A Policeman's Lot is Not a Happy One
I knelt on the cold stone floor of the throne room, my head respectfully bent to conceal the annoyance on my face. “I assure you, sire—”
The prince interrupted me. “You must do better. I will not have such knavery in my kingdom. Poaching. Stealing.” His beady eyes, set deep in his fleshy face, surveyed me closely. A nasal whine crept into his voice. “It’s not fair. My brother was weak. The people have grown shiftless and rebellious. We must be firm.” He made a snuffling sound. “If you cannot handle the post, I’ll have your head chopped off and find a replacement.”
“Certainly, sire,” I murmured, fighting to keep my voice level.
“You may go.”
I was not ten steps from the sanctuary of my chamber when a strident voice hailed me from along the passageway. I turned, and looked up into a clean-cut aquiline face. Today a frown marred its hawkish, handsome features.
“Guy,” I greeted him, “and why so downcast? Has your latest sweetheart thrown you over for a honey-tongued minstrel?”
He looked even dourer. “No more of that for me. I’m betrothed to a chit of a girl with yellow hair, hadn’t you heard?” His expression grew thoughtful. “Rich, though. Her family has money, I’ll say that for the wench.”
“I wish you all happiness,” I told him, and strode forward.
He grabbed my sleeve and matched my pace. “I need your help. Aren’t you supposed to be enforcing the laws around here?”
We had reached the door of my chamber. Mentally cursing the prince, Guy, and all the world, I entered. Guy followed me and sat down in the only chair. He produced a tankard from somewhere about his person, helped himself to ale from the jug on my table, and leaned forward, speaking intently.
“My father.”
“Gout?” I inquired sympathetically.
“Dead.”
Immediately I regretted my uncharitable thoughts. Before I could speak, Guy continued.
“Set upon by outlaws as he rode through the forest. They slaughtered his retinue, stole his horse and all his money, and tossed him into the river. He walked all day and half the night to reach home. Before two days were out he lay dead of a fever and a hacking cough.”
I stared at him, aghast. His jaw tightened.
“I tell you, the crime rates are rising because of your incompetence. Ruffians roaming the countryside, robbing, pillaging, murdering. They ruined Sir Richard, who was to marry my sister. Stole his money, burned his estate, and cut an ear off to teach him a lesson.”
“How fares your sister?” I asked with some trepidation.
He looked annoyed. “She went near mad with grief. Wandered about the manor having hysterics. We sent her into a convent to recover.” He swept the jug and tankard onto the floor with a convulsive gesture. “I tell you, it’s an insult to my name, my house, my station, my honor. I want you to get the bullying, posturing monkey who leads the band. I will have my revenge.”
I sighed. “They are outlaws, and they will be hanged. I am doing my utmost—” I held him with a level gaze—“to put a stop to it.”
“No.” He brushed the hair from his eyes impatiently. “I know your usual ham-fisted way of doing things. The man is a coward, a trickster, a fiendishly clever opponent. But he’s a crack shot with a bow and arrow. Never been defeated in a tournament. He can’t resist a chance to show off. I have a plan.” He leaned toward me once more and hissed conspiratorially, “Walls have ears. I’ll send you the details with my man Gilbert tomorrow. Don’t forget.”
With that he was gone, striding noisily out in his customary dramatic fashion. I sank into the chair and pressed my fingers to my temples.
After a time, the spilled ale on the floor began to seep unpleasantly through my shoes.
I was awakened bright and early the next morning by the man Gilbert, bearing news of Sir Guy’s plan.
As I listened, it began to take shape in my mind. A tournament. An archery contest, spectators from miles around, a fair. A prize. A gleaming golden arrow for the victor.
Gilbert smiled, revealing rotten stumps of teeth. “I’ll be on the spot, fire my arrows with the rest of them. He won’t be able to resist the chance to show off in front of the entire town. He’ll be there all right. He’ll take his turn. And when he does—“ He tapped me on the chest with his grimy forefinger for emphasis. “We’ll have him.”
Crowds lined the square and thronged about the base of the block of tiered seats where the members of the nobility sat in the shade. As I threaded my way around a chestnut seller hawking his wares, I caught a glimpse of a brilliant scarlet tunic. Its wearer was striding towards me. I winced and closed my eyes.
It was Guy. “My excellent fellow! Well met!” he cried expansively. Lowering his voice, he murmured, “Today’s the day. We’ll need a good view…Let’s sit in the stands with my betrothed’s family. You can meet the little wench.”
He led me toward the stands, talking volubly. “…And the scurvy knave tried to cheat me, can you believe it? Charged me double. I said to him…”
I didn’t hear. I was looking straight into eyes like summer skies, eyes that filled my soul with soaring wonder and blissful tranquility.
“You can take your high price and…”
“Shut up, Guy,” I said dreamily. She was smiling at me. Golden hair rippled down her back and framed her heart-shaped face. The tip of her turned-up nose was dotted with tiny freckles.
She was smiling at Guy. “My betrothed,” Guy said, gesturing at her. “So I got it for half price, in the end.”
I sat down heavily on the wooden bench and stared dully out at the crowd.
At last the trumpeters played the opening fanfare, waking me from my reverie. At my side, Guy was growing restive.
“Let’s go get a drink,” he said, pulling me from my seat. “There’s plenty of time.”
My feet echoed hollowly on the wooden steps. I felt as though I was suffocating in the dense crowd of people.
Guy tossed a coin to an urchin who supplied us with foaming mugs. “I tell you,” he told me, “we’ll get the blackguard today. You’re a good man, old friend.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “What did you think of the lass?”
My breath caught in my throat. He looked at me and laughed uproariously.
“Well, if you pull this off, you can marry the girl. I wish you joy of her, silly little brat that she is.” He took a pull from his tankard. “You’d better not make any mistakes.”
I looked at him then, really looked at him, and saw not my old friend Guy, haphazard and noisy and somewhat irritating, but a beast—a beast incapable of caring for anything or anyone.
Even the girl he had promised to marry.
My gaze seemed to make him uncomfortable. He laughed uneasily, then wandered back towards the stands.
I turned my attention, for the first time, to the archery contest before me. As I watched, a tall young man with blond hair tightened the string of his bow. He strode to the center of the square, waved to the cheering throng, then carefully took aim. After a long moment the arrow thudded into the exact center of the target.
I felt the blood pounding in my veins. Quickly I turned, spotted Guy, and motioned urgently for him to come. The mysterious archer was about to vanish among the multitude of men. I dashed forward and followed him, ducking under upraised arms and vendor’s carts until I was directly behind the youth.
The struggle was over in moments. We overpowered the man, bound his wrists and ankles, and tied him over the back of Guy’s saddle. The tall young archer struggled and spat epithets at us until he was out of breath.
As soon as we were in sight of the castle’s high stone walls I spurred my horse forward. I still didn’t trust myself to speak to Guy. Let him handle his own ruffian.
I was in my chamber, kicking off my high boots, when someone pounded violently on the oaken door. I opened it. Immediately Guy thrust his head and shoulders into the room, his contorted with rage. His voice, when he spoke, was thick with anger and frustration.
“You got the wrong man,” he growled.
The wrong man? Surely not. I saw the tall young figure again in my mind’s eye, striding forward…the arrow in the center of the target…
Guy went on, barely able to contain his ire. “He was there all right. Disguised as a crippled beggar in a tattered red cloak. He took his turn with the rest. Split our man’s arrow down the middle with a single shot and won the golden arrow.” His face darkened. He grabbed the front of my tunic and spat the words into my face. “And do you know what he did with it? He gave it away. To his ladylove. To—my—betrothed.”
I slammed the door in Guy’s face and rammed the bolt home. Eventually he stopped shouting and I heard his footsteps retreating down the passageway.
I took a step toward the chair and nearly tripped over Guy’s fallen tankard. At my feet, its golden surface glinted like the play of sunlight on silken tresses.
Alone in my empty chamber, I vowed that I would be revenged. One day, the world would know Robin of Locksley for what he really was: a coward, a bully, a braggart, and a thief.
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This was a lot of fun to write. I liked the idea of the wicked Sheriff as a sympathetic character, who has an arrogant friend named Guy (and incidentally, a general susceptibility to romanticism, and absolutely no natural inclination for law enforcement).
It shares its title with a song from The Pirates of Penzance, an operetta written by the composer/librettist team Gilbert and Sullivan in the late 19th century. Incongrous but effective.
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