Chapter 29 | Guy of Gisborne
Istalked through the courtyard, agonizingly slow, twirling my thin blade in my hand. Peering around every corner—jumping out to find nothing there.
The cobblestones thudded under my heavy boots. I made my way around a stone fountain of an angel, peeked out the corner of my eyes, and continued on.
Creeping. Clicking my tongue. Pondering aloud, “Where could he be hiding, hmm?”
When I came to the hedgerows lining the edge of the estate, which fell away into a slightly wooded area beyond, I caught sight of a shock of curly red hair on the other side of the bushes.
Smirking, I continued on, evidently oblivious to my findings.
I continued tsking and clicking my tongue, as if calling a dog to heel. My sword swished through the air, catching an errant twig sticking out of the neatly trimmed hedges and snapping it.
A sharp gasp cut in behind me.
Smiling, I kept walking past the hedgerow. At a break in the line, I pushed through and meandered into the woods. I crept through them with lithe movements, gracefully shuffling through without stepping on a single branch or fallen leaf.
I made my way around to the back of the hedgerows from the long way, then hid behind a tree. My grin grew wider and crueler.
The boy stood not five paces away. He was ducking, staring out with an obstructed view through the bushes. Hiding as best he could. Completely unaware of my whereabouts.
Finally, in a dramatic motion, I jumped out from behind the tree and tapped my blade on his shoulder.
“There’s the young firehound. I have you.”
The lad spun around, shock registering on his face. The point of my sword stayed a hair’s breadth from his thin, supple neck. His freckles seemed to dance in the morning sunlight overhead.
It was a fine day in Nottingham. A finer day to catch young ragamuffins sleeping in the flowerbeds.
Our game was over. As usual, I was the victor.
The boy balled his hands into fists, little nose scrunching. “By all that’s good, Uncle Guy! You always catch me. How are you so good at that?”
His voice cracked as he finished. The whelp only came up to my waist, and hadn’t yet seen ten summers.
I sheathed my blade at my hip and crossed my arms. “It is what I was born to do, Sir Barry.” I crouched and tousled his hair, spreading my sinister grin once more. “Catch rapscallions.”
He beamed at me. “I want to do that, when I’m older.”
“I’m sure you will.”
The boy was, of course, not a knight. The “sir” was a way to make him feel important, because he had high dreams of becoming a champion who saved damsels. I hoped he could make it happen—his chances were high if he stayed with his noble guardians.
Boys could easily be led astray, however. I knew that well.
As if on cue, I saw a young couple approaching on the other side of the hedges, eyes scanning the courtyard as the pretty woman called out, “Barry, are you out here?”
Hidden in the bushes, Barry’s voice sounded like a muffled monster through the wreaths. “There is no one by that name out here, madam.”
The woman glanced at her paramour and smiled wryly. “Apologies, oh great creature of the deep. Is Sir Barry out here, perhaps?”
I guided the boy through the hedges by the shoulder, leading him to the cobblestones.
“I’m only teasing,” Barry said. He looked up at my dark countenance. “I was playing find-the-squire with Uncle Guy.”
I was not the boy’s uncle. Still, I saw no point in dashing his beliefs.
The woman crossed her arms and smiled at me. “Oh? And how did you fare, brave knight?”
Barry hung his head. “I got caught. As usual.”
The woman giggled. Her dark hair blew in the breeze, eyes glittering when they met mine.
Her husband looked to me, over my shoulder. His smile froze on his face, flipping to a frown. His body went tense as he murmured, “Sir Guy . . .”
I caught his tone and heard the boots behind me. Lifting my brow, I turned.
Six Nottingham soldiers approached, armed for battle.
“Who are they, Uncle Guy?” Barry asked.
Puckering my lips, I sighed. “Rapscallions, Sir Barry.” Then I crouched again, put my hand on his head, and pushed him along. “Go be with your parents now, lad. I’ll take care of this.”
“Will you be all right? Do you need assistance?”
I chuckled. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, boy.”
With that, Barry nodded and rushed away to join his guardians. His red hair flopped against his head. When he got to them, he asked, “When will I see you again, sir? It’s been too long.”
I stood to my full height, my black cloak swishing behind me. Aye. And I fear it will be even longer from here on out. “Soon,” I lied.
The woman and husband gave me stern nods, then turned away with the lad to retreat to their lavish manor on the hillside.
I wheeled around and crossed my arms over my chest. “What’s this all about, soldiers?”
They had splayed out in a shield wall, as if preparing for a brawl. One of them looked ready to piss himself, and another tried to hide his shaking hands.
These six were much more scared of me than I was of them. For good reason.
“S-Sir Guy of Gisborne,” said the front-most, young soldier, trying to stand tall. “You are under arrest for conspiring against the Sheriff of Nottingham.”
I SAT IN MY CELL WITH my feet propped up on a small table in front of me. The guards had given me preferential treatment with this larger cell, yet it still stank of a stale, damp jailhouse. The walls were cold stone, and the incessant dripping of water annoyed me to no end.
George kept me waiting for hours. I understood he was trying to frustrate me, and it worked.
Once he finally arrived, with two soldiers in tow, he stood at the gate on the other side of the bars.
“How the mighty have fallen, eh?” he mumbled, shaking his head.
Sheriff George looked crestfallen. For all his bluster and bravado, he stared at me like a stray brother. He confirmed his expression a moment later, saying, “You disappoint me, Guy.”
I stood from my bench and approached the gate, noticing how he backed up a step even though he had iron bars separating us and I was unarmed, while he had two swordsmen right next to him.
Some things died hard, including opinions and fears about Nottingham’s preeminent swordsman. If I wanted, I could have reached through the bars swift as a viper, clutched his collar, and slammed his head against them.
I could have killed the Sheriff of Nottingham before the two lads beside him would even be able to get their hands close to their swords.
Alas, I would never do that.
“Care to explain what this is all about, George?” I asked, tilting my head. I acted like I was more annoyed than anything—peeved I’d found myself in the same cell I had thrown countless others into during my time as Sheriff George’s right-hand man.
“You heard the charges against you,” George grunted.
“Aye. Conspiring. Quite vague, sir.” I drummed my fingers on my forearm. “Conspiring to do what against you, exactly?”
George quirked a smile, and then replaced it with a frown just as quickly. “I should have imagined you would deny it.”
I said nothing. He was testing my patience.
George’s eyes gleamed when he stared into mine, as if he was proud of himself for holding a secret over me, when I was typically the secret-keeper in these parts.
His face was one I had grown so accustomed to seeing over the years, yet I hadn’t gazed so close into his orbs in quite some time. I saw tiredness there, and the prevalence of a lost man. A man who needed to be fixed, in more ways than one, and only had one option for whom to fix him.
I had long ago accepted my fate that I might one day find myself in this room, if I pried too far. Perhaps it was my hubris that carried me forward.
George said, “While you were conniving against Bishop Sutton, Guy, I was also scheming.”
I perked a brow, trying not to show my surprise. How enterprising of you, George. You must have learned from the best.
“I sent men to infiltrate the Merry Men, following your cues to locate them.”
“That’s good,” I said, nodding.
“Aye.” George absentmindedly tapped the cell bars in front of him with his knuckles. “One of them came back, Guy. The sole survivor of an ill-conceived attack on the Merry Men. He told me the tale of what happened.”
He stopped talking, as if expecting me to fill the silence. We weren’t even close to the interrogation portion of this meeting, however, and I stayed quiet. Letting him ramble and feel proud of himself.
“Sutton was cut off en route to Ravenshead, through the northeastern pass. He was engaged in a brutal ambush, and captured. My messenger told me he witnessed the bishop tied to an oak tree in the Merry Men’s camp.”
I pursed my lips. “Is that so?”
George nodded hard, then smiled cruelly. “And who might have told Sutton to travel the eastern pass, and kept it poorly guarded, while bloating the useless western pass with countless soldiers? Well, as it happens, Sir Connor, the captain of my guard, told me.”
I blinked. “I imagine you’re going to tell me, in turn.”
He smiled that strange, sadistic smile of his, eyes going crazed. He pointed slowly through the bars, leaning forward to rest his forehead against them.
“It was you, Guy.”
“It was me, George.”
“You won’t deny it?”
“What’s the point? Your story sounds nice and tidy.”
His smile froze, nostrils flared. A tinge of anger swelled behind his eyes. “It’s not a story, Guy. It’s the truth. Admit it.”
“I did not conspire against you, Sheriff. I conspired against the Bishop of Ravenshead. That part is true.”
“In my city! He was under my protection, Guy!”
I shrugged. “The man was a cur and a false prophet. He was causing you more harm than good.”
“Who are you to say that to me, bastard?!”
George lost his temper in an instant. As he ever had.
“Any idea what the Merry Men want for Sutton in return?” I asked, tapping my chin while deflecting the subject away from me.
“The messenger had to escape before he saw Sutton’s fate—before a decision was made about his ransom. You needn’t worry about that, Guy, because you are in here. At my mercy.”
I smirked at him. “I’ve always been at your mercy, George.”
The Sheriff rolled his eyes. “So dramatic, Guy.”
I leaned forward, trying to rest my head against the bars, against his, but he popped up before I could.
“I have only ever tried to help you and work in your best interest, George. Whether that’s in the shadows or on the battlefield. You know that.”
“You betrayed me,” he scolded, spitting the words through gritted teeth. The man was becoming undone right before my eyes. “You made outlaws into allies, which makes you my enemy.”
“You’re better off without Sutton,” I explained. “You can be your own man again, George.”
“Sutton was a powerful, respected man. Now I must contend with his absence, while also dealing with the damned Knight Templar fool, Amadeus Montford. Do you think that self-righteous prick wants to listen to me whatsoever? No! He trusted Sutton, though, because he’s a holy man. Everyone trusted Sutton—”
“Except me.”
“Exactly!”
“I’m not wrong about him. The flesh trading, George? The hedging of your funds, draining of your coffers for his misdeeds and holy buildings? He’s simply a distraction.”
“You were simply jealous!” the Sheriff shouted. His voice echoed through the hall of the jailhouse.
His words struck me to the bone, harder than anything before it. George wasn’t wrong, though I’d never admit it.
Yes. I was jealous. I was jealous that he had taken your ear from me. That he whispered nothings to you and you listened to him, deciding not to trust me anymore.
We used to have a partnership. A relationship.
“With Sutton out of the picture,” I said lowly, “we can have what we once had, George. We can make Nottingham stronger under your rule—not under his.”
George slapped the bar in front of him, and I jolted.
With a growl, he spun around and marched away.
I called out to him before losing him. “I never turned against you, George. I fought for you. Don’t you see? Bishop Sutton was turning you into a stupid man. You need me, not Sutton. All I ever did was show my loyalty to you, in a way the bishop never could.”
The Sheriff froze, back to me. When he turned, his face softened for a flash, before going hard again. He did not reply to my lament.
I gripped the iron cage with both hands and stuck my head halfway through two bars. “What will you do with me?”
The Sheriff stopped at the door. “I’m still deciding your fate, Guy. You’ve made things complicated and difficult. It’s unfortunate our time together must end in treachery like this.”
“It doesn’t have to . . .”
George jabbed a finger toward me. He looked at me like I was a stranger, and that hurt most of all.
“I will leave you with this, Sir Guy of Gisborne. The Sheriff of Nottingham does not barter with thieves and brigands. No one can abduct a fucking bishop of England and get away with it without facing my wrath. The Merry Men can send their demands, yet I know where they are now. And if I have to march an army into that fucking forest and burn them out of their ramshackle homes, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.”