Sir Guy of Gisborne's Diary

Entry 28

The Holy Land was no more pleasant than the first time around. The heat was unbearable, the food unpalatable and the sheriff too full of himself and our glorious mission to be borne. However, bear it I did because soon King Richard would be dead, Prince John would be on the throne and I would have power and wealth beyond measure. I would be able to buy one hundred Binky bears if I wanted to.

The sheriff had chained Marian in a cellar, doubtless in case she tried to plunge a sword into him again. A single chain around one of her wrists meant her other hand was free. Not only did this enable her to more easily eat her food, but also it meant that should she decide that she was up for a bit of hanky panky with me she would have the use of one hand and I could think of a very good use for it!

For two days, however, the sheriff kept me busy organising this and that and I didn't have the time to visit Marian let alone have a bit of fun playing master and servant with her. Moreover, I was spending rather a lot of time in the garderobe owing to the enforced change of diet.

Happily, on the third evening we were there, I found myself without any duties and so took down Marian's evening meal myself, fed up with listening to Vaisey going on about how nothing could possibly go wrong with our plot to kill the king, that we were invincible. Sweating in my leathers, my stomach and bowels churning with all the sheep eyeballs I'd had to eat, I felt far from invincible.

Marian refused the food (sensible girl). Instead, she beseeched me to change tack, to kill the sheriff and save the king. The king would reward me. She would reward me. I have to say I was tempted. Money and sex!

As I entered the sheriff's private chamber, I was still in two minds about whether to kill him or not. Then, as I moved towards him, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, I had a spectacularly brilliant idea. I would continue to serve the sheriff, kill the king as he asked, thus gaining wealth and power, and force Marian to marry me whether she liked it or not. I was certain that once I got her into the marital bed and she eyed my glorious assets she would come around to the idea of being my wife.

***

I scribble this diary entry in haste as I pause in the shade of a back alley, here in the ruined city of Imuiz, for there is a foreboding deep in my gut (though that could be the sheep eyeballs) that things are going to go a bit pear-shaped.

The sheriff's mercenaries did not kill Hood and his gang in a barn in Nettlestone. Instead, Hood escaped and turned up in the Holy Land. Hell! Next year I shall travel incognito and take my summer holiday in Bournemouth or the Isle of Wight.

So, yet again, Robin-bloody-Hood has ruined the sheriff's plan to kill the king. Instead of Hood and his gang perishing in the desert on the command of a king believing them to be traitors, they escaped and saved the king's life. Worse still, Marian is with them. There will be no picnics on the sand, no making whoopee in the sand dunes, no haggling with street sellers for souvenirs. And definitely no time to build sand castles. I sense the wealth and power that was going to come my way slipping through my fingers, like so many grains of sand. Not even one Binky bear, let alone one hundred.

Maybe it's the heat getting to me (leathers - big mistake here), but I am overwhelmed by terrible thoughts and images. My sword plunging into Marian's stomach. Surely not. Maybe it's my todger, lengthy and gleaming with sweat in the sunlight that I am piercing her with. I see a dark sky, the sun lost. Me, kneeling before Prince John. Me, sticking a knife in the sheriff's chest. More fucking hot weather and an unusual glut of strawberries growing in Nottingham. A mangy lion. My sister, Isabella, all grown up, stuffing strawberries into Hood's mouth (enough with the fucking strawberries! I don't even like them). Isabella wearing leather and proclaiming that she's the Sheriff of Nottingham (definitely delusional now - must remember to drink more water). Robin Hood is my half-brother. (Fuck, I must have heatstroke!). But I'm not hot. If anything, I'm freezing cold, as if a sudden blast of chill wind is blowing through me. Or could it be the icy hand of death that approaches?

I am having a vision of me lying in some kind of underground room, Hood leaning over me. I am telling him that I lived in shame, but, because of him, I die proud, I am free. No way is that going to happen! I would tell him that he's an aggravating little shit, that I hate him, and that Marian was, is and always would be stirred by me.

Hark, I hear King Richard yelling out in pain. I must go. Now is my chance to do the terrible deed I must do in order to end up in the sheriff's good books for once, become incredibly wealthy and drag Marian kicking and screaming to the altar (hopefully not kicking because last time she kicked me my balls hurt for three weeks).

Until next time, dear diary . . .

~ ~ ~

To whom it may concern . . .

This diary was found in the rubble of Nottingham castle in the aftermath of a great battle that saw the death of Peter Vaisey, the former Sheriff of Nottingham, Isabella Thornton née Gisborne and Sir Guy of Gisborne (plus fifty-four guards, twelve kitchen workers, a blacksmith, a cooper, three jailors, one prisoner, an unemployed gardener, and a mute scribe).

Deeming it to be in the public interest, copies have been distributed to the inhabitants of the Shire of Nottingham (those that can read). Illiterate peasants will be able to hear an oral rendering of the content at the Nottingham Summer Fayre (provided we can find someone to read such content and still be able to keep a straight face). Mummers will act out the content for the hard of hearing (adults only).

Copies signed by the author are not currently available.

Signed, witnessed and sealed by my fair hand this Twelfth day of August 1198

Brian of Walthamstow, Sheriff of Nottingham