Safely hidden in a grove of trees, Robin studied his ancestral home, asking himself how would be the best way to break in and confront Gisbourne.
He wasn't so stupid as to think he could enter the manor alone and challenge Gisbourne...Gisbourne who was guarded by his own personal squadron of twenty-four men-at-arms sworn to defend and protect their vicious master, but he'd like to enter secretly, gag Gisbourne's mouth, and lay his knife to his throat. Give him a good scare...make threats to prove that he could kill him. His mind was already busy making up the things he would say...the warnings he would make about not falling asleep at night, when he realized the manor was unusually quiet and apparently empty.
Odd. Very odd. Where was Gisbourne? Where were his guards? Even the "crow's nest" lookout in the village was unoccupied. Gisbourne always stationed a guard there, to spy on the people of Locksley.
Instinct warned Robin that this was a trap, but he ignored it. Maybe Gisbourne was inside asleep, but Robin doubted it. Not without his guard.
Something was up, and Robin needed to learn what it was. Who better to inform him than his own servants?
He carefully made his way toward his house, then rounded the back and climbed some sturdy ivy that had been clinging to the house for as long as Robin could remember. Carefully, he opened an outside shutter, cringing when it creaked on its hinges. He'd have to instruct Thornton to have it greased, and the hinges on the other shutters as well. He supposed Gisbourne was too busy with his wooing to attend to the minor details of Robin's estate.
Climbing through an upper story window, he placed one foot, then his other one, silently on the floor. All remained still. Good! He was in!
He wished he'd arranged a series of bird calls to signal his servants, as he had his men in the forest, as well as Marian. But he hadn't seen the need, not to mention the risk it would inflict on them for associating with him.
He took a moment to wistfully look about the room. This had been his earliest room, the one he'd occupied before his father had died, before he'd assumed the titles of Lord of Locksley and Earl of Huntington. Everything looked smaller than he remembered...everything except the exquisite tapestry hanging on one wall.
The memory of his mother weaving that tapestry filled him with a mixture of joy and sadness. Her careful sensitive hands, so very like his, only smaller and feminine, had created works of art for their home.
Every morning for years his eyes had awoken to look upon that hanging, with its image of a mighty oak covered in birds, a robin perched on the uppermost branch. His mother had taught him the name of every bird woven onto that tree, and he had taught himself to perfectly mimic their calls. Who would have thought those early lessons would be so useful to him when he became a man?
His eyes satisfied at last, he returned to his reason for being here. After silently moving across the room, he slowly turned the door's handle and pushed it open.
Hinges creaked, sounding like a scream in the night's stillness. He readied himself, but no one came tearing at him.
As he moved down the hallway, resisting the urge to open every door and gaze inside, his nose wrinkled in disgust. This did not smell like his home! Locklsey had always smelled of fresh baked bread and newly made ale, and, when his mother had lived, freshly cut flowers. Tonight it smelled stale and musty. It stank, and Robin was repulsed.
He peered carefully into his own spacious room. Nobody there. Gisbourne really and truly was away from home.
He loosened his shoulders and his neck, shaking out the tension. He was safe, for now. God had apparently given him the gift of being able to traverse his home to his heart's content, at least for now. He breathed a short prayer of thanksgiving.
Jauntily moving down the stairs, he helped himself to a mug of ale and some bread before making his way to the servants' quarters. As he drew near, he heard somebody violently retching.
Breaking onto a run, he knocked rapidly before pushing open a door. Thornton leaned over a bucket, his face a sickly putrid green. The smell of vomit nearly choked Robin.
"Thornton," he said, dropping to his knees beside the faithful old man and supporting him, "you're ill."
The words sounded lame...obvious, yet Robin was too concerned to care how he sounded.
"Master!" Thornton weakly cried, "you should not be here."
"Here, let me get you to your bed." He helped the weakened old man to his feet and slowly led him to his bedside, then carefully helped him recline.
"What can I get you?" Robin asked.
"Master, no, you should not serve me. I should be serving you."
"You forget...I'm an outlaw now. I serve myself."
"With all due respect, sir, I find that highly unlikely, not when you have Much with you."
In spite of the situation, Robin smiled. Thornton was correct.
"Is anyone else ill?" Robin asked.
"Nearly all of us, sir." Thornton lay back, his forehead drenced in a cold sweat.
"Is that why Gisbourne and his men are gone? Is anyone in the village affected?"
"Yes to the first question...no to the second. You should go, too, Master. Please, don't let yourself be infected."
Robin didn't need long to think.
"I'll return with assistance," he promised. Running from the manor, he darted into the stables, opened Achilles' stall, leaped onto his favorite horse's unsaddled back, and rode him furiously back to his camp to fetch Djaq.