Weekend at Vasey's, Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
As soon as Robin Hood heard the click of Marian’s door closing, he scrambled out from beneath Marian’s bed, where he’d been hiding. He spat out the dust bunnies he’d inhaled and hissed, “Much!”
“Yes, Master?” whispered the tapestry.
“You can come out now.”
“Come out? What do you mean by that? I have no idea what you could mean!”
“I mean, they’re gone, so you can come out from there! Hurry up, we haven’t got much time!” Then Robin wondered if this was true. Marian, going to Gisborne’s room alone? He suspected she might need some more of his special brand of protection.
“Oh, yes, of course, Master. I’m . . . coming out now.” Much stepped out from behind the curtain. “But I still don’t understand why we couldn’t hide in the closet. There was room for both of us in there!”
“Come on, Much! Marian is with Gisborne, and she needs us to protect her.”
“I dunno, seems like she was doing just fine with him a minute ago,” Much replied. Can’t we just step into the closet to try it out? What if we need to hide in here again sometime?”
“Much! Not now!” Seeing his manservant’s hurt look, Robin added, “Perhaps later.”
“Very good, Master. All right, let’s go spy on Marian, then.”
“We’re not spying! We’re protecting!” Robin protested.
“Right, of course. Protecting with our eyes.” Much winked knowingly.
Robin pushed open the door and strutted down the hall of the castle he liked to think of as his own, and Much followed close behind him.
Robin stopped in front of Guy’s bedroom door. “Shh, they’re in here. Go keep watch by the stairs and I’ll sp- I mean, start protecting Marian.” Much hastened to the head of the stairs while Robin prodded the door open slightly. Somehow it did not creak, despite the fact that it was a very old, rusty, heavy door. Robin seemed to be blessed with such luck, which was good for him, because otherwise he would have long since been killed by his - let’s call it “daring.”
What he saw through the narrow crack in the door caused his jaw to drop in an almost painful manner. What was she letting Gisborne do to her?
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Allan was starting to wish he could trade places with the Sheriff. At least all his worldly troubles were over, even if he was currently burning in the hottest shire in hell for his nasty behavior. It could hardly be worse than lugging around a corpse of said Sheriff and impersonating his voice via ventriloquism. On top of everything else, I’m getting a raw throat, Allan thought, then tossed a log onto the dying fire of the dining room. He sighed. Ready, I guess.
He fetched Sir Phillip, who was getting a head start on lunch by nibbling at a hunk of Edam. He smiled happily at Allan, revealing his red-tinted teeth. He hadn’t really had time to get through the layer of wax yet, but the wax was still quite tasty. “The Sheriff is expecting you,” Allan informed him.
Allan stood by the Sheriff’s side during lunch. Fortunately, Phillip rarely looked up from his cheese and wine, which allowed Allan to occasionally take scraps from Vasey’s plate and feed them the dog under the table. Not so fortunately, the dog was more interested in gnawing on Vasey’s leg than he was in the cheese and mutton scraps that Allan was feeding him. Who was that bloke in the Bible who was hanged seventy-five feet high? They’d all set a new record once Prince John found out about this.
“My lord Sheriff, you certainly know how to set a fine table! This cheese is delec- . . . decletcab- . . . very tasty!”
“Thank you, my boy, glad you’re enjoying yourself. I’m going to have to give my servant Allan here a raise! Make sure to mention that to Gisborne when he comes, won’t you?” the “Sheriff” replied. This was not in my job description. Wonder if there’s a henchman’s guild in Nottinghamshire.
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“Right this way, my lady,” Guy said, smiling as he ushered Marian into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He quickly stashed the drawing of her in an open drawer, which he then quickly slammed shut.
Marian spun around quickly, almost catching him in the act. “Guy!”
“Yes, Marian?” he uttered in a deep voice, grasping her elbow gently.
“I need to speak with you.”
“Ye-es, I believe we already established that, did we not?” He grinned, enjoying her discomfiture a great deal. “I wish to ‘speak’ with you, too.” He took a step nearer, lowering his face toward hers.
Those blasted kittens. Marian hadn’t been able to get that image from earlier out of her mind. She lowered her lashes and found herself staring at Guy’s codpiece. What did he keep in there, anyway? Marian began to wish she were a little more acquainted with the ways of the world. Robin had never taught her anything other than kissing, and even then, his kisses weren’t in the infamous Norman style, like Guy’s hot and heavy ones. Kittens . . . mewling . . . and being rescued by Guy and the Nightwatchman . . . It was too much. Maybe this was a mistake.
Guy reached out his forefinger and lightly traced it along her jaw, then used it to softly tilt her chin back up to him. “Marian, about your ride with Sir Phillip today . . .”
Just then, Marian saw a slight movement out of the corner of her eye; she sensed that they were being watched, and she had a pretty good guess by whom. The desire to make that certain person squirm became an insurmountable temptation.
“Guy,” she interrupted, “first I have something I need you to do for me.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“Yes, Marian? What can I -” he brushed a stray curl off her powder-caked cheek, “- do for you?”
She whispered something in his ear, and he smirked. Oh, yes, she was going to make this an interesting game, wasn’t she? “If you insist, my lady.” He circled her neck with his hands then slid them down to her milky white back, touching nearly every inch of skin along the way. His hands reached up again and began kneading her scalp. “Is that to your liking?” he asked, but she only made little gasping sounds in reply.
He clasped her wrist, and she turned around for him, accidentally looking him in the eye in the process. She gulped. He placed his hands under her arms and slowly brought them down to her waist, causing little goosebumps to form on back of her neck. She could feel his hot breath there, which was doing nothing to make the goosebumps go away.
“Yes, Guy!” she moaned. He was reaching around her body towards the laces on her corset, when she suddenly turned around and pressed her back against the door, slamming it shut and pinching Robin’s nose in the process.
“Ow!” the outlaw cried from the corridor.
“Did you say something?” Guy asked as he placed his hands against the door above Marian’s shoulders.
“Uh, I said ‘Wow!’” she lied. At least, that’s what I was thinking. Damn. Now that Robin was no longer spying, though, she knew that it was time to get back to business, despite her curiosity about what Guy would do to her if she let him continue. Guy, however, did not look like he was thinking about business. “Guy, please -” she put her hand on his chest and pushed him back. Strangely, he did not look surprised.
Guy sighed in frustration, but only replied, “What is it, Marian?” He was going to have a lot of thinking to do tonight.
“First of all, thank you for checking me for ticks. I was riding in the forest earlier, and you know how they can jump. A physician once told me they can bite and cause imbalances in the humours.”
“I would be happy to look more closely if you like. They can get,” he looked down her dress brazenly, “under one’s clothing, too. Frightful creatures.”
She felt that perhaps she’d gone too far with the flirting this time. She had wanted to rub Robin’s nose in it, first for trying to spy on her by reading her diary, and then . . . for trying to spy on her again. And it had nothing to do with wanting Guy’s hands on her. Nothing.
“Guy, really.” She pursed her lips together primly and wondered why men had such a hard time controlling themselves. Again, she wished she knew more about men so that she could understand why they were unable to turn off their strange feelings as easily as she could. Then again, she could always go for a horse ride to relieve herself. “We’ve got to talk about the seal. I have a clue as to its whereabouts. Sir Phillip told me -”
Guy seized her right arm. “Oh, Sir Phillip told you, did he? And just what did you have to do to get him to do that?” Guy sneered.
“Nothing! I only batted my eyes a little and put my hand on his arm.”
Guy let go of her right arm and then clutched at her left one. “Oh, is that all? Because it seems you made quite an impression on the poor dolt. Did you also happen to agree to marry him?”
“What?” Marian gasped, astonished by Guy’s jealousy. Really, why was he so untrusting?
“Did you . . . agree . . . to marry Sir Phillip?” Guy said, slowly enunciating each word through clenched teeth.
“Marry . . . Sir Phillip? I don’t understand,” she said, honestly confused.
“Dunghill wants you for his wife. He’s asked for your hand.”
“He asked the Sheriff?”
“No, he asked me.”
“You don’t have permission to grant my hand to anyone!” Marian cried.
“May I remind you that the Sheriff is dead?” Guy yelled. Then, regaining some of his composure, he added, “Besides, I haven’t exactly told him yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“I couldn’t outright refuse him. We can’t risk making him angry, especially not while we still don’t have the seal,” Guy explained. “But I promise you, he’s not going to take you anywhere,” he growled in his growly voice.
“Pardon? You have no right to decide whom I marry!” Marian cried.
“Then you do want to marry him?” Guy nearly choked on the words.
“Marry Robin Hood? Of course not!”
“Robin Hood? No, I meant Sir Phillip!” Guy said, wondering if he would ever understand the inner workings of her mind.
“Oh! Yes. Of course.” Marian blushed for a moment. Why had she said that?
“Then . . . you don’t want to marry Dunghill?” Guy asked tentatively, thinking perhaps he ought to have been checking her for head injuries instead of ticks.
“No, of course not! Guy, I don’t want to marry anybody,” she said, for extra emphasis, thinking how true it was. Wait, what? I’m engaged to Robin. I want to marry him. Truly. Those nightmares about raising bow-wielding, smug-faced brats in the forest were just . . . dreams.
“You don’t mean that,” Guy said, his eyes conveying how she had wounded him. “I mean, about not wanting to marry anybody, not about not wanting to marry Dunghill.”
“Oh, I only meant that - of all the men who have asked me - I mean, of all the men who are currently - I mean, I don’t want to get married right now. That’s all.” She was starting to wish Allan would interrupt them again. This wasn’t going at all like she’d planned. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, that’s not important. About the seal - I think the Sheriff kept it in a book somewhere.”
“What book?”
“If I knew, I would have the seal already.”
“Well, what else did Dunghill say?” Guy asked, finally taking his eyes off her busoms, between which was nestled a vial of what appeared to be blood. It had been a gift with the purchase of her dress at Haute Taupicks.
“He said there’s some kind of secret compartment inside the book that contains the seal. Where does the Sheriff keep his books?”
Guy laughed until the tears came. “Books?”
“Yes, what’s so funny?”
“Books. Fancy the Sheriff, reading about King Arthur by candlelight. Oh, Marian.” He lightly grasped her shoulder with one hand and wiped the tears away with the other. She cracked the slightest hint of a smile at the sight of the dour Sir Guy laughing like . . . like Allan.
“Then he does not have any books?”
“He does not have any books. Only a few sketches of me that I would rather not talk about,” Guy answered.
“But he must have. Sir Phillip said there was a book!”
“Yes, but Sir Phillip is . . . shall we say that his parents probably had to get a papal dispensation to marry because of consanguinity?” Guy jeered. “He might be wrong.”
“I don’t think so this time. He said Jasper told him about it.”
“And what if Jasper is as big an imbecile as his cousin?” Guy asked.
“I have a feeling about this, Guy. Aren’t there any books in the castle?”
“The only ones I’ve seen are in your room.”
“What do you mean? The ones on my bookshelf? But they’re mine, and none of them have secret compartments,” Marian replied.
“I don’t suppose the Sheriff would have hidden it there, anyway.”
“Yes, I doubt it. Did he leave you no clue about its hiding place?”
“He only said I would never find it. And that you would never - I mean - nothing.”
“I would never what?” Marian asked suspiciously.
“Never . . . find it, either,” Guy finished lamely.
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Robin and Much were making their way out of the castle. Or, rather, Much was dragging his dejected master by the arm. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here before the guards see us!”
“I don’t care if they do see us.”
“Nonsense! You don’t want to be hanged, do you?”
“You didn’t see what he was doing to her. And she liked it,” Robin said, pouting.
“Well, then . . . what about me? You don’t want me to be hanged, do you?” Much asked, not entirely sure what the answer would be.
He didn’t get a chance to find out, though, because at that moment, a guard finally did come walking through the corridor, and they had to duck into the closest room, which happened to be Marian’s. Apparently Robin’s sense of self-preservation had not left him entirely.
“I should have just let the guard take me,” Robin said, plopping himself down on Marian’s bed, resting his chin on his fists.
“Master, you don’t mean that!” Much exclaimed. “If you did, you would go out into the hall right now and let him arrest you.”
“Shut up, Much!”
“Sorry, Master, but it’s true.”
“I said, shut up!” Robin continued pouting for a moment, then his eyes started to fix on Marian’s desk, which was right in his line of sight. “Hmm. Maybe this doesn’t have to be an entirely wasted venture.” He stood up and walked over to the desk, fingering some of Marian’s papers and trinkets that hadn’t been smashed in the fight with Gisborne.
“Master, what are you doing? You’re not still thinking about reading her diary after all this, are you?” Much asked, exasperated.
“Of course! It’s the only way I can be sure she’s safe from Gisborne,” Robin replied.
“Wait, how does that work again?”
“If I read her diary, I know what she’s thinking. And if I know what she’s thinking, I can make sure she’s not thinking any thoughts that could be dangerous! And if she is, I can make her change her mind, see reason.”
“Uhh . . . yes, Master, that is quite . . . ehhh . . .” Much stammered.
Robin ignored him and begain rifling through the desk. He sifted through stacks of letters, but none of them contained any pertinent information. He tossed aside her collection of jewel-encrusted knives and then got his hand stuck to a wad of chewing gum. Still no diary. Where could she be hiding it? And why was Marian such a pig about her chewing gum?
“Master, hurry! They could be back any moment!” Much hissed, fidgeting by the door.
Robin slammed his fist down on the bottom of the lowest drawer. Suddenly a panel popped open, and he pulled it back to reveal a book with an exquisite illustration on the cover. He was about to open it when Much whispered, “They’re coming! We have to go now!”
Robin looked down at the book, then back up at Much. Frowning, he shoved it into his satchel (It was not a purse! Purses have bows and things!) and ran out the door that Much was holding open. They ran down the stairs, punched out a couple of guards who were finally making their way back from lunch, then sneaked through the portcullis, where the guards were enjoying their noontime nap.
They stole a couple of horses from a merchant (he was probably corrupt, anyway) and rode back to the camp, leaving poor, defenseless Marian in the clutches of the evil Guy of Gisborne.
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Guy escorted Marian down to the dining hall where Phillip and Vasey were waiting for them. Well, Phillip was mostly absorbed in eating, while Vasey was fully dead, so perhaps one should say that Allan was waiting for them. As they entered the hall, that young man, who had broken out into a sweat and nearly stopped breathing, exhaled deeply. The slight movement was enough to cause Vasey’s torso to fall forward. His face plopped into his soup and created quite a mess.
“Oh, dear!” Phillip said between chews.
“It’s quite all right, my lord,” Allan muttered as he leaped forward to pull Vasey’s cranium out of the minestrone, which, frankly, was a little watery that day. “Sheriff’s just very tired this morning, what with the, uh, squirrels, and all. Keep him up at nights, they do.”
“Oh, squirrels! Ghastly beasts,” sympathized Phillip. “The priest at Dunghill says they are all the devil’s min- . . . min- . . . helpers. Wise chap, the priest is. Taught me everything I know about nature.”
“I’m sure he is, Sir Phillip,” Guy assured him, stepping forward to block his view of the Sheriff while Allan cleaned the rather thin soup off the corpse’s face. Marian said nothing to Phillip, but only nodded at him politely and took a seat near the Sheriff.
Lunch was a sordid affair, and Vasey’s presence only served to make it more so. Marian and Guy both looked down at their untouched plates in disgust as they tried to ignore Phillip’s cow-like mastications and his intermittent sheepish glances at the lady he hoped would soon be his bride.
Once it was finally over and Vasey had been carried upstairs for his “nap,” Marian trotted down to the kitchen to fill her empty stomach without Phillip’s loud chewing. Guy, meanwhile, was thinking of swiping a loaf of bread to feed Vasey’s birds, but didn’t want to risk asking the servants for it, and Allan was busy taking the dead Sheriff upstairs; thus, he entered the kitchen just in time to find Marian filling a bowl with leftover pudding.
“Guy! I was just -”
“I noticed you didn’t eat anything at lunch, either. I was just going to get something to feed the Sheriff’s birds. They probably haven’t been fed in days,” Guy said, placing his hand on Marian’s arm. “And you’re going to need your strength. I don’t want to interrupt you.”
Marian smiled and started to walk out of the kitchen. When her hand was on the door, she whirled around suddenly. “Guy, what made you think of feeding the Sheriff’s birds? With all that’s been going on, surely you would hardly have time to think of such a little thing.”
“As a matter of fact, it was your book that made me think of it.”
“My book?”
“Yes, your copy of The Birds; I, er, found it in your desk drawer. Accidentally.”
“Guy, I don’t own a copy of The Birds.”
They both looked up slowly and stared at each other for a moment. Guy caught another peek at her cleavage, too, and Marian couldn’t resist a second glance at his codpiece, but then their gazes were definitely locked.
“Guy.”
“Marian.”
“Guy.”
“Marian?”
“Guy!” Marian exclaimed. “The book!”
“The book!” Guy shouted, grabbing her arm. “It’s got the seal in it.”
“Where did you leave it?” Marian asked, alarmed.
“I put it back in your desk, right where I found it,” Guy uttered, bringing his lips close to her ear.
“Then we’ve got to fetch it immediately!” Marian shouted, causing Guy to wince and step back.
“You should eat something first.”
“I’ll bring it with me.”
“You’ll spill it down your dress.”
“Why were you searching my room, again?” Marian asked, raising her right eyebrow, which had been filled in with a charcoal pencil.
Guy gulped visibly. “You’re right. We’ll both go now.”
They both turned and fled the kitchen, making for Marian’s bedroom.
Marian pulled open the door, relieved to see that Robin and Much were apparently gone. She and Guy looked down at her open desk drawer.
“You didn’t shut the drawer when you put the book back? Didn’t you think I’d notice?” Marian asked.
“I did close it. I’m sure of it,” Guy growled.
“But it’s open now!”
Guy leaned down on one knee and examined the drawer, and then he noticed that the secret panel was open.
“It’s gone.”
“Gone? How can it be -” Marian paused, realizing how it could be gone.
Guy nodded. “Hood. He’s taken it with him, and now we’re all going to die for sure.”
End of Chapter Seven
Oh, no! Will Guy get the seal back from Robin? Will the birds ever get to eat? Will Marian get Lyme Disease? Find out in the next installment of “Weekend at Vasey’s”!
Chapter Eight
As soon as Robin Hood heard the click of Marian’s door closing, he scrambled out from beneath Marian’s bed, where he’d been hiding. He spat out the dust bunnies he’d inhaled and hissed, “Much!”
“Yes, Master?” whispered the tapestry.
“You can come out now.”
“Come out? What do you mean by that? I have no idea what you could mean!”
“I mean, they’re gone, so you can come out from there! Hurry up, we haven’t got much time!” Then Robin wondered if this was true. Marian, going to Gisborne’s room alone? He suspected she might need some more of his special brand of protection.
“Oh, yes, of course, Master. I’m . . . coming out now.” Much stepped out from behind the curtain. “But I still don’t understand why we couldn’t hide in the closet. There was room for both of us in there!”
“Come on, Much! Marian is with Gisborne, and she needs us to protect her.”
“I dunno, seems like she was doing just fine with him a minute ago,” Much replied. Can’t we just step into the closet to try it out? What if we need to hide in here again sometime?”
“Much! Not now!” Seeing his manservant’s hurt look, Robin added, “Perhaps later.”
“Very good, Master. All right, let’s go spy on Marian, then.”
“We’re not spying! We’re protecting!” Robin protested.
“Right, of course. Protecting with our eyes.” Much winked knowingly.
Robin pushed open the door and strutted down the hall of the castle he liked to think of as his own, and Much followed close behind him.
Robin stopped in front of Guy’s bedroom door. “Shh, they’re in here. Go keep watch by the stairs and I’ll sp- I mean, start protecting Marian.” Much hastened to the head of the stairs while Robin prodded the door open slightly. Somehow it did not creak, despite the fact that it was a very old, rusty, heavy door. Robin seemed to be blessed with such luck, which was good for him, because otherwise he would have long since been killed by his - let’s call it “daring.”
What he saw through the narrow crack in the door caused his jaw to drop in an almost painful manner. What was she letting Gisborne do to her?
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Allan was starting to wish he could trade places with the Sheriff. At least all his worldly troubles were over, even if he was currently burning in the hottest shire in hell for his nasty behavior. It could hardly be worse than lugging around a corpse of said Sheriff and impersonating his voice via ventriloquism. On top of everything else, I’m getting a raw throat, Allan thought, then tossed a log onto the dying fire of the dining room. He sighed. Ready, I guess.
He fetched Sir Phillip, who was getting a head start on lunch by nibbling at a hunk of Edam. He smiled happily at Allan, revealing his red-tinted teeth. He hadn’t really had time to get through the layer of wax yet, but the wax was still quite tasty. “The Sheriff is expecting you,” Allan informed him.
Allan stood by the Sheriff’s side during lunch. Fortunately, Phillip rarely looked up from his cheese and wine, which allowed Allan to occasionally take scraps from Vasey’s plate and feed them the dog under the table. Not so fortunately, the dog was more interested in gnawing on Vasey’s leg than he was in the cheese and mutton scraps that Allan was feeding him. Who was that bloke in the Bible who was hanged seventy-five feet high? They’d all set a new record once Prince John found out about this.
“My lord Sheriff, you certainly know how to set a fine table! This cheese is delec- . . . decletcab- . . . very tasty!”
“Thank you, my boy, glad you’re enjoying yourself. I’m going to have to give my servant Allan here a raise! Make sure to mention that to Gisborne when he comes, won’t you?” the “Sheriff” replied. This was not in my job description. Wonder if there’s a henchman’s guild in Nottinghamshire.
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“Right this way, my lady,” Guy said, smiling as he ushered Marian into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He quickly stashed the drawing of her in an open drawer, which he then quickly slammed shut.
Marian spun around quickly, almost catching him in the act. “Guy!”
“Yes, Marian?” he uttered in a deep voice, grasping her elbow gently.
“I need to speak with you.”
“Ye-es, I believe we already established that, did we not?” He grinned, enjoying her discomfiture a great deal. “I wish to ‘speak’ with you, too.” He took a step nearer, lowering his face toward hers.
Those blasted kittens. Marian hadn’t been able to get that image from earlier out of her mind. She lowered her lashes and found herself staring at Guy’s codpiece. What did he keep in there, anyway? Marian began to wish she were a little more acquainted with the ways of the world. Robin had never taught her anything other than kissing, and even then, his kisses weren’t in the infamous Norman style, like Guy’s hot and heavy ones. Kittens . . . mewling . . . and being rescued by Guy and the Nightwatchman . . . It was too much. Maybe this was a mistake.
Guy reached out his forefinger and lightly traced it along her jaw, then used it to softly tilt her chin back up to him. “Marian, about your ride with Sir Phillip today . . .”
Just then, Marian saw a slight movement out of the corner of her eye; she sensed that they were being watched, and she had a pretty good guess by whom. The desire to make that certain person squirm became an insurmountable temptation.
“Guy,” she interrupted, “first I have something I need you to do for me.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“Yes, Marian? What can I -” he brushed a stray curl off her powder-caked cheek, “- do for you?”
She whispered something in his ear, and he smirked. Oh, yes, she was going to make this an interesting game, wasn’t she? “If you insist, my lady.” He circled her neck with his hands then slid them down to her milky white back, touching nearly every inch of skin along the way. His hands reached up again and began kneading her scalp. “Is that to your liking?” he asked, but she only made little gasping sounds in reply.
He clasped her wrist, and she turned around for him, accidentally looking him in the eye in the process. She gulped. He placed his hands under her arms and slowly brought them down to her waist, causing little goosebumps to form on back of her neck. She could feel his hot breath there, which was doing nothing to make the goosebumps go away.
“Yes, Guy!” she moaned. He was reaching around her body towards the laces on her corset, when she suddenly turned around and pressed her back against the door, slamming it shut and pinching Robin’s nose in the process.
“Ow!” the outlaw cried from the corridor.
“Did you say something?” Guy asked as he placed his hands against the door above Marian’s shoulders.
“Uh, I said ‘Wow!’” she lied. At least, that’s what I was thinking. Damn. Now that Robin was no longer spying, though, she knew that it was time to get back to business, despite her curiosity about what Guy would do to her if she let him continue. Guy, however, did not look like he was thinking about business. “Guy, please -” she put her hand on his chest and pushed him back. Strangely, he did not look surprised.
Guy sighed in frustration, but only replied, “What is it, Marian?” He was going to have a lot of thinking to do tonight.
“First of all, thank you for checking me for ticks. I was riding in the forest earlier, and you know how they can jump. A physician once told me they can bite and cause imbalances in the humours.”
“I would be happy to look more closely if you like. They can get,” he looked down her dress brazenly, “under one’s clothing, too. Frightful creatures.”
She felt that perhaps she’d gone too far with the flirting this time. She had wanted to rub Robin’s nose in it, first for trying to spy on her by reading her diary, and then . . . for trying to spy on her again. And it had nothing to do with wanting Guy’s hands on her. Nothing.
“Guy, really.” She pursed her lips together primly and wondered why men had such a hard time controlling themselves. Again, she wished she knew more about men so that she could understand why they were unable to turn off their strange feelings as easily as she could. Then again, she could always go for a horse ride to relieve herself. “We’ve got to talk about the seal. I have a clue as to its whereabouts. Sir Phillip told me -”
Guy seized her right arm. “Oh, Sir Phillip told you, did he? And just what did you have to do to get him to do that?” Guy sneered.
“Nothing! I only batted my eyes a little and put my hand on his arm.”
Guy let go of her right arm and then clutched at her left one. “Oh, is that all? Because it seems you made quite an impression on the poor dolt. Did you also happen to agree to marry him?”
“What?” Marian gasped, astonished by Guy’s jealousy. Really, why was he so untrusting?
“Did you . . . agree . . . to marry Sir Phillip?” Guy said, slowly enunciating each word through clenched teeth.
“Marry . . . Sir Phillip? I don’t understand,” she said, honestly confused.
“Dunghill wants you for his wife. He’s asked for your hand.”
“He asked the Sheriff?”
“No, he asked me.”
“You don’t have permission to grant my hand to anyone!” Marian cried.
“May I remind you that the Sheriff is dead?” Guy yelled. Then, regaining some of his composure, he added, “Besides, I haven’t exactly told him yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“I couldn’t outright refuse him. We can’t risk making him angry, especially not while we still don’t have the seal,” Guy explained. “But I promise you, he’s not going to take you anywhere,” he growled in his growly voice.
“Pardon? You have no right to decide whom I marry!” Marian cried.
“Then you do want to marry him?” Guy nearly choked on the words.
“Marry Robin Hood? Of course not!”
“Robin Hood? No, I meant Sir Phillip!” Guy said, wondering if he would ever understand the inner workings of her mind.
“Oh! Yes. Of course.” Marian blushed for a moment. Why had she said that?
“Then . . . you don’t want to marry Dunghill?” Guy asked tentatively, thinking perhaps he ought to have been checking her for head injuries instead of ticks.
“No, of course not! Guy, I don’t want to marry anybody,” she said, for extra emphasis, thinking how true it was. Wait, what? I’m engaged to Robin. I want to marry him. Truly. Those nightmares about raising bow-wielding, smug-faced brats in the forest were just . . . dreams.
“You don’t mean that,” Guy said, his eyes conveying how she had wounded him. “I mean, about not wanting to marry anybody, not about not wanting to marry Dunghill.”
“Oh, I only meant that - of all the men who have asked me - I mean, of all the men who are currently - I mean, I don’t want to get married right now. That’s all.” She was starting to wish Allan would interrupt them again. This wasn’t going at all like she’d planned. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, that’s not important. About the seal - I think the Sheriff kept it in a book somewhere.”
“What book?”
“If I knew, I would have the seal already.”
“Well, what else did Dunghill say?” Guy asked, finally taking his eyes off her busoms, between which was nestled a vial of what appeared to be blood. It had been a gift with the purchase of her dress at Haute Taupicks.
“He said there’s some kind of secret compartment inside the book that contains the seal. Where does the Sheriff keep his books?”
Guy laughed until the tears came. “Books?”
“Yes, what’s so funny?”
“Books. Fancy the Sheriff, reading about King Arthur by candlelight. Oh, Marian.” He lightly grasped her shoulder with one hand and wiped the tears away with the other. She cracked the slightest hint of a smile at the sight of the dour Sir Guy laughing like . . . like Allan.
“Then he does not have any books?”
“He does not have any books. Only a few sketches of me that I would rather not talk about,” Guy answered.
“But he must have. Sir Phillip said there was a book!”
“Yes, but Sir Phillip is . . . shall we say that his parents probably had to get a papal dispensation to marry because of consanguinity?” Guy jeered. “He might be wrong.”
“I don’t think so this time. He said Jasper told him about it.”
“And what if Jasper is as big an imbecile as his cousin?” Guy asked.
“I have a feeling about this, Guy. Aren’t there any books in the castle?”
“The only ones I’ve seen are in your room.”
“What do you mean? The ones on my bookshelf? But they’re mine, and none of them have secret compartments,” Marian replied.
“I don’t suppose the Sheriff would have hidden it there, anyway.”
“Yes, I doubt it. Did he leave you no clue about its hiding place?”
“He only said I would never find it. And that you would never - I mean - nothing.”
“I would never what?” Marian asked suspiciously.
“Never . . . find it, either,” Guy finished lamely.
************************************************************************
Robin and Much were making their way out of the castle. Or, rather, Much was dragging his dejected master by the arm. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here before the guards see us!”
“I don’t care if they do see us.”
“Nonsense! You don’t want to be hanged, do you?”
“You didn’t see what he was doing to her. And she liked it,” Robin said, pouting.
“Well, then . . . what about me? You don’t want me to be hanged, do you?” Much asked, not entirely sure what the answer would be.
He didn’t get a chance to find out, though, because at that moment, a guard finally did come walking through the corridor, and they had to duck into the closest room, which happened to be Marian’s. Apparently Robin’s sense of self-preservation had not left him entirely.
“I should have just let the guard take me,” Robin said, plopping himself down on Marian’s bed, resting his chin on his fists.
“Master, you don’t mean that!” Much exclaimed. “If you did, you would go out into the hall right now and let him arrest you.”
“Shut up, Much!”
“Sorry, Master, but it’s true.”
“I said, shut up!” Robin continued pouting for a moment, then his eyes started to fix on Marian’s desk, which was right in his line of sight. “Hmm. Maybe this doesn’t have to be an entirely wasted venture.” He stood up and walked over to the desk, fingering some of Marian’s papers and trinkets that hadn’t been smashed in the fight with Gisborne.
“Master, what are you doing? You’re not still thinking about reading her diary after all this, are you?” Much asked, exasperated.
“Of course! It’s the only way I can be sure she’s safe from Gisborne,” Robin replied.
“Wait, how does that work again?”
“If I read her diary, I know what she’s thinking. And if I know what she’s thinking, I can make sure she’s not thinking any thoughts that could be dangerous! And if she is, I can make her change her mind, see reason.”
“Uhh . . . yes, Master, that is quite . . . ehhh . . .” Much stammered.
Robin ignored him and begain rifling through the desk. He sifted through stacks of letters, but none of them contained any pertinent information. He tossed aside her collection of jewel-encrusted knives and then got his hand stuck to a wad of chewing gum. Still no diary. Where could she be hiding it? And why was Marian such a pig about her chewing gum?
“Master, hurry! They could be back any moment!” Much hissed, fidgeting by the door.
Robin slammed his fist down on the bottom of the lowest drawer. Suddenly a panel popped open, and he pulled it back to reveal a book with an exquisite illustration on the cover. He was about to open it when Much whispered, “They’re coming! We have to go now!”
Robin looked down at the book, then back up at Much. Frowning, he shoved it into his satchel (It was not a purse! Purses have bows and things!) and ran out the door that Much was holding open. They ran down the stairs, punched out a couple of guards who were finally making their way back from lunch, then sneaked through the portcullis, where the guards were enjoying their noontime nap.
They stole a couple of horses from a merchant (he was probably corrupt, anyway) and rode back to the camp, leaving poor, defenseless Marian in the clutches of the evil Guy of Gisborne.
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Guy escorted Marian down to the dining hall where Phillip and Vasey were waiting for them. Well, Phillip was mostly absorbed in eating, while Vasey was fully dead, so perhaps one should say that Allan was waiting for them. As they entered the hall, that young man, who had broken out into a sweat and nearly stopped breathing, exhaled deeply. The slight movement was enough to cause Vasey’s torso to fall forward. His face plopped into his soup and created quite a mess.
“Oh, dear!” Phillip said between chews.
“It’s quite all right, my lord,” Allan muttered as he leaped forward to pull Vasey’s cranium out of the minestrone, which, frankly, was a little watery that day. “Sheriff’s just very tired this morning, what with the, uh, squirrels, and all. Keep him up at nights, they do.”
“Oh, squirrels! Ghastly beasts,” sympathized Phillip. “The priest at Dunghill says they are all the devil’s min- . . . min- . . . helpers. Wise chap, the priest is. Taught me everything I know about nature.”
“I’m sure he is, Sir Phillip,” Guy assured him, stepping forward to block his view of the Sheriff while Allan cleaned the rather thin soup off the corpse’s face. Marian said nothing to Phillip, but only nodded at him politely and took a seat near the Sheriff.
Lunch was a sordid affair, and Vasey’s presence only served to make it more so. Marian and Guy both looked down at their untouched plates in disgust as they tried to ignore Phillip’s cow-like mastications and his intermittent sheepish glances at the lady he hoped would soon be his bride.
Once it was finally over and Vasey had been carried upstairs for his “nap,” Marian trotted down to the kitchen to fill her empty stomach without Phillip’s loud chewing. Guy, meanwhile, was thinking of swiping a loaf of bread to feed Vasey’s birds, but didn’t want to risk asking the servants for it, and Allan was busy taking the dead Sheriff upstairs; thus, he entered the kitchen just in time to find Marian filling a bowl with leftover pudding.
“Guy! I was just -”
“I noticed you didn’t eat anything at lunch, either. I was just going to get something to feed the Sheriff’s birds. They probably haven’t been fed in days,” Guy said, placing his hand on Marian’s arm. “And you’re going to need your strength. I don’t want to interrupt you.”
Marian smiled and started to walk out of the kitchen. When her hand was on the door, she whirled around suddenly. “Guy, what made you think of feeding the Sheriff’s birds? With all that’s been going on, surely you would hardly have time to think of such a little thing.”
“As a matter of fact, it was your book that made me think of it.”
“My book?”
“Yes, your copy of The Birds; I, er, found it in your desk drawer. Accidentally.”
“Guy, I don’t own a copy of The Birds.”
They both looked up slowly and stared at each other for a moment. Guy caught another peek at her cleavage, too, and Marian couldn’t resist a second glance at his codpiece, but then their gazes were definitely locked.
“Guy.”
“Marian.”
“Guy.”
“Marian?”
“Guy!” Marian exclaimed. “The book!”
“The book!” Guy shouted, grabbing her arm. “It’s got the seal in it.”
“Where did you leave it?” Marian asked, alarmed.
“I put it back in your desk, right where I found it,” Guy uttered, bringing his lips close to her ear.
“Then we’ve got to fetch it immediately!” Marian shouted, causing Guy to wince and step back.
“You should eat something first.”
“I’ll bring it with me.”
“You’ll spill it down your dress.”
“Why were you searching my room, again?” Marian asked, raising her right eyebrow, which had been filled in with a charcoal pencil.
Guy gulped visibly. “You’re right. We’ll both go now.”
They both turned and fled the kitchen, making for Marian’s bedroom.
Marian pulled open the door, relieved to see that Robin and Much were apparently gone. She and Guy looked down at her open desk drawer.
“You didn’t shut the drawer when you put the book back? Didn’t you think I’d notice?” Marian asked.
“I did close it. I’m sure of it,” Guy growled.
“But it’s open now!”
Guy leaned down on one knee and examined the drawer, and then he noticed that the secret panel was open.
“It’s gone.”
“Gone? How can it be -” Marian paused, realizing how it could be gone.
Guy nodded. “Hood. He’s taken it with him, and now we’re all going to die for sure.”
End of Chapter Seven
Oh, no! Will Guy get the seal back from Robin? Will the birds ever get to eat? Will Marian get Lyme Disease? Find out in the next installment of “Weekend at Vasey’s”!
Chapter Eight