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Sir Guy of Gisbourne was awoken by a loud knock on his chamber door.
‘What is it?’ he growled, evidently unimpressed by the interruption. Even sadistic lieutenants need their beauty sleep. ‘It had better be good! Do you have any idea what time it is?!’
He could hear the man on the other side of the door squirming in discomfort.
‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ a voice stammered, ‘but the Sheriff bid me wake you.’
Guy rolled his eyes. ‘Does that ridiculous little despot ever sleep?’ he wondered. He’d never actually seen his bedchamber, but he had always presumed he must. He probably slept upside down, hanging from his feet by the rafters like some overgrown bat. Or perhaps he slept up on a perch, next to those birds he was so ridiculously fond of… No, he reasoned. He was probably tucked up in bed right now, tucked up in a really big soft bed with big soft pillows and big soft covers while he was made to run around on whatever little errand his fancy took to this time. The very thought made Guy huddle back into his own sheets with grim reluctance.
‘What is it? Can’t it wait until morning,’ he barked, trying his utmost to keep the sulky whine from his voice (a trait most unbecoming to those in positions of fear and authority, he reasoned.)
‘It’s Malik,’ the voice replied. ‘He’s insisting on going on a mission to recover his lost wagon. Sheriff says you’re to accompany him, Sir.’
Guy growled something fierce and incoherent and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It was times like this that he was glad he slept with the door locked. He did this for a number of reasons. Firstly, because he slept naked, and he lived in constant fear of waking to find the Sheriff stationed at his bedside, peering over his naked form with those piggy little eyes of his (he shuddered at the very thought). Secondly (and this was the reason which he avowed to any who ventured to ask), because he position placed him in a situation where he was not much loved by the general populace, and it would not do to be caught unawares while he slept. A third and fourth reason also existed, but neither of these were reasons that Guy would admit to anyone but himself, and even then, only reluctantly.
The third was that Guy still slept with a stuffed toy. A little stuffed bear called ‘Little Guy’. Little Guy had his own little leather coat and tiny little sword (although Guy removed this before bed, so as not to get poked in the eye) and had been Guy’s bedfellow (when there weren’t any wenches to be had) for some years. He supposed that when Marian finally climbed down of her high horse and decided they could marry Little Guy would have to be disposed of (preferably burnt, lest anyone might find him out!) but for now, while it was safe, Little Guy stayed.
The fourth reason was currently staring Guy right in the face. Sat at his dressing table and peering into the mirror Guy was unable to avoid it. Guy looked a mess in the morning. His habit of wearing rather a lot of eyeliner meant that while in the day he could smoulder and look suitable dark and brooding as his role required, in the mornings he looked like some sort of panda, or maybe racoon. He took a cloth, dipped it in a basin of water and began to wipe away at the smears. This was something else which had worried him about his betrothal to Marian. While Little Guy could be disposed of, the eyeliner could not. It was part of the image, after all, and the wenches did rather like it. But, he reasoned, Marian was not unknown for wearing copious amounts of slap herself, so they would just have to be streaky together. Perhaps they could even share tips.
He walked to his closet and pulled out his clothes; the usual leather pants, leather jacket and leather overcoat, and a rather nasty yellow jerkin to go underneath. He pulled them on, fastened the laces and buckles, and then wandered back to his dressing table. Dipping a stick into a pot of Kohl he pulled down his lower eyelid and began to apply. First lining the inner eyelid, then running a line along the bottom of his eye and them up along the top, smudging it a little to give that dark mysterious look.
‘Not bad,’ he thought, pausing as he finished the first eye and giving himself a wink in the mirror. He dipped the stick back into the pot pulled down his other eyelid, and was about to start applying again when a loud knock came at the door. Guy jumped and jabbed himself hard in the eye with the stick, roaring with pain.
‘What is it?’ he hissed fiercely, blinking rapidly to try and stem the tears before his completed eye started to run and he was forced to start all over again.
‘Begging your pardon,’ came the voice, ‘but the Sheriff ordered me to be quick, and I was wondering if we’d be keeping him waiting any longer?’
Guy hissed and fought back the urge to take his stick and ram it into the eyes of the messenger as revenge. Instead, he breathed deeply, pulled down his lid again and swiftly finished off the other eye. He peered at himself in the mirror. They were a little uneven, but it would have to do. Then he strode to the door and unlatched it and gave his best fully kohled sneer to the waiting messenger.
‘Fetch me my horse,’ he growled.
Back at Nottingham Castle, the Sheriff was waiting in his chamber when Guy strode through the door, a dark scowl on his face.
‘Well,’ he growled, fighting the urge to stamp on his ridiculous painted toes and spit in his smug little face.
‘Ah! Gisbourne!’ he cried, sidling over to him, ‘So glad you can join us. It seems our guest has lost some property which he would like to recover. I wonder, would you escort him to it?’
Guy scowled and nodded, and was about to turn and leave when the Sheriff sidled up to him and whispered in his ear.
‘Rough night Gisbourne? Your eyes appear to be a little red…’