“Stop! Thief!”

Contrary to what most people would believe, being a petty criminal was very much a learning experience. For instance, Will Fletcher was currently learning just how fast he could run. He was also arriving at the disconcerting conclusion that it wasn’t entirely fast enough. His feet hammered against the dirt road, kicking up small clouds of dust as he sprinted for all he was worth. His breath was coming in short and ragged gasps, and his lungs were balls of fire that threatened to explode from his chest at any moment. Blood streamed down his left side, soaking through his tunic and dripping from the hem to vanish into the dust.

This, he reflected, was not going very well at all.

He’d only just arrived in Lawley. He’d initially tried to maintain a low profile – staying quiet, fading into the background, not actually starting any of the brawls he leapt in on. It had been going well. Until that morning. It was market day in the town. Lots of traveling merchants, many of them unjustly well off, had been walking around with corpulent purses. All he’d done was slit one set of purse strings off of some lump dressed in silk and gold filigree. He’d have gotten away clean if it hadn’t been for the bugger’s wife. The harpy had spotted him, and immediately started shrieking at the top of her lungs. The next thing he knew, guards were materializing out of the stonework and descending upon him.

The chase ensued. Fletcher had pulled out every trick he remembered, ducking and weaving, darting into alleys, overturning flimsy stalls and barrels of apples to slow his pursuit. He was close to getting away too. He’d stolen some trader’s decrepit nag and kicked the thing into a gallop toward the town gates, out into the countryside. He’d only gotten a hundred feet past the gates when some bugger of a guard with a crossbow decided to get smart and advance his own career by terminating Fletcher’s. The first bolt shot the horse out from under him. The second had shorn through his side, grazing against his ribs as he fell. Swearing, he’d looked up to see the entire contingent of the Lawley Town Guard pelting towards him on foot, spears and swords glinting viciously in the sun.

So he’d run.

They’ll get tired, he told himself. Or bored. It’s not like I have the bloody purse anymore. But apparently crime wasn’t nearly rife enough in Lawley, as these guards had little interest in anything besides chasing Fletcher into an early grave. Grumbling an oath between wheezing breaths, Fletcher veered off the road, skidded down a pile of scree, sprinted across a meadow and through a copse of trees into a tomato patch. The tomato patch sat near a small serf’s cottage. He couldn’t keep running. He could barely move. He lurched over to the cottage door and began hammering on it. He could hear the approaching clanking of the guards, and somewhere, the baying of hounds. Please, please, please…

Catria was not in a particularly good mood today. Though Catria was hardly ever in a good mood these days. It was mostly the work of her new Lord. Catria could laugh at the whole situation. She was several years older than him and yet they expected him to run a Fiefdom properly. It was preposterous! She hated the whole idea. There were others who could do the job better than he could. She ground her teeth in frustration just thinking about it. There was also the matter of her son. Torin was being really nasty this morning. She begged Neil to take him to the market with him.

He agreed, grudgingly.

The day was warmer than she had expected it to be. After a morning of tending to her tomatoes, she had retreated inside to avoid the worst of the heat. Though it was cooler indoors, still sweat made locks of her orange hair stick to her forehead. She wiped her face with the back of one arm. There was nothing left to do in the house. She had already cleaned every surface there was to clean. She knew that there was laundry to do but oddly enough, she just didn't feel like doing it. There wasn't much else to be done today unless she wanted to go to the market and find the rest of her family. She sighed with indecision.

Then she heard a knock on the door.

Not just knocking but pounding. Were Neil and Torin back already? She groaned. If that was the case, Torin must have done something bad to make Neil take him home so early. That was just her luck at the moment. But wait. If it was Neil, he wouldn't be knocking, especially like that. For a moment, Catria was frightened of burglars and murderers. Then she shook her head. Those people wouldn't knock either. She didn't waste time getting to the door. That knocking sounded pretty urgent to her. She opened the door and was surprised. There was a young man there, not too much older than her. He looked like a horrid mess. She looked behind him to see her tomatoes nearly destroyed. The sound of guards and dogs could be head not too far in the distance.

"Um, hello. Is there anything I can help you with?" she asked, still stunned.

Fletcher leaned against the door as he pounded on it, legs and lungs burning alike. Blood from the gash in his ribs had been steadily dripping down his side, his hip, his leg, and now pooled within his boot. His thoughts raced as the sounds of pursuit grew closer... What if there was nobody home? What if they turned him in for a fat prize? At best, he'd be tried as a cut-purse and would lose a hand. At worst (and the worst case scenario was looking increasingly likely), he'd find himself doing a gallows jig. And all over a few stupid sterlings...

The door opened, and Fletcher fell in, barely catching himself as he staggered over the threshold. Recovering his balance, he slammed the door behind him, latching it securely. There was a woman standing there, wide-eyed and young. Her mouth was moving, but the blood throbbing in Fletcher's ears drowned her words out.

"Help me," he gasped, feeling a touch lightheaded. "Hide me!" he looked into her eyes pleadingly. "Please!"

The dogs she heard before could be seen running through the forest now. She was sure that they couldn't see her. Otherwise they'd also be able to see the bloodied man that lay before her. They were surely following him. She would have told him to get lost. Especially because of what he'd done to her tomatoes. She doubted there was even one plant that made it through unharmed. Didn't he know that they needed that food through the winter?

Yet before she could even say a word, he had already entered her house and locked her door. She was still too stunned to even move. Though now that he was inside, she could really get a better look at him. He was quite handsome with those chiseled features of his. What was wrong with her? She had to shake her head of this nonsense. She also noticed that he was badly injured. The wound in his side was still oozing blood. She sighed. She really couldn't turn him away now that she knew he was injured.

"Yes." she said simply. If they came to her door, she would tell them that she heard knocking but didn't answer. She lead the injured man to her cellar door and opened it. "You can hide down here until they leave. But when they do, I will need to know why you are being chased and who you are. Do you understand?"

Fletcher sought for some charming, witty assurance to offer this newfound guardian angel. But as it happened, he had neither words nor breath. "Yes," he emphatically panted instead, followed by a heartfelt, "thank you."

His gracious savior ushered him into the root cellar, and he wasted no time in taking advantage of this hiding place. He hunkered down among the drying herbs and jars of preservatives and watched the door swing shut, plunging him into a subterranean gloom, the only illumination coming from the crack in the door.

Here in the cellar, his raspy breathing felt entirely too loud. He took deep gulps of air and then held them, waiting for his racing heart to slow into individual beats. Would the dogs track him? Would they search the cellar? Would his mysterious (and not entirely unattractive) benefactress keep his presence secret? Or would he be turned in for a minor bounty? He tried to queel these thoughts, and in the few moments of stillness afforded to him, took advantage of the time to gingerly examine his wound. It was too dark to see (of which he was rather thankful - being witness to his own insides was not an experience he was anxious to have), but he was able to feel out the ragged edges of the injury with his fingertips, wincing with pain as he did so. He began to feel light-headed...

Stop the blood. He had to stop the blood. How? Pressure, that was right... He shoved his hand into the hole the arrow had made in his shirt and pressed it against the ragged opening, nearly fainting as he pushed down, feeling the exposed muscles over his ribs against his fingers.

Then came the pounding of a fist on the door - not frantic as his had been, but authoritative and strong. A chill crept from the top of his scalp to the base of his spine and he held his breath as shadows danced across the crack of light in the cellar door...

OOC: POSTED WITH THE WRONG ACCOUNT

The door closed and she was aware of barking dogs somewhere outside her home. She listened and could not hear the thunking of footsteps though she knew that the young man was heading down the stairs. She thanked God that the old, wooden steps did not creak, unlike everything else in her home. She could hear the guards talking now. They were talking about the man she was hiding, saying words like 'thief' and 'noose'. Catria was now happy that she decided to hide this man. She couldn't have someone die at her expense.

Then she heard the knock on her door. She could tell it was the guards because unlike her thief, they knocked politely but loudly. What would happen to the thief if they decided to search the house? What would happen to her if they found him? She tried her best to look calm as she opened the door. Calm but frightened, if she was to stick to her story. The two guards were older and muscled. The thief might have been able to get away from them if he wasn't hurt. But if they tried to grab Catria, she was doomed.

She put on the best frightened serf act that she could. "Thank goodness you're here! Some man knocked at my door a moment ago covered in gore. I didn't answer it for I was frightened that he might have hurt me. Could you look for him for me?" she asked.

The guards could not make heads or tails of this. They were about to ask her if she had seen a thief wandering around. But she had asked them? They didn't know what to do but keep looking. "Sure thing ma'am." one of them said and they walked off, still searching.

Catria closed the door and looked out the window to make sure they were really leaving before she grabbed a cloth and went back into the cellar. She could see him trying to stop the bleeding. She took the rag she had and pressed it against his wound. "They have left for now but you should stay down here in case they come back. What happened?" she asked, her fingers wet with his blood.

Fletcher listened with relief as the woman - his rescuer - quick-wittedly fooled the men who'd been chasing him, sending them off on a wild goose chase. She was good, heading them off like that...

The cellar door opened again, and a moment later she was kneeling over him, administering to his injury. Removing his hand for favor of her cloth as a bandage, he observed the blood that soaked his fingers and palm with a sort of morbid fascination. He hear her voice again, slightly less harsh as it had been when she'd spoken to him earlier. "They have left for now but you should stay down here in case they come back. What happened?"

A string of answers floated through his mind. There had been a mistake. He'd been stabbed in a forbidden duel. It was a case of mistaken identity. He'd stolen the Lady Lawley's jewels right from her bedroom and leapt from the window, racing across the rooftops in an epic and roguish chase...

"I picked some bloke's pocket and got a crossbow bolt in me side," he replied instead, condensing his afternoon's adventures into the shortest sentence he could. Normally Fletcher was a thief and a liar, but today he wasn't doing very well at being either. But it wouldn't feel right lying to someone who'd just saved his life. "Ow!" He doubled forward as her fingers struck a tender point.

She he had been cutting purses had he? If she let him stay here, and if Neil didn't throw him out as soon as he saw him, she would demand that he find some way to give the money back. But at least he wasn't a liar. She would give him that much. "That was a foolish thing to do. You could have been hanged if you were caught."

The blood had now seeped through the old cloth. It wasn't clotting as fast as it should be. Catria knew that was a sign that something was wrong. If she didn't do something fast, this man could bleed to death. She felt dizzy at the thought that a man could possibly die in her home. She could not do this on her own. How she hated to admit that, even to herself.

She pressed down a little harder and he cried out in pain. "Sorry but it shall hurt a bit if we are to stop the bleeding." she said. She didn't state the obvious part which was 'before you die'. She needed to find someone who knew about medical things. But who could she find? She had heard from some serfs about a physician wandering around in Lawley. What was his name again? It had to do with birds. Finch! That was it. His name was Thomas Finch.

"Stay here, I'll be right back." she said and got up. There was so much dust down there she sneezed. She ran up the stairs and out the back door of her home. The change in light made her have to squint to see. She saw Patrick, the eight-year-old son of their neighbors and waved him over. "Go find Thomas Finch and bring him here as fast you can. Can you do that?" she asked, breathless. He nodded and ran off.

Catria made her way back indoors and into the cellar. "I've called for a physician. I can not do this myself. I do not know how long it will take before he gets here."

Fletcher rolled his eyes when she lectured him on the foolishness of stealing. It was well and good for honest people to make honest money, but he'd been dishonest for so long, stealing was the only way he could eat. And he didn't have to be warned of the gallows... he'd seen too many friend go to the gibbet to be unaware of the risks.

He was mulling over some suitably dry reply when he caught sight of the worried expression on her face. This gave him pause. She seemed a very practicle, unflappable sort so far. If his injury was giving her worry... well, it appeared as if he might be in trouble. His suspicions were confirmed when she ducked out and returned, announcing that she'd had a physician sent for. Was it that bad? The wound wasn't too deep, was it?

"Hopefully he won't take too much of his dear sweet time," he murmured, curling up around his torn side. The adrenaline that had coursed through his veins since the cry of 'stop thief' had ceased to flow, and the natural anesthetic was gone. He sought for something to distract himself from the pain with, and settled on his hostess' face. She was startlingly pretty, her face having managed to keep a softness that a serf's life tended to scour away from most folk. "Sorry fer bleedin' on yer floor, miss." He tried to offer an apologetic smile, but it became more of a grimace.

Thomas was used to being bothered at all hours--and consequently, due to a late-night call the day before, he was asleep when Patrick hammered at his door.

Thump. Thump.

The sounds wormed their way into his dream. It was a dream in which he held his wife, and whispered into her hair, but could never see her face. The thumping cut off any words of hers he might have heard, and he jerked away with the sense of being torn away from something profound, alone. He'd fallen asleep sitting in his armchair, and he spotted Patrick's face through the window before anything else. The little boy was jumping up and down, waving his arms.

A call, then. Thomas stumbled to his feet and made for the corner of the room, where he'd rested his supply-case, then wrenched open the door.

"What's the matter?"

The boy shrugged. "Missus Sullivan sent me."

"Can you show me her house, boy?" He reached into his purse and pulled out three pennies, which he pressed into the little boy's hand.

Patrick nodded, eyes wide, and closed his finger around the coin.

Thomas hurried after him, hoping this would not prove to be the disaster last night's emergency had been.

He pushed the door open, when they got there, and made his own way inside.

"Mistress Sullivan? What seems to be the problem?"