Chapter Ten
Guy allowed himself a gratifying eyeroll as he led Phillip up the stairs to his bedroom. During their dinner for two he had developed a smashing headache from listening to the unwelcome guest wax poetic on the raging debate of Colby versus Cheddar. Now Phillip was back on the subject of Marian, which was even worse.
"Are you really sure she's lact- . . . lat- . . . latc- . . ."
"Lactose intolerant." Guy could barely keep the loathing out of his voice.
"No, that's not it. What I mean to say is, are you sure she can't eat cheese?" Phillip asked, huffing along behind Guy, who was carrying a torch to light the dark staircase.
"I'm afraid it's quite true, Sir Phillip." Guy paused as though hesitant. "If you will permit me . . ."
"Yes, Guy?" Phillip tittered as he said the name. What a funny name, Guy! He was glad his own name was nothing to be ashamed of. It represented a very noble and distinguished line. Marian would be a happy girl indeed when she became Lady Dunghill!
Guy continued, "If I may be so bold, I would suggest that perhaps Lady Marian is not well-suited to you as a wife. You must think of your future happiness."
"Oh, but I shall be very happy with her, I am sure. We can have pillow fights every night before bedtime! Does the lady enjoy pillow fights?" Phillip inquired.
"I have not had the opportunity to find out," Guy mumbled. Then he imagined what it might be like to have a pillow fight with Marian, her soft, full-sized pillows smothering his face . . . he hoped there would be time for those thoughts later. After the tickling.
"Oh," Phillip answered flatly, but then brightened. "Do you mean she has never been with a man in a pillow fight before? I would so love to be the one to introduce it to her."
Guy ground his teeth, thinking of Marian sharing her pillows with Phillip instead of himself. Then an even worse nagging thought came to mind: What about Hood? Had she already . . . pillow fought with him?
"I do not know," Guy said. "What do you think your family will think of your getting married to a girl they've never heard of?"
"Oh, they shall be very happy indeed. My mum is always saying it'll be a miracle if I find a woman to marry me at all – so it must be a miracle!" Phillip beamed. "But I do wonder what it's like to be married. Have you ever been married?"
Guy stopped short at the head of the stairs. "No."
"What about the Sheriff?" Phillip asked. "Doesn't he have a wife?"
Guy emitted a choked laugh as he forced himself to continue walking. "No, Sir Phillip, he does not. He does not care for women."
"That's very queer, isn't it? But then, I never thought of getting married before I met Marian. Are you positive she's lac- . . . can't eat cheese?"
Mercifully, they had reached the door to Phillip's room. Guy opened it and motioned for him to enter, but Phillip did not go in. His normally cheerful visage had changed to one of trepidation.
"What is it? Something the matter?" Guy asked, thinking that he would brain the man if he asked for more cheese. They were completely out of Camembert now.
"It's just that I – I've never had a sleepover at a stranger's before," Phillip answered, his lower lip trembling. "Mum usually tucks me in."
Guy bit his tongue and paused before replying stiffly, "Then I will do it."
Phillip's expression lightened somewhat at this reassuring gesture. Then, hesitantly, he whispered, "And will you tell me a story, too?"
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After dining in her room, Marian watched the snow fall from her window, covering the dark and empty garden outside. She could barely make out the sparse trees and the high back wall that was meant to keep the peasants and outlaws out, but didn't. She sighed and pulled her warm blanket tighter around her shoulders. She wasn't sure whether the blizzard was a blessing or a malediction; it had kept Sir Phillip from being able to depart, which was endangering everyone, but it also ensured that Robin and his gang would not be back to cause any more trouble. She had enough to worry about without that threat. At least the snow would keep things . . . contained. If Sir Phillip couldn't get out, that also meant that Prince John's army couldn't get in. For now.
She jumped at a loud banging on her door. "Maz! Open up!"
"What is it, Allan? I wish to be alone."
Allan opened the door and poked his head around it. "Giz is really angry this time, i'n't he?"
"Yes, of course he is. He found out that I am the Nightwatchman, and that I was engaged to Robin. And that you knew all about it." She paused, wrinkling her brow, and then asked, "Why are you still here? I thought surely you would want to hide from Guy at least until the snow thaws. Are you so fond of punishment?"
"Me? What about you? I can handle a bit of ticklin', but what about you? Why aren't you busy butterin' Guy up and makin' him forget why he was angry in the first place?" Allan asked.
"Do you really think that would work? Surely Guy is not that easy," Marian scoffed.
They both looked at each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing.
"Yeah, and I'm the bleedin' Prince of the Turks," Allan chuckled.
"You have a point, Allan. I might be able to persuade him to change his mind," Marian said, smirking.
Allan raised an eyebrow. "Unless – you enjoy bein' tickled." His eyes were mischievous now. He raised his hands and wiggled his fingers as though he might test that hypothesis himself.
"No!" Marian jumped back with a squeal. "I do not enjoy being tickled!" Then she looked at him challengingly. "I prefer to be the one doing the tickling." She raised her beautifully manicured fingertips and threatened him with them.
"You wouldn't," Allan said in mock horror.
"Oh, you don't think so, hmm?" she replied playfully.
"Too bad you won't get the chance tonight," spoke a deep, forboding voice from the doorway. Guy waved a pair of long, grey, striped feathers menacingly, causing Marian and Allan to gulp visibly. "You're both going to be otherwise engaged."
"Guy! We were just – can't you and I discuss this alone? Please?" Marian begged, biting her lower lip and fluttering her eyelashes. Guy is so easy. He will eat this up.
"Not tonight. Tonight I tickle. Tomorrow we can talk," Guy snarled. "Do not think you can get out of this so easily as that, Marian."
"But I really would like to –"
"Or . . . " he interrupted, ". . . you can try to talk while I tickle you." Guy grinned. This was going to be so exhilirating. I'm glad I'm not the one who's about to get a taste of the Feather of Fear, he thought. He had never tortured anyone without drawing blood before.
Marian was desperate. "What about Sir Phillip?" she asked, subtly reminding him of the teamwork they'd been involved in.
"He's sound asleep. I tucked him in and told him a bedtime story." Guy was glad he'd been able to think of something a little better than the one from last night. But then, Vasey had hardly been in a condition to notice the weak narrative and obvious plot twists.
"And what about the Sheriff?" Marian continued.
Guy looked at her as if she were, well, Phillip. "He's dead, Marian."
Marian rolled her eyes. "I know that! I meant, what are we going to do about him? He's starting to change color, and he stinks dreadfully."
"Dunghill does not seem to notice."
"And what about after he's gone? What will we do then? We can't keep fooling Prince John forever. Next month Sir Jasper will be back, and he will not be so easily duped." Marian raised an eyebrow at him, expecting him to be distracted enough to forget the tickling.
However, she had severely underestimated how very much Guy was looking forward to this unusual form of torture. It really wasn't so different from the things he'd imagined late at night during his sexy alone time, only this time he would be the one doing the tickling, and instead of a whip, there would be . . . well, you get the idea. No, he would not be diverted from his course no matter how much cleavage she flashed him. Probably.
"Let me worry about that. You should be worrying about yourself, my lady," Guy growled, reaching out and gripping her wrist. "Guards!"
All three of them looked toward the doorway, but nothing happened. Marian and Allan glanced back at Guy expectantly.
"GUARDS!!!" Guy shouted again, this time in a voice nearly loud enough to wake, well, Vasey. (But it didn't.)
After a few seconds, a pair of Guy's men appeared at the door, stumbling over each other to be first into the room. They were both out of breath, and their helmets were askew.
The first one to make it all the way through straightened his helmet with great dignity and then spoke, "You called, sir?"
The second guard blotted at what looked like a barbecue sauce stain on his tunic as he said distractedly, "Yes, my lord Gisborne?"
"Idiots! I want you to escort these two to the dungeon. NOW!" Guy bellowed. There would be some salary cuts in the upcoming fiscal year, he thought. With all of Hood's thievery, there was little budget left for paying inept castle guards.
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"I can't believe I let you get me into this," Allan groaned from the stocks. To his right, Marian was being roughly shoved into her own set of stocks by the guards, Christopher and Jimsie.
"I can't believe you're blaming me!" Marian replied. "None of this is my fault."
Alan cried, "Yes, it bloody well is! All this was your idea!"
"Well . . . you agreed to go along with it," Marian retorted. "You're just as much to blame as I am."
"I had no choice, did I? With you and Guy punching and kicking and 'I'll hire an Irishman to replace you'? A clue? No!" Allan bellowed, startling the guards by throwing his voice to make it sound like Vasey was coming down the stairs. Those Lerninge Annex classes were really paying off.
"You always have a choice, Allan," Marian said, then paused. "Oh, dear. Does it always sound that douchey?"
"Even worse when Robin says it," Allan assured her.
"Save it, both of you. I want you to have plenty of voice left for squealing," Guy commanded. He nodded to the guards as soon as they had finished strapping Marian into the stocks. "You two go back to your posts. And you'd better be there when I get back!"
"Yes, sir!" replied Christopher, who was busy dumping some gravel out of his boots. When Jimsie failed to respond, Christopher thumped him on the shoulder.
"Owww! Wot was that for?" Jimsie yelped, then continued working on that stubborn barbecue stain.
"Supposed to say 'Yes, sir!' when Sir Guy orders you to do somethin'!" answered the frustrated Christopher.
"Oh. Yes, sir!" Jimsie said noncommittally, then went back to rubbing at the stain.
"And then what do we do after that?" Guy prompted them, like a schoolmaster trying to pry the answer out of his lazy students.
"We . . . I think we . . . we click our heels together?" finished Christopher uncertainly.
"No! You follow the orders!" Guy shouted, waving his sword at them to animate them. They backed up toward the staircase that led out of the dungeon.
"Uhh . . . wait, you mean we're supposed to say 'Yes, sir!' and then do something else?" Jimsie asked, confused.
"You're supposed to do as I say! Now get out!" Guy barked.
"Yes, sir!" answered Jimsie, then stood motionless as Christopher retreated hastily up the stairs.
Guy, noting that Jimsie was not comprehending the lesson on "following orders," threw his sword at him, narrowly missing the rotund guard, but killing an innocent dungeon-dwelling cricket in the process. RIP, Davey's wife (we'll call her Margery). How sad is that? Anyway, Jimsie, not quite so thick as to misunderstand this order, hied himself up the stairs and decided to take a half-day tomorrow.
"Now," Guy said to the prisoners, who were still busy shooting each other dirty looks, "for the Feather of Fear." He knelt down on the floor and removed first Allan's large boots, then Marian's bedazzled cricket-squashing slippers. He relished the moment as he felt the two traitors squirm.
"Oh, Jesu, Allan, is that your feet I smell?" Marian asked, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
"I can't help it! Guy wouldn't let me change me socks earlier, alright?" Allan replied.
Guy whipped out the goose feathers with a flourish, holding one in each hand, and slowly dragged the tips up and down the right foot of each prisoner. "How is that?" he asked, smiling devilishly at their backsides.
"It doesn't tickle a bit," Marian said stoically.
Not to be outdone, Allan added, "Nope. Nothin', Guy. I think you'll find I'm not tick- ahhhh! Ahahahahahaha!"
Guy smiled again. It was working. He trailed the feathers in a zigzag motion along their left feet now.
"Guy, this is not going to accomplish anything. You could just forgive us and . . ." Marian trailed off, clenching her teeth. She would not giggle. She would not.
"And what? Pretend like you never betrayed me?" Guy asked, swirling the feather in his right hand around Marian's insole. "No," he purred, "this is too sweet to forgo."
"But . . . Guy . . . you . . ." Marian spluttered, turning purple. "You – aha." She tried to gather her composure. "You. Heeheehee! You love meeeeeeheheheheeee!"
Guy, who had a rather crippling fear of being tickled, felt his stomach churn ever so slightly at Marian's outburst. But he was determined to be strong and carry out this punishment. The right-hand feather danced along the ball of Marian's foot.
"Uncle! Uncle!" Allan cried as Guy traced the feather between his toes.
"Eeeek! Guy, please!" she squealed.
Guy braced himself and raised both feathers to the prisoners' heels.
"Gaaaahhhh! No more, Guy! I can't take it!" Allan yelled, writhing, as if he could somehow get free from Guy's torture that way.
"What's the matter? You don't enjoy this?" Guy asked. "Would you feel that way if Hood were doing it?"
"I for one would not be happy about that, either!" Allan squeaked. "Teeheeheeheehee!"
"I told you – ahahaha – we broke uuuuup!" Marian replied.
Guy suddenly felt the urge to run from the room. This was not as easy as he had hoped. He could not help but imagine himself in the stocks, being tickled by Marian. And possibly Allan. The thought was both arousing and unbearably tormenting, but he did not want to seem weak. "Surely the Nightwatchman should be stronger than that!" he taunted.
Marian glared at the dead cricket on the wall. Guy would pay for that. "Ahahahahaha!"
The Feather of Fear torture lasted another eight minutes before Guy had to give in to his visceral repulsion. He could not stand this any longer. And he was pretty sure Allan had peed himself. And maybe Marian, too. "Enough!" he shouted. "I trust you have both learned your lesson."
"Yeah, we sure have!" Allan promptly answered.
"What lesson?" Marian asked, summoning her dignity. "Everything we've done, we've done for the good of England."
"Shut up, Maz!" Allan hissed.
"What? It's true! Well, mostly."
"You still do not repent of your crimes," Guy said flatly, then swallowed hard. "Then your punishment will continue."
"No! I've learnt my lesson!" Allan cried. "I'll never do it again!"
"Oh, really."
"Yeah, I swear it, Guy!" Allan answered. He'd better let me change my trousers soon, he thought.
"And what about you, Marian?" Guy asked with a dangerous edge to his voice.
"I still say I haven't done anythi-" she began, then thought better of it. I've already ruined my new dress, she thought. "Actually, I am feeling rather contrite, now that you mention it."
After a few moments of brooding, Guy put down the feathers, and the other two exhaled deeply in relief. Then he stormed out of the room, looking a little pale and holding his hand over his mouth.
"Told you he was easy," Allan remarked cockily.
Marian giggled. "You were right."
"Did you piss yourself?"
"Did you?" Marian asked defensively.
"Maybe."
"Allan?"
"Yeah?"
"Isn't he coming back?"
No crickets chirped to break the silence.
End of Chapter Ten
Will Marian and Allan get out of the stocks? Will Phillip have bad dreams? And will Guy remember to save the feathers for his scrapbook?
Find out in the next chapter of "Weekend at Vasey's"!