Hood to me alive so I can make a show of it. Stake Hood in the main square so everyone can watch. Cut out his entrails with him still alive. Put them on a plate. Sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper. Add some red wine jus. Make him eat them and then cut off his other bits and pieces, his todger, his nose, his hands and serve them for pudding. Then let the dogs have a go at him. The cats. The rats. Brian of Walthamstowe's pet hamster. Finally, off with his head. Put it on a spike. Parade around the streets of Nottingham with it held high while the crows peck at the rest of his body, now sitting on serving plates, garnished with a paltry serving of salad and yet more completely pointless jus.

Yet the sheriff had given Carter carte blanche to dispatch Hood in any way he saw fit.

I went to my room, seething with the injustice of it, got very drunk and told a manservant to go order me a kilt.