Sir Guy of Gisborne

Though dead, Guy sleeps. Though he sleeps far better than he used to in life, he is not untroubled by nightmares. The old familiar demons.

Somewhere between the realisation and decision that he would not be going back to sleep that night, brought him to the stables well before dawn, where he has been sitting with his back against the door of Marian's still unnamed stallion's stall.

The stallion has been taking little notice of Guy's reminiscences.

In his small room at the castle, it takes an ungodly amount of time to remove his leather jacket, on his own and without jostling the wound too much. Even so, Guy has to halt his progress a number of times till the more agonising waves of pain ebb slightly.

"IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK THAT YOU HOLD ON TO JUST ONE OF HOOD'S FILTHY IDIOT LACKEYS? HMM?"

The Sheriff's rage can be described as a good few leagues beyond apoplectic. The guard that Caspian overpowered has been...dealt with, but that has done nothing to quell the tide of furious muttering and pacing that Vaisey has been occupied with since the escape was discovered.

The remains of a crushed songbird lie on some of the day's paperwork.

Guy remains silent. There's little he can say that would make any difference.

The undershirt is awkwardly cut away. Guy can only really slice carefully down the front and then struggle somewhat out of the remains. At least it's not as stiff and heavy as the leather.

On the other hand, he'd had to keep it on until the bleeding had slowed under the cloth he'd pressed against the wound over the hole in the shirt. The result is that the shirt and the wound were somewhat stuck together.

The only way to remove his undershirt fully is to tear it from the wound, undoing what little repair his body has managed to work in the short time since he left the Sheriff's rooms.

That the blame is laid on Guy for Caspian's escape is not unexpected. What is unexpected, though not as surprising as it might be to another who had spent fewer years in Vaisey's service, is the blade ferociously driven into his shoulder.

The only blessing is that he doesn't twist the knife. It's a few more long minutes of raging before Guy's dismissed and he can escape into the hallway to try and push past the pain so he can do something about the injury.

He can only breath deeply through his nose with his teeth gritted so hard, and cursing is restricted to a mental litany of the most blasphemous sort. The flow of blood from his shoulder needs staunching again and it's some time before he figures it's safe to remove the bloody cloth so he can dab at the area gingerly in an attempt to clean it.

The slow work to clean the dried blood done, the next task is to sew the edges of the wound together. Thankfully the blade was sharp so the edges to the cut aren't too jagged - the scar will not be too ugly when it heals, provided his handiwork is competent enough. At least he will not have to contend with desert heat and sand that works its way into everything this time.

If the dark shape of the man passed out at the foot of a tree not too far from the lake looks like he stinks, it is probably because he does. Too much wine, beer and mead; all mingled up with stale sweat, anger and heartbreak.

The wine helps him sleep. The beer pushes him over into being so wasted he doesn't care anymore. The mead, mostly, is for a change from the monotony.

The rest is thanks to the nightmares of a foreign land, a woman who wouldn't love him and that moment, just after waking, when you remember everything.

His skin is cold and clammy to the touch.

It did not bode well, the faint sound of splashing emanating from the Sheriff's chambers.

Not well at all.

It foretold a horror to go with his failure to prevent the thieving scum of the forest from stealing yet another shipment of tax money.

Still. He would have to face it.

"DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT GISBORNE."

Or at least, keep his back to his employer or face to the side. The prospect of Vasey's nudity made sure that Guy's eyes were firmly averted.

"My lord, we now know the strongroom works. Stopped Hood dead in his tracks."

"NOT DEAD ENOUGH." Funny how even naked, the Sheriff could still rage at him from his position seated in the tub. "Stealing the money on the way here is one thing. Stealing it from under my nose is another. The Black Knights are coming, expecting their share out, Gisborne. At this rate THERE'LL BE NOTHING LEFT TO SHARE!"

Too late, Guy failed to foresee that the Sheriff would punctuate that exclamation by standing and looked away in disgust.

"Gisborne, I want him dead." Vasey paused briefly. "Meanwhile, how's your German?"

"German?" Was the Sheriff bringing in mercenaries? Surely he had not failed on that great a scale that mercenaries were being brought in?

Guy turned back to the Sheriff, warily, and then remembered. "Ahh, this guest you're expecting."

"Count Friedrich of Bavaria. He's one of the richest aristocrats in Europe by all accounts and stupid too, so you and he should get on. He also has a weakness for gambling."

It was making sense now.

"Your alterations to the Great Hall." Vasey was planning to make use of this Count's wealth.

"Yes. We will extend the Count every courtesy Gisborne. I've taken my bath six months early for a reason and then... we will take the inbred booby for all that he's got."



Guy could not let the preparations for Count Friedrich's arrival keep him from one task in particular though.

Hood knew of the strongroom.

Someone must have told him.

Only a few knew of its existence - the Sheriff and himself, of course. There were a few guards - who were at least bright enough to know that they could not betray their employer and get away with it...

...and there were the apprentices and workmen who had built it. Skilled men, undoubtedly...but they were peasants. Peasants who were easy to lead astray if their precious outlaw promised them their King would return to set things right.

And at least one of them was mouthy and greedy enough to try it on, when his men had rounded them up.

One of them must have let slip. His men would take care of them and if it was not them? Well, they would be an example.


The Great Hall looked impressive. It had been completely transformed into a gaming room and Guy barely heard the Sheriff's grand rousing speech for the servants as he looked around at it.

"Ah, Lady Marian."

Now that was one word guaranteed to catch Guy's attention and instinctively, he turned to see where she was.

She did not look happy, he noted, while at the same time carefully not noting how the pale green suited her complexion.

The Sheriff's suggestion that she show their guest a 'good time' had her looking at him briefly, wide-eyed in alarm. As if she expected him to object on her behalf.

She had no right to that now.

"Good idea." Was she surprised that he agreed? Guy decided that he did not care if she was.

He took the opportunity to study her, while the Sheriff enquired after her father. This was what he had hoped to marry. She was beautiful, yes, and spirited. She was intelligent enough.


She was a liar who had promised to fulfil a marriage vow to him only to leave him in the church.

"But what if he sees my heart isn't in it?" A poor excuse.

"Well then, pretend. Deception comes easily enough to you."

So did the outrage, which brought a flush across her skin at the Sheriff's suggestion that she buy a more risqué gown.

Guy easily caught the single coin the Sheriff deemed enough for Marian's new gown and flung it a short way down the nearest gaming table.

"Fetch."

It felt good to be cruel to her like this. It felt like he was in control again.