He insisted on keeping the gatehouse windows locked- and the chest, too, that rested at the foot of the bed. Little fun was to be had in traipsing through an unlocked window- and don't get him started on doors: 'a door, a door, a wonderful bore'- and what sort of thief would allow his treasure trove to be left bare for all to plunder?
Perhaps the gatehouse wasn't his… Nor the bedroom, or the chest, or even the goods therein. Neither then was Mossflower his own, and yet she proved a wonderful cache for his ill-gotten gains. Besides: the Mousethief could no more deny his glee in being 'caught' than he could his honorable title as Prince of Thieves.
"Gonff, you old rogue, you can't hide stolen treasure in my room!"
Did the warrior stop him? Of course not.
"Gonff, what use is a solid golden dagger anyways? It'd bend double before it cut through anything!"
Gonff, for one, thought the dagger quite becoming. So had the fox he lifted it from.
"Gonff, what poor old ratwife is crying over her stolen earrrings now?"
That one had him shaking with mirth, as the dainty accessories were a gift from a fully grown male badger- and they had looked quite lovely on him besides.
It was the little things- tail rings, bracelets, little trinkets lifted from a thief far more sinister than he- that eventually found themselves a new home buried in the deep oaken chest. Little things, gifts for his friends more often than not, awaiting discovery beneath the burnished armor of Redwall's Champion.
If said armor was in its proper place.
The ornate padlock fell with a thud from Gonff's paws. It wasn't uncommon for Martin to polish the garb of his trade- former trade, the mousethief reminded himself- and the sight of the near empty chest shouldn't have surprised him so.
But where was the warrior monk?
The gatehouse was empty: and while Martin took impeccable care of his belongings, they rarely left his home. A quick search confirmed Gonff's suspicions but raised far more questions than it could answer. The warrior and his armor both missing? Certainly there wouldn't be a feast or festivities- his innate instinct for both food and merriment confirmed that.
It was with growing unease that Gonff slipped from the gatehouse, his treasure long forgotten.
The Abbey grounds were alive with a pleasant chatter. A mild spring was aging slowly into a mellow summer, and the warmth of the day brought the various Abbeydwellers outside. Tea would be served soon in the young orchard, and there were young ones playing near the pond where they could be out from under the footpaws of the working beasts.
Surely where there was work to be done, or Dibbuns to delight, Martin of Redwall could be found: but where?
Young Dinny and the Skipper of Otters hadn't seen hide nor tail of him since breakfast. Bella of Brockhall insisted that if the former warrior wasn't patrolling the walltops he'd surely be napping somewhere in the sunshine- because everybeast knew that the legendary warrior's biggest weakness, besides sweets and children, were quiet, sunny corners. A hasty search yielded nothing, nothing but a few curious stares from the Dibbuns toward the near frantic mousethief.
With a measure of cold fear rising in his throat Gonff found himself in Great Hall. The sprawling nook was quiet in the afternoon lull, and every murmur from the outside world seemed to amplify as it filtered in past the wide doors and over the erect ears of the mousethief. There, Martin's tapestry- but above it, the simple hooks that had held the warrior's battleblade for six long seasons were bare. Perhaps it was a gnawing fear, or disappointment at the prospect of being left out of some grand quest, that had Gonff's shoulders and ears both drooping.
No. The warrior hadn't gone. He wouldn't. Not without his best mate, not without telling a soul, not after six seasons- surely, the warrior monk's restless days were over!
A bit peevish, and feeling very much abandoned, Gonff allowed his footpaws to carry him listlessly through the abbey, past the infirmary, up the dormitory stairs to find-
"Mister Gonff? Why so glum?" It was Pennywort, a young dormouse who often lent a paw in the infirmary.
"Nothin' at all m'dear," Gonff pulled on a smile. No use upsetting the Abbeydwellers. As an afterthought he added, "you haven't seen Martin by any chance, have you?"
The color fled from the maiden's face to return in a bright blush and she lifted her paws to hide a grin. "Brother Martin? C-certainly not... Heeheehee... But perhaps there is somebeast who can help you-!" she collapsed into giggles, pointing a paw helplessly in the direction of a cracked doorway.
On tip-paws, with a heart far more nervous than it should be, the thief neared the door. There was a clink of cutlery, and a clear little voice.
"Oh, Lady Thyme, do fork over the turnip flan."
"Why certainly, Miz Ansley. Sir Knight, would you please pour the Lady Undril some o' that blackb'rry corjul?"
"Of course, Milady, I'd be delighted," there was a clink and a rustle. "And would the Lady Ansley care for another piece of cake?"
The door slid open not long after the warrior's deep voice quieted.
"You bet your snout I would! Er, uh… I mean, certainly, Sir."
"S-Sir Fuzzy Whiskers?" Gonff scoffed from the doorway, "haven't you the manners to invite yore best matey for tea? I'm sure he'd dearly enjoy a slice of cake-the one with the meadowcream frosting, perhaps?"
Martin froze, slack-jawed. A little molemaid's teacup was overflowing and the rich blackberry cordial spilling over the dainty pink tablecloth and spreading toward the delicate porcelain plates laden with little deadly battleblade, held carefully aloft, was smeared with meadowcream icing. The prized armor, lovingly cared for all these long seasons was painted- harmlessly, of course- in colorful rainbows, hearts, and images of little maiden princesses ranging in species from mole to squirrel to mouse.
"Gonff...?" Martin ventured, his voice tight with the shock of embarrassment and his face a deeper red than even his cape.
A wicked grin spread across the Mousethief's face. "Yes, Sir Rainbow Bottom?"
"You..." The party of princesses were watching the grown males with giddy interest. "You will never speak of this... To anybeast..."
"Ohoho no, matey," Gonff was edging out of the doorway, and disappeared with a mad cackle. "You can't get out of this!"
"Offen wi' 'ees 'ead, zurr Marthen!"
He wished he could have seen the princess-patterned warrior vault over the lacy tea table and rip off the filly pink napkin that had been tucked neatly between his gorget and breastplate, but Gonff's old legs could only carry him so far before he was caught- and he'd eat his own tail if the entire abbey didn't see their warrior dressed to the nines in fairy-princess finery.
And that is how the Champion of Redwall and all Mossflower came to be known as Sir Fuzzy Whiskers of the Rainbow Glitter Round Table- may vermin tremble at his sparkly wrath.
A/N: I got tired of gloomy Martin. Not exactly how it played out in my head, but I'm sure you can embellish some. Originally this was going to be an addition to Something Stronger Than Time, but I separated it because of its length. Hope it made ya chuckle at least.