Weekend at Vasey's, Chapter Two
The Sheriff's deal with Prince John causes some trouble for Team Castle, and it's going to be a loooong weekend. I don't own anything. Some Guy/Marian/Allan. Ridicfic set sometime before 2x10 "Walkabout."
Chapter One
Chapter Two
“He can’t be dead!”
“Well, but he is, in’t he? I mean, not bein’ funny, but - ”
“Will you two shut up?” Guy yelled, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “The Sheriff is dead. Do you either of you know what this means?”
“He’s not the Archbishop anymore?” guessed Marian.
“He never was an Archbishop! He had an Archbishop killed, there’s a difference.”
“Then why was he wearing the Archbishop’s hat?” Marian asked skeptically.
“Wearing a pair of trousers on your head doesn’t make you an Archbishop. If it does, my old dad must be the bleedin’ Pope!” Allan chimed in helpfully.
“Does this mean . . . you don’t want to marry me?” Marian asked, getting back to the original question.
“No,” Guy hissed, “it means that Nottingham is in danger of being destroyed if Prince John’s men find out about this.”
Marian opened her eyes wide, trying to look like she didn’t know what Guy was talking about, then remembered that he had already told her about it last week. Keeping track of when to look innocent and virginal and when to look informed and virginal was beginning to give her a migraine.
“Yes, we can’t let that happen. Maybe the Nightwatchman will save us!” Marian beamed at the idea.
“The Nightwatchman? Why would he help us?” Guy asked, puzzled.
“Because maybe sometimes she - I mean he - just wants to get dressed up in a cape and mask and help people! Is that so absurd?” Marian asked, trying to hide her irritation. Really, how could Guy expect their (second) cancelled forced marriage to work if he wasn’t going to be supportive of her secret identity? Honestly!
“Forget the Nightwatchman. I say we get everybody out of here, right now.” Allan’s comment drew a glare from Marian.
Guy replied, “Maybe we won’t have to. Maybe I can explain to Prince John . . .” At that moment, a guard opened the door at the bottom of the staircase and started walking up toward where Vasey lay, now with more than one tooth missing.
Guy yelled down, “You there! Stay where you are! And then . . . go . . . saddle my horse!” He didn’t know what good having his horse saddled would do, but it always sounded good when he couldn’t think of anything else to yell. Besides, it didn’t matter as long as it got the guard out of the way.
“We can’t leave him out here,” Guy whisper-shouted, once the guard was gone. “We’ve got to take him up to his bedroom. Then I’ll decide what to do about Prince John’s men.”
“You’ll decide?” Marian asked, annoyed. She was going to make him pay for that later in her special fantasy in which Guy and Robin and the Nightwatchman fought each other over her while she watched. “What about Allan and me? We’re all in this together now.”
Guy brooded for a few moments, then looked pleased that she wanted to be with him. “Fine, grab a leg.”
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The trio had managed to get Vasey’s body back into his bedroom and tucked him under the covers. Guy awkwardly patted his former boss’s forehead, which was now devoid of trousers, and closed the dead man’s eyes in the same motion.
“Should we maybe say somethin’?” Allan suggested, not sure what the protocol was for such occasions.
“You mean, like a prayer?” Marian asked, touched by Allan’s sensitivity. “I’m sure the Nightwatchman would . . .”
“No. Vasey was hardly the religious type,” Guy argued, “well, except towards the end, of course.” They all paused for a moment to remember the Sheriff’s last moments as he was “blessing” the union of the tapestry and the wall sconce.
“Yep. You’re right.”
“No point making a fuss.”
“He wouldn’t have liked it.”
“Right, then.”
“Let’s go.”
And with that, they all turned around quickly and walked out, shutting the door on the body. They were startled to see the guard from earlier standing right outside the door. He looked deferentially at Guy. “I saddled your horse, my lord. But I wanted to tell you that a representative of Prince John is here to see the Sheriff. Is it all right if I send him in?”
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Guy, Marian and Allan looked at each other. Then they looked back at the guard. Then they looked at each other again. This went on for some time, until the guard cleared his throat and hinted, “My lord?”
“What?” Guy shouted.
“Prince . . . John’s . . . representative?” the guard timidly reminded him, by now very confused.
“What, he’s still here?” Guy asked, irritated.
“Uh, yes, my lord, I believe he intends to stay until he’s seen the Sheriff.”
“Well, he can’t. The Sheriff’s taken ill.” Guy smiled to himself at this stroke of cleverness. Unfortunately, he smiled to the guard, too, which confused the poor man even more.
“I’m afraid . . .” he gulped, “. . . he’s insisting. He must see the Sheriff immediately.”
Guy’s jaw twitched. “Send him to my chambers. And send up a barrel of the Sheriff’s strongest wine.”
The guard, wishing he hadn’t agreed to switch shifts with his brother-in-law Percival, who was being bled to cure his anemia, nodded at Guy and hurried back to the main hall where Prince John’s man was waiting.
Guy turned back and looked at Marian, who looked at Allan, who looked back at Guy. Then Guy looked at him, and he looked at Marian, and then Marian looked at the wall sconce. “Oops.”
“What are we gonna do, then? Prince John’s man isn’t going away without seein’ the Sheriff,” said Allan.
“I know that, that’s why I ordered the wine!” Guy yelled for no good reason, as Allan was standing right next to him.
Allan winced, then asked, “But what’s that gonna do?”
“I don’t know, it always works in the pantomimes!” Guy growled.
Marian’s mind had been working while they were speaking, and now she had an idea. “Guy, you go and meet with Prince John’s man. Stall him as much as possible, ply him with wine . . .” Guy customary scowl changed to a smile; she really liked his idea! “Give us about ten minutes, then bring him into the Sheriff’s bedroom.”
“What?” Guy and Allan exclaimed in unison.
“You’ll see.” Marian’s eyes sparkled. She enjoyed a challenge.
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Phillip, cousin to Prince John’s agent, Jasper, was sitting at a table in Sir Guy’s chambers. He was a young man eager to prove himself, so when his cousin asked him to do a job for him in Nottinghamshire on the Prince’s behalf, he had agreed enthusiastically. He was hoping to get a cushy position in Devonshire. He had heard many stories about the loose women there, maids who would show a bit of ankle after just one glass of ale. And the cheese was supposed to be delightful. Phillip adored cheese, especially the kind with the holes in it. He often wondered how they got the holes in there. Life was full of fascinating mysteries for Phillip.
Guy poured another glass of wine for the man sitting across from him and studied him warily. Phillip was tall, lanky, with sandy-colored hair and a round face that contrasted comically with his thin frame. He was staring intently at his reflection in his spoon.
“I’m up-side down!”
“I’m very pleased for you, Sir Phillip, but may I ask what brings you here?”
“Normally my cousin Jasper meets with the Sheriff once a month, but this time he sent me in his stead. Wasn’t feeling well. Poor fellow can’t hold his dairy, not like me. I’ve got a stomach like a griffin, I have. And heaps of brains. Yes, I’m the most intel- . . . intel- . . . I’m the smartest man in my family!” Guy wondered what Jasper must be like. “But Prince John gave the job to Jasper because . . . what did he say . . . ? I’m incontinent. No, that’s not right . . . Incorporate? No . . .” This little soliloquy went on for several minutes.
“Incompetent?” Guy finally suggested.
“No, that’s not it . . . Ah, well, whatever it was, it meant that Prince John is saving me for a very important mission.” Phillip glowed. “At least, that’s what my mum told me.”
“More cheddar, Sir Phillip?” Guy offered, astonished at the man’s seemingly endless capacity for dairy products.
After ten minutes had finally passed, Guy told Phillip that the Sheriff would see him now, and he helped the inebriated and cheese-stuffed man to his feet, wondering whether these last ten cheddary minutes were to be his last. He hadn’t even had time to finish his thoughts of Marian. And possibly . . . no, she would never go for it. Would she?
Continue to Chapter Three