Weekend at Vaseys, Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Guy stumbled away from the camp and sunk down on his side onto the frosted ground. He felt woozy; his head spun. Since he hadn’t eaten anything at lunch, he began to retch unsatisfyingly. Marian the Nightwatchman . . . Robin Hood . . . Allan . . . the crafty Saracen . . . Bonchurch, the sycophant with the absurd hat . . . that big one with the filthy hair . . . seriously, did he not understand the importance of a lustrous mane? Then there was . . . that other one . . . all of them there in the woods - working together, and probably more. It was revolting. He shuddered, finally noticing the cold.
Bits of remembered conversations attacked his brain. I don’t want to marry anyone. Lepers, Gisborne. Lepers. Without you, I no longer feel - quite whole. I’m charming you. An ‘ouch’ costs nothing. I’ll kiss him when I see him. You should be careful whom you listen to. Her heart belongs to another! Perhaps I am not the marrying kind. Grow up, Gisborne.
Guy attempted to stand up, slapping his palm against a tree to keep himself from falling. He blindly grasped for his horse’s reins and hoisted himself up into the saddle. The horse glanced back at him. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m having a hard day.” And now I’m concerned that my horse is silently judging me.
Guy drifted off as the horse began to trot aimlessly. Marian was the Nightwatchman. Marian and Hood were still in love. They had been laughing at him, just like the Sheriff had warned him. Her caresses had been nothing but lies cloaked in delicate skin. Smooth, kissable skin. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I love her. But I hate her.
Snowflakes stuck to his dark hair, his eyelashes, and the facial hair that was beginning to come in. He was so tired. So sleepy, so ready for bed, for death, for release. Suddenly he jerked the reins and propelled himself out of the saddle, nearly falling on his finely chiseled cheeks. He lay on his back and squinted into the sun, which was now making its descent in the grey winter sky.
Well, he thought, at least I’m finally somewhere where I won’t be disturbed. He tugged down his trousers and began to think about what would happen to Hood, Marian, Allan and the lot of them if Prince John’s army raized Nottingham. Maybe he should just tell Phillip the truth. After all, as a Black Knight, he might be spared. He was a shoe-in to be elected Treasurer at their next meeting, so he felt some measure of confidence in his influence. The thought filled him with satisfaction.
After a few moments of breathing heavily, observing the clouds of fog that puffed out of his mouth, he gingerly mounted his horse and rode.
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“Look, you’ve got your book now. Are you satisfied?” He paused as she looked down at the manuscript in her hands. “Marian . . . promise me nothing happened with Gisborne.”
“Robin!” she reproached him.
“Please.” There was an urgency in his tone that was usually reserved for matters of the crown.
“I can’t believe you’re asking me this.” Marian shook her head in disgust. “I have to take the seal back to the castle now.” She opened up the book and took out the seal, then held it up. “Now that is a nice ring.”
“What are you saying?” Robin asked, placing his hands on his hips.
“I’m saying . . . I’m leaving. We’ll talk about this another time.” Marian turned away from him and clutched at Allan’s hand.
Robin reached out and grasped her arm, jerking her back. “There may not be another time. What if Prince John finds out what happened, even with the seal? We can’t leave things unfinished. Not when I feel like talking!”
“Well, I don’t feel like it. I feel like riding. I could use some satisfaction,” Marian spat out acidly, massaging her sore arm.
“Oh, no she didn’t just say that!” Allan snapped his fingers for emphasis. “You just got told, Rob.”
“Shut up, Allan! You’re nothing but a dirty traitor!” Robin shouted. “You’re all . . . traitors!” The notorious outlaw was on the verge of a tantrum.
“Robin, please.” Marian pushed up her wig with her hook hand, nearly putting her lovely right eye out. Ow.
“No. I can’t take it anymore. You’re going to stay here with me, and that’s final!”
“It’s bloody freezin’!” Allan protested.
“Not you! Marian!” Robin shouted.
“No. Allan is right. It is freezing. And I am going back. And you can keep your ring.”
“Well?” Robin waited, expecting her to fling it in his face.
Marian shifted sheepishly on her peg leg. “Er . . . I forgot it.”
“Oh, brilliant. How am I gonna sell it off now?”
Much, huffing as he ran up behind Robin, cried, “You can’t keep it! It gives you sausage fingers!” Much had had his eye on that ring long before Robin gave it away to Marian. The hussy.
“Oh, why, thank you very much, Much,” Marian said sarcastically, rolling her visible eye. The other one rolled, too, but nobody could see it. Then she giggled almost hysterically. “Your name is Much!”
“It is, isn’t it?” Much replied, as if just noticing for the first time. “But what about the ring?”
“I’ll - send it to you, Robin.” Marian was on the verge of tears, but the stinging cold wind helped keep her right eye dry.
“Please, you can’t do this, Marian. I love you!” Robin cried.
“Not enough.” Suddenly, the image of Guy, standing half-clad in armor by a glowing fire entered her mind. She banished the thought immediately . . . almost immediately . . . and said, “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. We can’t go back to the way things were before you left, Robin.”
After a pause that felt as long as his absence in the Holy Land, Robin muttered, “I know.”
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Guy stormed into the castle, filled with a crackling new energy that was terrifying to the guards who were unlucky enough to find themselves in his path.
“My lord! Sir Phillip has awoken from his nap, and he’s asking for more cheese and wine!” one of them blurted out. Guy backhanded him for his troubles. Stupid guards! Now that he wanted them gone, they were all over the place.
After rubbing the bridge of his nose for a moment, he threw off his overcoat onto a sleeping servant and growled, “Take me to him.”
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Sir Phillip was enjoying himself immensely. He stretched out his arms after his luxurious nap, nestled snugly in the most elegant guest bedroom of the castle (except for Marian’s, but he didn’t know that.). His stomach started to rumble, so he called to a guard. Stomach rumbling was a sure sign of hunger, his mum had told him, although he didn’t feel particularly hungry after such a large lunch. Still, he thought a snack would surely stop the noises in his belly.
He yelled for a servant, and then stood up on the bed and began to jump up and down on it. Oh, this bed is ever so bouncy. Even better than the ones at home, he thought. Even better than that inflatable bladder castle at the yearly festival near Dunghill.
The servant, a young man not much older than Phillip himself, but not as fond of cheese (it gave him gas), lightly knocked on the door and then opened it. “You called, my lord?”
“Yes, I would like some more cheese, and some of that nice red wine, too,” that gentleman said. “And I would like to speak with Sir Guy. About Lady Marian,” he whispered the last part and winked at the servant, who nodded curtly and quickly closed the door.
“I’m going to be married!” Phillip shouted joyfully. “I’m going to have a wife! She’s so very pretty, and has such an uncommon way of dressing herself. I think I love her.” Phillip wasn’t really sure what one was supposed to do with a wife, actually, but he knew he wanted one. His cousin Julian had one, and he wasn’t about to be one-upped by that foolish sod. He also knew that the stork would not bring him any sons until he was married. The priest had told him so, and so had his mum, so it must be true.
He sighed. It was too bad his future wife wouldn’t be able to share his love of cheese. Then again, he thought, that will leave more for me. Bounce, bounce, bounce . . . “Aaaauugghh!”
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Guy trudged deliberately up the stairs as he considered what he was about to do. He would confess everything to Dunghill, then get out of Nottingham as fast as possible. He wondered how dangerous it would be to admit the truth, considering he’d covered up the Sheriff’s death for over half a day already. If only Dunghill could be bribed . . . Hmm, a nice cheese log? No . . . A shiny necklace? Not quite the thing. Then an idea came to him him - a way for him to save himself and get revenge on Marian all at once. He would promise her to Dunghill. He would wait for her to come back with the seal, and she would be given to him in marriage before she could protest. He would get to see her face as she realized what was about to happen to her. And it would not bother him one bit.
Dunghill probably wouldn’t know what to do with a woman, anyway; at least this way she would never be able to marry Hood. I’m certain she and Dunghill will be very happy together, he thought, clenching his teeth. Guy tried to picture what their children would be like, and smiled grimly. If they ever figured out how to make them . . .
Guy knocked on the door to the guest bedroom, where he heard a loud thud as if a sack of babies had just hit the floor. He threw open the door to discover Sir Phillip lying on his back on the floor, wearing his pyjamas (Jesu, was that a onesie?). His gangly limbs were sprawled out at odd angles, and he stared dazedly up at the ceiling. He’s dead!
He wasn’t dead. Guy, not being a physician, or, frankly, that bright of a fellow, could not at first see that Sir Phillip was indeed breathing heavily. That nobleman turned his head at Guy’s gasp upon seeing him on the floor. “Oh, good afternoon, Guy! Hee hee, your name is Guy.”
“I believe you made note of that before, Sir Phillip.” Guy stepped over to help the man to his feet. He looked even more ridiculous standing up. The pyjamas, Guy now noticed, were designed in the pattern of a dairy cow with little milk pails for fasteners. The man loves his dairy, thought Guy.
“I would have a word with you.” Guy swallowed hard. This was it. “The Sheriff - is dead.” There was no turning back from this now.
“Tired! Dead tired. He’s totally fagged. After last night, though, it’s hardly surprising.”
Guy whirled around at the sound of Allan’s voice. Actually, it was his own voice, but it was coming from Allan’s mouth. I was a fool to pay for those ventriloquism lessons, Guy thought bitterly. The Sheriff was right. He was right about everything, except maybe his theology, but then, it’s not as if it’s possible to prove anything one way or another, and besides, he had been really drunk. This was the most enlightened thought Guy ever had in his whole life, which is kind of sad if you think about it. So let’s just move on.
Guy’s manservant stood in the doorway, out of breath. Beside him stood Marian, looking triumphant and not penitent at all. I see she’s got her parrot back, Guy thought grimly.
“Guy! We came as soon as we could. We . . . got that . . . item . . . that you were looking for,” Marian blurted out. When she saw the stern look in his eyes, she felt a twinge of fear clutch at her heart like the grasp of Guy’s hand on her arm.
Phillip, unaware of the tension in the room, said, “Oh, dear. I do hope the Sheriff is going to be all right. Perhaps a nice Gouda would perk him up? That always helps me when I’m feeling worn out.”
“You’re too late, Marian,” Guy snarled, ignoring Phillip. “I know everything.”
Marian, used to Guy’s suspicions by now, widened her eyes to make herself look more innocent. Unfortunately, this act was only half as effective with one of her eyes covered with a patch. She flipped the patch up and then gave Guy her best guiltless countenance, this time with both eyes. “Guy, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” She glanced at Phillip warily. “Y-whay are-ay ou-yay oing-day is-thay?”
Guy, not being fluent in pig Latin, only stared at her as if she’d come unhinged. In reality, only her peg leg had come unhinged a bit during the ride home.
Seeing that he wasn’t following her meaning, she lowered her voice and murmered, “Perhaps we might discuss this tonight after dinner? In private?” She placed a hand on his arm, suggesting that there might be more fun bodily searches then, and this time for more than just ticks.
Guy was torn between the possiblity of getting to do that special thing he’d been wanting to do with Marian (and possibly Allan) and the pleasure of getting revenge on her for her betrayals. He knew that behind that eye patch and those sparkling blue eyes of hers there lay a devious serpent who was intent on poisoning his soul. But he also knew that her cleavage looked truly marvelous in that ridiculous buccaneer corset. He was glad he had stopped for some sexy alone time on the way home.
He held his breath as she and Allan seemed to do the same, waiting for his answer. Finally, he exhaled, and with that some of the evil humours seemed to leave his body. He would not let Dunghill have her. He would only be punishing himself then. And he wanted to punish Marian and Allan. Yes, he would discipline them both. Later.
“Very well, Marian. I will deal with you tonight. Both of you.” He gave her a pointed glare. Marian’s eyes widened, and Allan’s eyebrows flew up. They hesitated in the doorway.
“Forgive me, Sir Phillip,” Guy spoke apologetically, turning back to Phillip. “You wanted to speak with me?”
Marian and Allan exchanged relieved glances. It was easier now without the eye patch. She stealthily pressed the Sheriff’s seal into Guy’s palm, and she and Allan silently slipped out of the room.
“Yes, I would like to know when I may be married to Marian.” He giggled.
“Of . . . course. But I . . . Sir Phillip, I have something for you,” Guy spoke, slowly regaining his composure.
“Is it a present? I love presents!” Phillip exclaimed, clapping his hands together.
“Er, not exactly; I have the Sheriff’s seal for you. You will be able to depart once you have used it on Prince John’s parchment.”
“Oh. Oh! May I please push the seal down into the wax? I’ve been looking forward to it ever so much,” cried Phillip.
“Of course. I will have a servant fetch the wax for you.”
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Phillip had gleefully squished the wax down onto Prince John’s parchment with the Sheriff’s seal. His eyes were like saucers as he watched the gooey liquid oozing out around the ring. This was the best weekend of his life.
Marian, however, was not so happy as she watched her would-be fiancé (Phillip, just to be clear) with abhorrence. Why would Guy betray them to him? Had he discovered her Nightwatchman costume in her room? Or had he seen her with Robin? Or was he just tired of not acting evil? It had been a while since he’d cut out a peasant’s tongue or burned down someone’s house, she thought. But . . . kittens!
Guy would not even look at her, at least not at her face. He glared at Allan a few times, but Allan was doing his best to avoid meeting his master’s gaze; he suspected he was in for it once Sir Whatsit of Dungshire departed.
After the sealing ceremony was over, Guy barked to a nearby guard (seriously, where were they all morning?) to ready Sir Phillip’s carriage. His carriage was still ready from earlier that day, though, so the guard soon returned to them where they were waiting in the dining hall.
“My lord,” the harassed guard (whose name was Marvin, by the way) exhaled, out of breath after running to and from the stables, “the carriage is ready.”
“Very good.”
“But . . .” the guard timidly hazarded.
“NO. BUTS.” Guy gave him a dangerous look.
“B- b- b- . . .”
“What is wrong?” Marian asked, taking pity on him.
“B-but I’m afraid . . . Sir Phillip won’t be able to depart just yet,” the poor fellow stammered. A pox on Perceval. Why did he have to go and get anemia this weekend? I should be playing the Virgin Mary in the local Passion play right now.
“Why not?” Guy shouted, causing everyone in the room to take a step back from him.
“B-b-because - it’s snowing - like the dickens.” What exactly are dickens? Marvin wondered. Half-chicken, half dog? Not important now, Marvin, he told himself. “We’re snowed in.”
“We’re what?!” Guy, Marian and Allan all spouted at once.
“Snow’s been coming down hard for nigh on half an hour,” Marvin explained, “with not a sign of stoppin’. It’s an out-and-out blizzard, it is, beggin’ your pardon, my lord,” he finished, hanging his head before Guy, fearing his displeasure.
“A blizzard? I love blizzards!” Phillip exclaimed, clapping his hands excitedly. “I want to make snow angels.”
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Guy squinted with concern as he watched Phillip through a turret window. Prince John’s esteemed representative was busy flapping his arms and legs in the already thick layer of snow. I must give him due credit - he is actually quite skilled at making snow angels. He still looked fairly ridiculous in his fuzzy bovine-patterned hat with little ears. Guy had insisted he bundle himself up before going out in the cold. The last thing he needed was for the man to get sick and end up staying an entire fortnight instead of just one evening. He’d had enough of his ogling Marian and consuming the castle’s entire stock of cheese and breaking the guest beds and falling on his arse and making terrible puns.
Guy turned away from the window and faced Marian and Allan. Marian had exchanged her buccaneer kit for a sumptuous blue evening gown with golden brown fur trim; it had been a present from Guy, but she had never worn it until tonight. He noticed how much it brought out her . . . eyes. Allan seemed to notice, too, for he did not look up to face his master until Guy cleared his throat pointedly.
“Oh, good point, Giz.”
“I haven’t made one yet.”
“Uhhh . . . I meant to say, I’m sure you’re about to.”
Guy rolled his eyes. He had ignored their earlier interrogations, making them wait until his anger had time to simmer for a while. Their nagging questions, though, reverberated in his brain, spreading like ripples that did not serve to dissipate his rage. Guy, why did you tell him the Sheriff was dead? Guy, do you want to get us all killed? Guy, what is the matter with you? Guy, don’t you care about Nottingham? Guy, what else did you tell him? Guy . . . is Sir Phillip actually wearing a onesie?
He cleared his throat. “Shut up, both of you. I’ve had enough of your lies and betrayals.”
“Betrayals? You dare to speak of betrayals after you nearly called down Prince John’s army on all our heads?” Marian asked indignantly. “You’d better be glad the Nightwatchman isn’t here.”
“Oh, but he is. Or should I say ‘she.’” Guy was starting to enjoy this. Marian was actually squirming. Like a worm on a hook. A very pretty worm with an hourglass figure.
“Are you saying the Nightwatchman fights like a girl?” Allan asked in earnest.
Marian thudded him in the ribcage with her elbow. “Honestly, Allan. You’re almost as much a chauvenist as R-” she stopped herself.
“Robin?” Guy finished for her. “Funny, you seemed quite friendly with him earlier this afternoon.” He raised an eyebrow at her.
Marian felt as if a lump of cheese were stuck in her throat. No, not a lump of cheese! Stupid Phillip is infecting me with his ridiculousness. My heart is stuck in my throat. No, wait; that’s disgusting. “Guy, I can explain.”
“Go ahead.” Guy folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned back, looking down his nose at her.
“What?” Marian was taken aback.
“I said go ahead. Explain,” Guy prompted her. “I’m listening.”
Well, damn. She hadn’t expected that. Getting thrown in the dungeon, being burned at the stake, and being buried in a shallow, unmarked grave, she had expected. But this?
“Guy.”
“Marian.” A little smile crinkled up into the corners of his eyes. Damn him, he was taking pleasure in this! And he was. Except for the part where he was dying inside because she loved another. But still.
“Guy.” She searched for words, but nothing intelligent or helpful presented itself.
“Aw, leave ‘er alone, Giz! She’s had a tough day,” Allan spoke up.
“You will shut up. You are on my naughty list, too, my dear boy,” Guy seethed.
Marian looked from one man to the other as if hoping their faces would give her a hint as to what she should say to placate Guy. Then words came to her lips before she could stop them. “Robin and I broke up!” Marian blurted out.
“What?” Guy hadn’t expected this.
“It’s true - we were in love and engaged and I was going to go and live with him in the forest only I hate the forest because it’s cold and damp and Robin smells, and now we’re broken up,” she finished off with a sniff.
“Really.” There was a small twinge of hope in the word that Guy couldn’t quite keep out. It was almost a question.
“Yes. I mean, he doesn’t believe in personal hygiene. It’s unbearable,” Marian complained.
“You will still be punished,” Guy stated, but now there was a small flicker of kindness in his eyes. “Both of you.” Or it might have been sadism. It was hard to tell with Guy. Maybe it was both.
Marian touched his shoulder like a practiced surgeon. “Please, Guy. Surely you wouldn’t want to punish the only friends you have left, would you?”
Allan interjected, “Please, Marian, not all of us want to be hanged, alright? You’re not exactly helpin’, saying Guy hasn’t got any friends but us.”
“Well, he hasn’t!”
“Yeah, but that’s no reason to rub salt in the wound, eh?”
“SHUT UP!!!” Guy bellowed, causing Marian and Allan to jump back, startled. Marian stepped on a cricket and squashed it beneath her bedazzled slipper. Yes, this time it was the same one from before. RIP, nameless cricket. We’ll call you Davey.
“Shutting up,” Allan replied, actually disobeying the order in the process.
“As punishment for your many betrayals, you two will spend the night in the stocks.”
“Guy, please!” Marian began to protest before Guy held up his arm to silence her again.
“And,” he continued ominously, “you will be tickled. Continuously.”
Allan and Marian looked at each other in terror. Not . . . the dread Feather of Fear?!
End of Chapter Nine
Will Marian and Allan be able to get out of their punishment, or will Guy torture them endlessly? Will Phillip catch cold from playing in the snow? And will Davey’s life insurance policy cover acts of bedazzling?
Find out in the next chapter of “Weekend at Vasey’s”!
Chapter Ten
Guy stumbled away from the camp and sunk down on his side onto the frosted ground. He felt woozy; his head spun. Since he hadn’t eaten anything at lunch, he began to retch unsatisfyingly. Marian the Nightwatchman . . . Robin Hood . . . Allan . . . the crafty Saracen . . . Bonchurch, the sycophant with the absurd hat . . . that big one with the filthy hair . . . seriously, did he not understand the importance of a lustrous mane? Then there was . . . that other one . . . all of them there in the woods - working together, and probably more. It was revolting. He shuddered, finally noticing the cold.
Bits of remembered conversations attacked his brain. I don’t want to marry anyone. Lepers, Gisborne. Lepers. Without you, I no longer feel - quite whole. I’m charming you. An ‘ouch’ costs nothing. I’ll kiss him when I see him. You should be careful whom you listen to. Her heart belongs to another! Perhaps I am not the marrying kind. Grow up, Gisborne.
Guy attempted to stand up, slapping his palm against a tree to keep himself from falling. He blindly grasped for his horse’s reins and hoisted himself up into the saddle. The horse glanced back at him. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m having a hard day.” And now I’m concerned that my horse is silently judging me.
Guy drifted off as the horse began to trot aimlessly. Marian was the Nightwatchman. Marian and Hood were still in love. They had been laughing at him, just like the Sheriff had warned him. Her caresses had been nothing but lies cloaked in delicate skin. Smooth, kissable skin. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I love her. But I hate her.
Snowflakes stuck to his dark hair, his eyelashes, and the facial hair that was beginning to come in. He was so tired. So sleepy, so ready for bed, for death, for release. Suddenly he jerked the reins and propelled himself out of the saddle, nearly falling on his finely chiseled cheeks. He lay on his back and squinted into the sun, which was now making its descent in the grey winter sky.
Well, he thought, at least I’m finally somewhere where I won’t be disturbed. He tugged down his trousers and began to think about what would happen to Hood, Marian, Allan and the lot of them if Prince John’s army raized Nottingham. Maybe he should just tell Phillip the truth. After all, as a Black Knight, he might be spared. He was a shoe-in to be elected Treasurer at their next meeting, so he felt some measure of confidence in his influence. The thought filled him with satisfaction.
After a few moments of breathing heavily, observing the clouds of fog that puffed out of his mouth, he gingerly mounted his horse and rode.
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“Look, you’ve got your book now. Are you satisfied?” He paused as she looked down at the manuscript in her hands. “Marian . . . promise me nothing happened with Gisborne.”
“Robin!” she reproached him.
“Please.” There was an urgency in his tone that was usually reserved for matters of the crown.
“I can’t believe you’re asking me this.” Marian shook her head in disgust. “I have to take the seal back to the castle now.” She opened up the book and took out the seal, then held it up. “Now that is a nice ring.”
“What are you saying?” Robin asked, placing his hands on his hips.
“I’m saying . . . I’m leaving. We’ll talk about this another time.” Marian turned away from him and clutched at Allan’s hand.
Robin reached out and grasped her arm, jerking her back. “There may not be another time. What if Prince John finds out what happened, even with the seal? We can’t leave things unfinished. Not when I feel like talking!”
“Well, I don’t feel like it. I feel like riding. I could use some satisfaction,” Marian spat out acidly, massaging her sore arm.
“Oh, no she didn’t just say that!” Allan snapped his fingers for emphasis. “You just got told, Rob.”
“Shut up, Allan! You’re nothing but a dirty traitor!” Robin shouted. “You’re all . . . traitors!” The notorious outlaw was on the verge of a tantrum.
“Robin, please.” Marian pushed up her wig with her hook hand, nearly putting her lovely right eye out. Ow.
“No. I can’t take it anymore. You’re going to stay here with me, and that’s final!”
“It’s bloody freezin’!” Allan protested.
“Not you! Marian!” Robin shouted.
“No. Allan is right. It is freezing. And I am going back. And you can keep your ring.”
“Well?” Robin waited, expecting her to fling it in his face.
Marian shifted sheepishly on her peg leg. “Er . . . I forgot it.”
“Oh, brilliant. How am I gonna sell it off now?”
Much, huffing as he ran up behind Robin, cried, “You can’t keep it! It gives you sausage fingers!” Much had had his eye on that ring long before Robin gave it away to Marian. The hussy.
“Oh, why, thank you very much, Much,” Marian said sarcastically, rolling her visible eye. The other one rolled, too, but nobody could see it. Then she giggled almost hysterically. “Your name is Much!”
“It is, isn’t it?” Much replied, as if just noticing for the first time. “But what about the ring?”
“I’ll - send it to you, Robin.” Marian was on the verge of tears, but the stinging cold wind helped keep her right eye dry.
“Please, you can’t do this, Marian. I love you!” Robin cried.
“Not enough.” Suddenly, the image of Guy, standing half-clad in armor by a glowing fire entered her mind. She banished the thought immediately . . . almost immediately . . . and said, “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. We can’t go back to the way things were before you left, Robin.”
After a pause that felt as long as his absence in the Holy Land, Robin muttered, “I know.”
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Guy stormed into the castle, filled with a crackling new energy that was terrifying to the guards who were unlucky enough to find themselves in his path.
“My lord! Sir Phillip has awoken from his nap, and he’s asking for more cheese and wine!” one of them blurted out. Guy backhanded him for his troubles. Stupid guards! Now that he wanted them gone, they were all over the place.
After rubbing the bridge of his nose for a moment, he threw off his overcoat onto a sleeping servant and growled, “Take me to him.”
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Sir Phillip was enjoying himself immensely. He stretched out his arms after his luxurious nap, nestled snugly in the most elegant guest bedroom of the castle (except for Marian’s, but he didn’t know that.). His stomach started to rumble, so he called to a guard. Stomach rumbling was a sure sign of hunger, his mum had told him, although he didn’t feel particularly hungry after such a large lunch. Still, he thought a snack would surely stop the noises in his belly.
He yelled for a servant, and then stood up on the bed and began to jump up and down on it. Oh, this bed is ever so bouncy. Even better than the ones at home, he thought. Even better than that inflatable bladder castle at the yearly festival near Dunghill.
The servant, a young man not much older than Phillip himself, but not as fond of cheese (it gave him gas), lightly knocked on the door and then opened it. “You called, my lord?”
“Yes, I would like some more cheese, and some of that nice red wine, too,” that gentleman said. “And I would like to speak with Sir Guy. About Lady Marian,” he whispered the last part and winked at the servant, who nodded curtly and quickly closed the door.
“I’m going to be married!” Phillip shouted joyfully. “I’m going to have a wife! She’s so very pretty, and has such an uncommon way of dressing herself. I think I love her.” Phillip wasn’t really sure what one was supposed to do with a wife, actually, but he knew he wanted one. His cousin Julian had one, and he wasn’t about to be one-upped by that foolish sod. He also knew that the stork would not bring him any sons until he was married. The priest had told him so, and so had his mum, so it must be true.
He sighed. It was too bad his future wife wouldn’t be able to share his love of cheese. Then again, he thought, that will leave more for me. Bounce, bounce, bounce . . . “Aaaauugghh!”
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Guy trudged deliberately up the stairs as he considered what he was about to do. He would confess everything to Dunghill, then get out of Nottingham as fast as possible. He wondered how dangerous it would be to admit the truth, considering he’d covered up the Sheriff’s death for over half a day already. If only Dunghill could be bribed . . . Hmm, a nice cheese log? No . . . A shiny necklace? Not quite the thing. Then an idea came to him him - a way for him to save himself and get revenge on Marian all at once. He would promise her to Dunghill. He would wait for her to come back with the seal, and she would be given to him in marriage before she could protest. He would get to see her face as she realized what was about to happen to her. And it would not bother him one bit.
Dunghill probably wouldn’t know what to do with a woman, anyway; at least this way she would never be able to marry Hood. I’m certain she and Dunghill will be very happy together, he thought, clenching his teeth. Guy tried to picture what their children would be like, and smiled grimly. If they ever figured out how to make them . . .
Guy knocked on the door to the guest bedroom, where he heard a loud thud as if a sack of babies had just hit the floor. He threw open the door to discover Sir Phillip lying on his back on the floor, wearing his pyjamas (Jesu, was that a onesie?). His gangly limbs were sprawled out at odd angles, and he stared dazedly up at the ceiling. He’s dead!
He wasn’t dead. Guy, not being a physician, or, frankly, that bright of a fellow, could not at first see that Sir Phillip was indeed breathing heavily. That nobleman turned his head at Guy’s gasp upon seeing him on the floor. “Oh, good afternoon, Guy! Hee hee, your name is Guy.”
“I believe you made note of that before, Sir Phillip.” Guy stepped over to help the man to his feet. He looked even more ridiculous standing up. The pyjamas, Guy now noticed, were designed in the pattern of a dairy cow with little milk pails for fasteners. The man loves his dairy, thought Guy.
“I would have a word with you.” Guy swallowed hard. This was it. “The Sheriff - is dead.” There was no turning back from this now.
“Tired! Dead tired. He’s totally fagged. After last night, though, it’s hardly surprising.”
Guy whirled around at the sound of Allan’s voice. Actually, it was his own voice, but it was coming from Allan’s mouth. I was a fool to pay for those ventriloquism lessons, Guy thought bitterly. The Sheriff was right. He was right about everything, except maybe his theology, but then, it’s not as if it’s possible to prove anything one way or another, and besides, he had been really drunk. This was the most enlightened thought Guy ever had in his whole life, which is kind of sad if you think about it. So let’s just move on.
Guy’s manservant stood in the doorway, out of breath. Beside him stood Marian, looking triumphant and not penitent at all. I see she’s got her parrot back, Guy thought grimly.
“Guy! We came as soon as we could. We . . . got that . . . item . . . that you were looking for,” Marian blurted out. When she saw the stern look in his eyes, she felt a twinge of fear clutch at her heart like the grasp of Guy’s hand on her arm.
Phillip, unaware of the tension in the room, said, “Oh, dear. I do hope the Sheriff is going to be all right. Perhaps a nice Gouda would perk him up? That always helps me when I’m feeling worn out.”
“You’re too late, Marian,” Guy snarled, ignoring Phillip. “I know everything.”
Marian, used to Guy’s suspicions by now, widened her eyes to make herself look more innocent. Unfortunately, this act was only half as effective with one of her eyes covered with a patch. She flipped the patch up and then gave Guy her best guiltless countenance, this time with both eyes. “Guy, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” She glanced at Phillip warily. “Y-whay are-ay ou-yay oing-day is-thay?”
Guy, not being fluent in pig Latin, only stared at her as if she’d come unhinged. In reality, only her peg leg had come unhinged a bit during the ride home.
Seeing that he wasn’t following her meaning, she lowered her voice and murmered, “Perhaps we might discuss this tonight after dinner? In private?” She placed a hand on his arm, suggesting that there might be more fun bodily searches then, and this time for more than just ticks.
Guy was torn between the possiblity of getting to do that special thing he’d been wanting to do with Marian (and possibly Allan) and the pleasure of getting revenge on her for her betrayals. He knew that behind that eye patch and those sparkling blue eyes of hers there lay a devious serpent who was intent on poisoning his soul. But he also knew that her cleavage looked truly marvelous in that ridiculous buccaneer corset. He was glad he had stopped for some sexy alone time on the way home.
He held his breath as she and Allan seemed to do the same, waiting for his answer. Finally, he exhaled, and with that some of the evil humours seemed to leave his body. He would not let Dunghill have her. He would only be punishing himself then. And he wanted to punish Marian and Allan. Yes, he would discipline them both. Later.
“Very well, Marian. I will deal with you tonight. Both of you.” He gave her a pointed glare. Marian’s eyes widened, and Allan’s eyebrows flew up. They hesitated in the doorway.
“Forgive me, Sir Phillip,” Guy spoke apologetically, turning back to Phillip. “You wanted to speak with me?”
Marian and Allan exchanged relieved glances. It was easier now without the eye patch. She stealthily pressed the Sheriff’s seal into Guy’s palm, and she and Allan silently slipped out of the room.
“Yes, I would like to know when I may be married to Marian.” He giggled.
“Of . . . course. But I . . . Sir Phillip, I have something for you,” Guy spoke, slowly regaining his composure.
“Is it a present? I love presents!” Phillip exclaimed, clapping his hands together.
“Er, not exactly; I have the Sheriff’s seal for you. You will be able to depart once you have used it on Prince John’s parchment.”
“Oh. Oh! May I please push the seal down into the wax? I’ve been looking forward to it ever so much,” cried Phillip.
“Of course. I will have a servant fetch the wax for you.”
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Phillip had gleefully squished the wax down onto Prince John’s parchment with the Sheriff’s seal. His eyes were like saucers as he watched the gooey liquid oozing out around the ring. This was the best weekend of his life.
Marian, however, was not so happy as she watched her would-be fiancé (Phillip, just to be clear) with abhorrence. Why would Guy betray them to him? Had he discovered her Nightwatchman costume in her room? Or had he seen her with Robin? Or was he just tired of not acting evil? It had been a while since he’d cut out a peasant’s tongue or burned down someone’s house, she thought. But . . . kittens!
Guy would not even look at her, at least not at her face. He glared at Allan a few times, but Allan was doing his best to avoid meeting his master’s gaze; he suspected he was in for it once Sir Whatsit of Dungshire departed.
After the sealing ceremony was over, Guy barked to a nearby guard (seriously, where were they all morning?) to ready Sir Phillip’s carriage. His carriage was still ready from earlier that day, though, so the guard soon returned to them where they were waiting in the dining hall.
“My lord,” the harassed guard (whose name was Marvin, by the way) exhaled, out of breath after running to and from the stables, “the carriage is ready.”
“Very good.”
“But . . .” the guard timidly hazarded.
“NO. BUTS.” Guy gave him a dangerous look.
“B- b- b- . . .”
“What is wrong?” Marian asked, taking pity on him.
“B-but I’m afraid . . . Sir Phillip won’t be able to depart just yet,” the poor fellow stammered. A pox on Perceval. Why did he have to go and get anemia this weekend? I should be playing the Virgin Mary in the local Passion play right now.
“Why not?” Guy shouted, causing everyone in the room to take a step back from him.
“B-b-because - it’s snowing - like the dickens.” What exactly are dickens? Marvin wondered. Half-chicken, half dog? Not important now, Marvin, he told himself. “We’re snowed in.”
“We’re what?!” Guy, Marian and Allan all spouted at once.
“Snow’s been coming down hard for nigh on half an hour,” Marvin explained, “with not a sign of stoppin’. It’s an out-and-out blizzard, it is, beggin’ your pardon, my lord,” he finished, hanging his head before Guy, fearing his displeasure.
“A blizzard? I love blizzards!” Phillip exclaimed, clapping his hands excitedly. “I want to make snow angels.”
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Guy squinted with concern as he watched Phillip through a turret window. Prince John’s esteemed representative was busy flapping his arms and legs in the already thick layer of snow. I must give him due credit - he is actually quite skilled at making snow angels. He still looked fairly ridiculous in his fuzzy bovine-patterned hat with little ears. Guy had insisted he bundle himself up before going out in the cold. The last thing he needed was for the man to get sick and end up staying an entire fortnight instead of just one evening. He’d had enough of his ogling Marian and consuming the castle’s entire stock of cheese and breaking the guest beds and falling on his arse and making terrible puns.
Guy turned away from the window and faced Marian and Allan. Marian had exchanged her buccaneer kit for a sumptuous blue evening gown with golden brown fur trim; it had been a present from Guy, but she had never worn it until tonight. He noticed how much it brought out her . . . eyes. Allan seemed to notice, too, for he did not look up to face his master until Guy cleared his throat pointedly.
“Oh, good point, Giz.”
“I haven’t made one yet.”
“Uhhh . . . I meant to say, I’m sure you’re about to.”
Guy rolled his eyes. He had ignored their earlier interrogations, making them wait until his anger had time to simmer for a while. Their nagging questions, though, reverberated in his brain, spreading like ripples that did not serve to dissipate his rage. Guy, why did you tell him the Sheriff was dead? Guy, do you want to get us all killed? Guy, what is the matter with you? Guy, don’t you care about Nottingham? Guy, what else did you tell him? Guy . . . is Sir Phillip actually wearing a onesie?
He cleared his throat. “Shut up, both of you. I’ve had enough of your lies and betrayals.”
“Betrayals? You dare to speak of betrayals after you nearly called down Prince John’s army on all our heads?” Marian asked indignantly. “You’d better be glad the Nightwatchman isn’t here.”
“Oh, but he is. Or should I say ‘she.’” Guy was starting to enjoy this. Marian was actually squirming. Like a worm on a hook. A very pretty worm with an hourglass figure.
“Are you saying the Nightwatchman fights like a girl?” Allan asked in earnest.
Marian thudded him in the ribcage with her elbow. “Honestly, Allan. You’re almost as much a chauvenist as R-” she stopped herself.
“Robin?” Guy finished for her. “Funny, you seemed quite friendly with him earlier this afternoon.” He raised an eyebrow at her.
Marian felt as if a lump of cheese were stuck in her throat. No, not a lump of cheese! Stupid Phillip is infecting me with his ridiculousness. My heart is stuck in my throat. No, wait; that’s disgusting. “Guy, I can explain.”
“Go ahead.” Guy folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned back, looking down his nose at her.
“What?” Marian was taken aback.
“I said go ahead. Explain,” Guy prompted her. “I’m listening.”
Well, damn. She hadn’t expected that. Getting thrown in the dungeon, being burned at the stake, and being buried in a shallow, unmarked grave, she had expected. But this?
“Guy.”
“Marian.” A little smile crinkled up into the corners of his eyes. Damn him, he was taking pleasure in this! And he was. Except for the part where he was dying inside because she loved another. But still.
“Guy.” She searched for words, but nothing intelligent or helpful presented itself.
“Aw, leave ‘er alone, Giz! She’s had a tough day,” Allan spoke up.
“You will shut up. You are on my naughty list, too, my dear boy,” Guy seethed.
Marian looked from one man to the other as if hoping their faces would give her a hint as to what she should say to placate Guy. Then words came to her lips before she could stop them. “Robin and I broke up!” Marian blurted out.
“What?” Guy hadn’t expected this.
“It’s true - we were in love and engaged and I was going to go and live with him in the forest only I hate the forest because it’s cold and damp and Robin smells, and now we’re broken up,” she finished off with a sniff.
“Really.” There was a small twinge of hope in the word that Guy couldn’t quite keep out. It was almost a question.
“Yes. I mean, he doesn’t believe in personal hygiene. It’s unbearable,” Marian complained.
“You will still be punished,” Guy stated, but now there was a small flicker of kindness in his eyes. “Both of you.” Or it might have been sadism. It was hard to tell with Guy. Maybe it was both.
Marian touched his shoulder like a practiced surgeon. “Please, Guy. Surely you wouldn’t want to punish the only friends you have left, would you?”
Allan interjected, “Please, Marian, not all of us want to be hanged, alright? You’re not exactly helpin’, saying Guy hasn’t got any friends but us.”
“Well, he hasn’t!”
“Yeah, but that’s no reason to rub salt in the wound, eh?”
“SHUT UP!!!” Guy bellowed, causing Marian and Allan to jump back, startled. Marian stepped on a cricket and squashed it beneath her bedazzled slipper. Yes, this time it was the same one from before. RIP, nameless cricket. We’ll call you Davey.
“Shutting up,” Allan replied, actually disobeying the order in the process.
“As punishment for your many betrayals, you two will spend the night in the stocks.”
“Guy, please!” Marian began to protest before Guy held up his arm to silence her again.
“And,” he continued ominously, “you will be tickled. Continuously.”
Allan and Marian looked at each other in terror. Not . . . the dread Feather of Fear?!
End of Chapter Nine
Will Marian and Allan be able to get out of their punishment, or will Guy torture them endlessly? Will Phillip catch cold from playing in the snow? And will Davey’s life insurance policy cover acts of bedazzling?
Find out in the next chapter of “Weekend at Vasey’s”!
Chapter Ten