This story is somewhat of a prequel to The Marshall and His Lady, written to explain the look that Éomund gives his son as he mentioned Théodwyn's rule against swords in the hall. No need to read both for either to make sense, I just thought I'd give that bit of background.
March 3, 3002
Spring was long in coming to the Riddermark, and the lingering cold and snow had kept many indoors far longer than was their custom. When a late snow storm blew across the plains for three days, leaving deep drifts of snow that were nearly as tall as a man in some places, the tempers of even the most mild and patient of the Eorlingas were sorely tested and frayed. Whines, scuffles and warmed bottoms could be found on an almost daily basis in most households that included children.
At last the storm blew itself out, and the sun returned to a perfectly blue sky that made a mockery of the frigid cold that still lingered.
By midday, paths had been cleared throughout the town of Aldburg, and the cold had brought most to the warmth and comfort of a fire, a hot meal and, most importantly, company in the main hall.
Ingvild, chatelaine to the marshal and lady of Aldburg, faced an endless battle against the snow and the mud tracked in by each pair of boots that crossed the threshold into the hall. At least one of the servants had been working to keep the floor dry throughout the morning, and after most of the riders had finished their meal and returned either to their barracks to to their duties on the town walls every servant who could be spared from the kitchens and other household duties had returned to the fray, armed with buckets and rags, and led by Ingvild herself.
Suddenly the door leading to the private quarters of the Marshal and his family burst open hard enough to bounce off the wall, and two boys on the verge of becoming young men came running through, yelling and jeering at each other as they sparred with their wooden practice swords.
They did not notice how the sudden noise and commotion had startled those who had remained within the hall.
Nor did they notice that Ingvild was on her hands and knees next to a bucket of warm water not far from the door, cleaning the flagstones that made up the floor.
One of the boys noticed her at the very last moment, and tried to stop his companion from backing into her, but it was too late. The boy's boot collided with her ankle, and he fell backwards, sword flying from his hand as he tried desperately to break his fall.
Fortune was with him enough that he avoided landing completely on top of the chatelaine, but she was knocked onto her hip, her back and legs twisting under the force of the impact.
He was not so lucky as to miss the bucket. It was knocked over with a loud thud and a splash, and the warm water ran out across the floor in a flood of suds.
Both boy and woman were quickly soaked, and many others had to scramble to avoid getting their feet or clothing wet as the water spread.
Over all the commotion, before the unfortunate boy had even fully landed on the floor, a voice rang out clear and loud.
"Éomer, son of Éomund…"
Éomer looked up at his friend, eyes pleading for help to get up before his mother arrived, but Éothain merely looked back at him with an expression of panic as the lady of the hall sailed towards them through the crowd. Giving Éomer a small helpless shrug, he took a tiny step backwards. The look in Éomer's eyes turn from a plea for help to a silent promise of retribution as he scrambled to get his feet under him, splashing yet more water over his tunic and, inadvertantly, Ingvald as he did so.
Théodwyn walked through the water, her lips set in a hard line and her eyes fierce as she looked at her son. She came to the aid of Ingvild before addressing her son, helping the older woman to stand even as Éomer did. When Éomer tried to apologize his mother silenced him with a look before returning her attention to the chatelaine, and escorting her to where the floor was dry before releasing her to the care of one of the younger maids.
Ingvild gave a small sympathetic smile and murmured to Théodwyn as they walked towards where the floor was dry. "Do not be too hard on them, my lady, for no real harm has been done. Boys will be boys, after all."
Théodwyn returned the smile with a tight one of her own and replied in a voice only Ingvild could hear. "You are most kind, Ingvild, but I have had enough. More than enough. He must learn to consider the consequences of his actions if he is to become a marshal one day."
Ingvild's smile grew a little as she nodded, for she had also raised sons and so understood her lady's frustration, and then she moved carefully off towards the kitchens to get dry. She limped slightly, favoring the hip that was sure to be bruised by the next morning, and her soaked leather shoes made squelching noises in the hush that had fallen over the hall.
Once the door to the kitchens had closed behind the chatelaine Théodwyn returned to her son, who had crouched down to right the bucket while she was assisting Ingvild, and had started to try to mop up some of the water with the already soaking wet rag. He straightened when he saw she as approaching, dropping the rag into the bucket with a plop, and started talking while she was still several feet away.
"I am sorry, Mother. We did not mean…"
"Have you not been told that you are not to burst through that door in such a way?"
His voice dropped a little as he answered quickly, "Yes, Mother. But how..."
"And have I not warned you that someday someone might be on the other side of the door and be hurt if you were not more careful?"
"Yes, Mother. But it was..."
"And yet you still do it. That wall has had to be patched three times already this winter!"
"But, Mother, Ingvild was not hurt! Not seriously at least, and…"
"Enough! I will hear no excuses for your behaviour, not this time. This time it will be up to your father to decide what your punishment is to be, since you will not listen to me."
Éomer blanched and his eyes grew wide again, this time with fear.
Sighing with exasperation Théodwyn looked about hall, taking in the full extent of the mess. After a moment she looked at her son and softened a little. "Are you hurt?"
He shook his head vigorously. "No, Mother"
Théodwyn nodded briskly, and her eyes hardened again. "Good."
She held out one hand to him. "Bring me your sword." After a moment's hesitation, which caused her to lift her brows, Éomer quickly fetched his sword from where it had fallen to the floor and brought it to her. She tucked it through her belt, heedless of the way it was dampening her skirts, and then looked at her son sternly.
"Since you seem unable to learn when and where it is appropriate to wield this sword it is now mine." Éomer started to protest but she silenced him with a look and raised brows. "It will be returned to you when I think that you are ready for it, but you will not be allowed to have it in this hall again, for any reason, save to carry it from the doors directly to your room. Is that clear?"
Éomer nodded meekly, and Théodwyn nearly smiled at the glum expression on his face. Receiving his first true practice sword from his father was a source of great pride for a boy of the Mark, and to have it taken away by his mother… But better wounded pride than a broken arm. Or worse.
"What else am I to do, Éomer? You will not listen to what I tell you, so what else is there for me to do to make you understand? You must learn to think of the consequences your actions might have on those around you, and if this is the only way to teach you..."
Éothain tried to take another small step back, and Théodwyn speared him with a glance. "I will make sure that your parents know of this as well, mark my words, Éothain. I am sure your mother will be no more pleased with your actions than I am with Eomer's."
Éothain gulped audibly, but then nodded and mumbled "Yes, my lady. I mean, no, my lady."
Théodwyn sighed before continuing. "Now, you will both go to Ingvald and apologise to her for the harm you caused her. Then, while we wait for your fathers to return from their duties you will clean up this mess you have created, and you will finish the work that Ingvild was doing before you interrupted her. This entire floor is to be clean before the evening meal, or you will answer to me further. Go, make your apologies, then get rags and fresh water from the kitchen. And do not dawdle."
She cut her son off even as he opened his mouth with what she knew would be another protest. "Yes, Éomer, Éomund's son, you will clean the floor like one of the servants. A few hours of menial labor will surely be far less of a trial to you than Ingvild's ankle and hip will be to her for the next days. And maybe the work will help you learn to show more consideration for those who do it for you daily."
He nodded meekly, looking at the toes of his boots. "Yes, Mother."
When the boys simply continued to stand before her, looking down at the floor that still swam with soapy water, she raised her eyebrows again. "Well? Why are you still standing here?"
The boys turned towards the kitchen and started to walk away before Théodwyn said softly "Éomer... the bucket?"
He turned back around, scooped up the handle of the bucket and then jogged a few steps to catch up to Éothain. He did not see that his mother watched them go with an expression of exasperation mixed with humor and love before she walked through the door to the family's quarters to put away the sword and change her own shoes.
AN: Huge thanks to Thanwen, Gwynnyd, Lialanthuveril and Sian22 for their feedback and suggestions! As always, I appreciate it more than I can express.