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'Guards!' Guy yelled for the umpteenth time. Where the fuck were they?
'Yes, Sir Guy?' a timid voice called back.
'I've been calling for ages. Where are all the guards and who are you? I don't recognise your voice.'
'The guards are all in self-isolation. They've been self-isolating for nearly four weeks now, Sir Guy. Sheriff's orders.'
'Fuck! So they have. I forgot.'
'I'm Geoffrey. Kitchen boy. Can I be of assistance?'
'Yes. Bring me some toilet paper. I've run out.'
(weirdly enough, loo paper had been invented in 1134)
'There is none, Sir Guy. I'm sorry.'
'Then what the fuck am I supposed to use to wipe my posterior.'
'Er, leaves maybe.'
Guy heard a distinct titter.
'Are you laughing at me, boy?'
'No, no, Sir Guy. That was Henry, the stable boy.'
'What's a stable boy doing in the castle, and near my quarters at that?'
'Stable's shut, Sir Guy. Sheriff furloughed Henry and Henry volunteered to help with castle duties to pass the time.'
'And what of the horses?' Guy asked.
'Er, well, you see, food has been running a bit short.'
'Not my horse, I trust?' Guy clenched his fists.
'No. Your horse is fine, as is the sheriff's.'
Guy let out a sigh of relief. 'Right, well, one of you get me something to wipe myself with and make it quick. The sheriff wants me to go terrorise the market traders and I'm keen to get my hands on a large bag of pasta before the peasants buy it all up again, greedy stockpilers!'
(weirdly enough, pasta had been invented in 1134)
'We'll be right back with your leaves, Sir Guy.'
Guy heard the two lads tittering as they clumped down the corridor.
'They will pay for their insolence,' he muttered, craning his head to inspect his backside and deciding that the empty middle of the toilet roll would suffice. After all, everyone in the land, apart from butchers, bakers and candlestick makers (he could be wrong about that last one, though maybe they were collection only) were in lockdown so there was little chance that he would come across Marian. Not even at the market, as she was shielding her fart of a father and their food was being delivered by Nottingham's hero, Robin bloody Hood.
Guy smirked. All the do-gooders were coming out of the woodwork now that this terrible pox had struck Nottingham's folk. Hood was just one among many helping the poor, vulnerable and sick cope with living in lockdown. Bet that stuck right in his craw. And even those that could not help for one reason or another were standing outside their houses every Thursday evening to clap for the healers and herbalists. Guy was not one of them. He hated clapping. He also hated the two metre rule.
(weirdly enough, the metric system had been invented in 1134)
Mind you, he did like to use it as an excuse to run through anyone who accidentally came closer than two metres. Guy also hated those stinking musicians who played their tuneless lutes every Thursday evening just across from the castle. Guy swore that if he had to listen to them just one more time he would personally go over and thump them, social distancing be damned!
'Ah, Gisborne,' the sheriff drawled. 'You took your time.'
Guy eyed the large dining table that graced the middle of the hall. His heart dropped. No pasta, no chopped tomatoes and, worst of all, no bread.
'Oh, come, come,' the sheriff said. 'Don't look so dismayed, my boy. We have plenty to feast on, especially since I got Frederick to steal into the market half an hour before it opened and buy up all the fruit and veg.'
Guy pulled up a chair, took what he wanted from the fare before him, and shovelled it into his mouth.
'So,' the sheriff said, a glint in his eye, 'how have you been getting on with improving yourself during this time of enforced leisure, eh? Been learning Latin, maybe. Fashioning some new leather items out of castoffs. Perhaps building a replica model of the castle out of nail clippings.'
Guy scowled. He had no wish to use lockdown as an excuse to make something, useful or otherwise. Nor did he wish to learn a language, acquire a new skill or build a fucking model out of matchsticks.
(weirdly enough, matchsticks had been invented in 1134)
'Well?' the sheriff asked.
'You know full well I do not intend or indeed want to do any of those things.'
What Guy intended to do was to sulk his way through the lockdown, even if it lasted the whole year.
'Here.' The sheriff pushed a goblet towards Guy. 'Have a drink and cheer up.'
Guy swiped up the goblet, took a gulp of wine and promptly spat it out.
'What the fuck is this?'
'Green tea,' the sheriff told him.
'Where's the wine?'
'All gone.' The sheriff smiled wickedly. For some perverse reason, he was clearly enjoying this lockdown shenanigans. 'Aww, Gisborne. Why the glum face. It could be worse.'
'How can it be worse?' Guy stared morosely into his goblet, as if hoping that by some miracle it would fill with wine.
'It could have been one of those ghastly herbal brews that witch of a healer is making in an attempt to rid the populace of the pox.'
Guy nodded. The sheriff was right.
'You know, Gisborne, when I think back I realise how lucky we are right now.' The sheriff placed his booted feet up on the table.
Guy surreptitiously rolled his eyes. He was in for one of the sheriff's long and boring stories most likely.
'When I was a boy,' the sheriff began - Guy stifled a yawn - 'We had it tough. We were so poor we didn't have wine of any description. Nor did we have green tea. In fact, we were lucky to have water. And we had to drink out of a cracked goblet.'
Guy knew how the story would go; he'd heard it enough times. How the sheriff had risen from the low to the high. How he had grafted, cheated and blagged his way to get to the position he now held. Usually Guy let it go right over his head, copious cups of wine dulling his senses. Tonight he had no such luxury and lockdown was making him tetchy - an understatement if ever there was one.
'You know,' the sheriff continued. 'I used to dream of living in a castle. We used to live in a rundown hovel, all six of us sharing two poky rooms and one outside privy. Not only that but--'
Guy held up his hand, causing the sheriff to stop mid-sentence. 'You were lucky to live in a house,' he countered. 'We had to live in a hole in the ground covered by pieces of sack cloth.'
'Luxury,' the sheriff said, a malicious glint in his eye. 'After we were evicted from our hovel, I was sent to live in a castle dungeon with nothing for light but a single candle.'
'Right,' Guy muttered under his breath. 'We used to dream of living in a dungeon. I spent twelve months living in a moat. I used to get up every morning, lick the castle walls clean with my tongue, work sixteen hours a day at the local cesspit and when I got home my dad would beat me with his belt.'
'Paradise,' the sheriff responded. 'I was sent to live in a barrel of fish. I used to get up every morning half an hour before I went to bed, lick the barrel clean with my tongue, work 27 hours a day in the communal privy, and pay the owner for permission to work there, and when I got home my father would splice me in two with a bread knife and dance on my grave singing hallelujah.'
Guy nodded sympathetically, completely forgetting he was playing a game of one upmanship with Vaisey. 'Yes, and you tell the young people today and they don't believe you.'
The sheriff nodded in accordance clearly feeling lockdown solidarity with his master at arms. He stretched and yawned. 'Well, Gisborne. I suppose it's time for bed.'
Guy thought of his bedpost, etched with a mark for every day of lockdown. Tonight he would mark it again: day 42.
'I'm sure this lockdown won't go on much longer,' the sheriff said coming to his feet. 'And then you'll be able to go out without wearing a mask or covering yourself up from head to foot.'
Guy concluded that although he was looking forward to that day, he wouldn't be showing himself properly in public until he could get his stupid-looking mullet head of hair cut by a barber. After all, there is only so much ridicule a man can take.