This is a silly little two-parter I wrote a few years ago, as sort of a continuing pre-prequel for Brego's Mistress.
Théodwyn grunted, and with a final heave forced herself through the open window. She threw her hands in front of her to break her fall, and grunted again as her rear end plummeted forward, and after a spectacular summersault, she landed on her back on the cool stone floor. She bit back a groan, knowing she would likely be bruised before the day broke.
But there was nothing for it, really, even as exciting as a story it would have made; she could not have told it to anyone apart from Alfrida, who in fresh youthfulness had acceded to Théodwyn's desire for secrecy. She picked herself up, already decided to wake her younger sister for a full account of the night's events and brushing the dust uselessly from her already filthy outfit. If her actions were not scandalous enough, her garb certainly would be. Her mother had forbidden trousers years ago, it was only a stroke of luck that she had been able to pilfer the necessary from Théodred, who had gone through a growth spurt in the past several months and had clothes to spare.
The smell of drying onions from above her head was becoming offensive, and without any further musings Théodwyn crept to the door of the kitchen, feeling her away around tables, chairs, and work surfaces. It would be some hours yet until the servants of Meduseld began the breakfast preparations, but the cook was of such a perspicacious nature that she would notice if anything had been budged out of place - and would certainly inform the king. Then Théodwyn's nightly outings would be abolished for good.
She put her ear to the door, listening for approaching guards. There were none, and with a sigh of relief she opened the creaking door and put her foot into the hallway. The soft-footed boots she wore made no noise, and feeling confident, she started towards the royal living quarters, stifling a yawn.
A faint, shuffling noise made her pause. The corridor was quite dark, but Théodwyn had always boasted fantastic hearing, and she felt her heart skip a beat when the sound came again.
If it were a guard, he would not be muffling his steps, which seemed to be the case here. There were no live-in servants at Meduseld, and unless her mother had requested companionship or some special duty (which you could never tell with Morwen), it would not be a servant either. Ever curious, Théodwyn turned on her feet and walked back in the direction of the hall, stopping at the entrance to peek at whatever had made the disturbance.
To her astonishment and causing her heart to suddenly pound very fast, there was a dark shadow - and a rather large one at that. It was moving about near the glowing embers of the hearth, though the light was not enough for her to see it face. It was all very suspicious, especially as she watched the figure move towards an old tapestry on the wall and began to fondle it, as if looking to remove it from its fastenings.
A thief! Théodwyn bit back a snarl, moving soundlessly back into the shadows and into the corridor, where she knew for a fact there hung several ornamental swords (an ancestor had been obsessed with such trinkets, and for the first time, she found herself thankful to have such eccentrics in her family). Fumbling along the stone wall, the tips of her finger met cool metal, and holding her breath, she lifted an irrationally heavy blade from its placement.
The thief was evidently very absorbed in his thieving, for he did not notice her approach and so jumped when she lifted the blade to where she estimated his head would be. He brought the loosed tapestry up to his nose, obscuring most of his face.
"Put it back!" she hissed. "And I will call the guards!"
There was a little bit of moonlight from the shafts in the ceiling, thankfully open for the summer. It struck the figure's face into pale relief, and a pair of wide hazel eyes stared down at her in surprise before crinkling at the corners. "Do ye not mean…put it back, or ye will call the guards?" It was a low, deep voice, and Théodwyn felt her cheeks flush as she realized there was no small amount of amusement in the voice as well.
"Certainly not," she said. "I mean, and. Whether you are a successful burglar or not, you deserve to be punished for it." The creases about his eyes deepened, and with a surge of irritation she realized that underneath his unkempt beard he was smiling!
"Do ye know how to use a blade, lass?" he asked.
"Er - yes! My, er - father taught me when I was a girl." The blade was trembling, and Théodwyn brought her other hand to the hilt to steady it. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
It was the man's turn to pause. "Er - " he said. "Burglaring."
She sniffed. "You are not very good at it, are you?"
"If I was, would ye be here asking me?"
It was a fair point, but she was not about to be drawn into a debate by a thief. "Put it back," she repeated.
"If I do, will ye agree not to call the guards?" His eyes were still smiling warmly at her, and she flushed in annoyance.
"No!"
"Then perhaps I will keep it, and take me chance with them. Clearly yer not to be reasoned with."
Théodwyn gaped. "You wouldn't!"
"Burglars are desperate types, you know." Despite the jesting, the man was already lowering the tapestry, and with a roguish smile, he tossed it towards a nearby table, missing his target completely. She stared after the tapestry, and then sensing the man shying away, she jabbed the sword closer to his neck, which she could see much better now. He lifted his hands hastily into the air, eyeing her warily. "I have left the tapestry," he said, the perfect image of calm. "Will ye not please, let me leave without calling the guards? It would get rather awkward, do ye not think? Questions about how ye came to find me in the first place, why a princess was wandering about in the dark of the night with a strange man -"
"How do you know who I am!" she accused, gripping the sword tighter.
"Why - everyone does. Yer the sister of the king!"
Théodwyn flushed again, and then realized he was right. There would be awkward questions, and Bema knew she did not want to answer any of them. "Very well," she said, starting to lower the sword. "I will not tell if you - "
He yelped, and she jumped back and dropped the sword. He was holding a hand to his right arm - was there red? Was he bleeding? Her mouth fell open in horror. "Look what ye've done now, lass," he growled. "Ye've gone and cut me!"
"Oh no!" she gasped, rushing towards the man as he fell to his knees, holding her hands out awkwardly in the direction of the wound. The sword fell from her grip, but was muffled by the fallen tapestry. She could not see any blood, but he was holding to his arms rather tightly after all. "I did not mean to!" she insisted. "It was an accident - "
He was looking at her with a strange expression, and when she met his eyes he groaned. "It'll be the death of me, lass," he managed. "Tell me ma I loved her, and that I never was a thief, no matter what ye say…tell her it was quick, that I did not suffer needlessly - "
"Shut it!"
The man obliged, and thinking fast, Théodwyn decided that the best course for the securing of her own safety, she ought to help him out of the hall as soon as possible. "Come with me," she whispered, and helped him to stand. He leaned heavily on her as they tramped through the hall, and as several minutes passed until they reached the kitchens, she did begin to wonder if he was dragging his feet on purpose.
He sat, keeping up his pretense of moaning in pain, while Théodwyn rummaged around to light a candle before fetching clean water and a cloth to tend to the wound. She peeled back the stained cloth around the wound, frowning. It was not nearly as bad as the thief was making it seem, and her opinion of him rather plummeted. As if it had been great to begin with.
"Wha's that?" he asked, eyeing the small bottle she uncorked before dampening a cloth with its contents.
"Pure spirits," she said, rather enjoying the way he visibly cringed.
"Och, now, I may have been overreacting a bit - I will take my leave - "
Théodwyn pushed him back into the chair, and gripping his arm firmly, pressed the spirits onto the wound. He groaned, and this time he was not faking. After a few moments he stopped making noise, though his eyes were squeezed shut. She dabbed the wound once more before cleaning it with fresh water.
"Tha's more like it," he muttered.
"Alcohol helps wounds to heal better," she informed him. "Unless you wanted your arm to turn green and fall off - well, if you are so inclined, I can cut you again. Bema knows the last time that sword was cleaned, anyway!"
His hazel eyes narrowed, and Théodwyn smothered a blush. Most men were disinclined to look at her so fearlessly; having a brother for a warrior king seemed to cool most passions. She tried hard not to think of the thief's arm, which was now looking very nice, tan and muscled, as she wrapped a bandage around it. And though his beard needed a very severe trim - it did not quite hide the strong chin which wore it.
"You ought to climb out this window," she said, pointing towards the very one she had entered before wiping her hands on a spare bandage.
"I suppose I've gone and overstayed my welcome, eh?" The twinkle in his eyes was back, and acting more resolutely than she felt, Théodwyn scowled and reached for the bottle of spirits and its cork. "Wait!" At her pause, the man picked up the bottle and took a sip - or rather, a very long drink, before he handed it back to her. "I shall always remember the hospitality of Meduseld," he grinned at her disbelief before standing, towering over her, and, she thought, standing rather close. She could smell the unfamiliar musk of him, feel the brush of his cloak against her legs, and see very faint freckles across his straight nose and disappear into his beard. She could even hear him breathe in, which sounded far more ragged than it should have, all things considered, but before she could consider them further his face lowered and her gasp was captured by his mouth.
Was he kissing her? He was kissing her!
"Perhaps I'll see ye again, little princess." With her mouth still hanging open, the man lifted her chin ever so slightly, and Théodwyn snapped her teeth together. But before she could open her lips once more, to give this thief the scolding of his life - at least, that is what she intended - he was already at the window, wrenching it open and putting a leg though. She received one last cheeky smile, which she nearly returned (on pure instinct), and the fluttering cloak disappeared.