Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter Twenty-One - Strings

"Find out where, and perhaps you would find Gisborne's woman," mused Carter.

Robin glanced at him sharply; a reasonable thought, and one which hadn't occurred to him. But it still gave them no real help, not while the answers eluded them.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go and get you a king's apology."

"I'll settle for his trust," said Carter, as they started back down the slope.

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"You did what?" yelled Vaisey, before recalling that he should moderate his voice. This was one conversation which his lieutenant mustn't overhear.

"Where can she possibly go?" the Saracen defended himself, his tone matching his sullen glare.

It reminded Vaisey that he needed to be careful with these people. They were his allies, yes, but foreigners nonetheless; the trust between them was a tentative thing. It need only be shaken to dislodge the nesting resentments, and this could see him end up with a blade between his own ribs. But the fact that this man had let his captive roam loose....it made him jittery. At this juncture, it was critical that they make no mistakes. He would go out there himself later and see to the Lady Gisborne, make sure that she was secure in preparation for the morning's triumph. 

"Yes. I suppose there is that," Vaisey muttered, his best attempt at conciliation.  "Even so, I'm taking no chances. Everything else is ready then? Nasir will have his men by tonight?"

"He will. They will be in place by the fourth watch, as agreed."

"Very good. When it's all done, have our man meet me as arranged. I'll be waiting."

The Saracen left. Vaisey rubbed his hands together in nervous anticipation. All was in readiness, his puppets in place; he only needed to twitch the strings to set them dancing. The one uncertainty in all this, of course, was that Hood was still on the loose. But the outlaw could have no idea of their plans, of this Vaisey was fairly certain. He would wake up on the morrow and find that for all his do-gooding, for all his desperate rush to be here, it was all for nothing – his precious King Richard would be gone. Dead. Dead as a doornail.

Skipping a few steps of glee across the courtyard, in his head Vaisey ticked off what needed to be done. First things first, he must tell Gisborne that tonight was the night. The girl must be warned, to be ready with the bird. And later he would depart for Imuiz. Puppets. All of them: outlaws, Saracens, the king, his lieutenant.

Eminently satisfied, he went in search of Gisborne.

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Guy sat gazing at the pitcher on the table. His usual refuge, denied him. He would need his wits about him for whatever was to come later.

He'd known all along that it would come to this, somehow. That here, at the end, he would be put in a position which made it impossible for him to win. Sitting in that low-ceilinged, overheated chamber, the fan-bearer Vaisey had employed shifting the sultry air in wafts which gave no relief, he ran over scenario after scenario in his head, finding none that would give him a way out; none that would allow him to save both the king and Meg.

He lifted the pitcher and carelessly began to pour. When he realised what he was doing – the wine slopping from cup to table – Guy roared his frustration. He hefted the pitcher at the wall, watching with satisfaction as the shattering shards scattered over the floor, the wine seeping in red runnels down the wall. He wished he could fling his problems aside - his whole life, in fact – with as much ease.