The compassionate Father Abbot consoled the sad squirrel: ‘Jess, it’s no fault of yours. There was not a thing that you could have done, my friend. The fall was so great that no creature could have survived it. Tomorrow we will search again, then we must bury my old companion Methuselah. Poor mouse, he never did anything to deserve such a cruel fate.’
The Abbot pointed to the tapestry, shaking his head. ‘See, my old gatehouse-keeper’s last good work. He restored Martin to his place of honour. Methuselah was the gentlest mouse I ever knew. Oh what a tragic waste of two lives: one who spent his years in search of knowledge, the other cut down before his tree of youth had chance to blossom!’
Cornflower spoke up. She was dry-eyed and pale, her paws tightly clenched. ‘Father Abbot, the loss of Matthias’s life was not a waste; it was a tremendous act of bravery and self-sacrifice. He died trying to aid Redwall and all of us in the struggle against the forces of evil, as did his friend Methuselah. I am sure that this is the way they would wish to be remembered in our hearts, as warriors and heroes.’
There was an instant murmur of approval from all present. Overcome by the sad events, the defenders left the hall, some to do guard duty, others to their beds.
Constance remained sitting upon the floor, her face expressionless, the mighty paws clenching and unclenching. Brother Alf rose and stretched.
‘You’d best get some sleep, Constance.’
The badger stood up wearily and rubbed her eyes.
‘No thank you, Brother. I couldn’t sleep a wink at a time like this. You know how it is.’
Brother Alf sighed deeply. He knew, having watched Matthias since the first day he arrived at the Abbey gates, a woodland orphan, always polite, willing, and cheerful. But now….
‘Come with me then,’ said Alf. ‘I’ve got work to do. There’s all the fishing nets to be laid for the night. Perhaps you’d like to come along and help me?’
Glad of the chance to do something, the badger agreed. She and Alf strode off, talking of old times.
‘D’you remember that big grayling that you and Matthias caught?’ Constance said.
Brother Alf chuckled. ‘Do I! Matthias wouldn’t be satisfied until that fish was landed on the bank. I was all for giving up, but not him.’
Constance nodded admiringly. ‘Aye, that fish fed the whole Abbey! I remember, because I had three helpings, two less than that spiky wastebin Ambrose.’
Strolling leisurely around the bank of the Abbey pond the two companions gathered up the nets preparatory to spreading them upon the water. Brother Alf went further along the bank looking for floats. Constance was about to sit down at the water’s edge when she heard Alf calling: ‘Constance, look! Down here! There’s a sparrow!’
The badger ran and joined the mouse, looking to where he pointed. Sure enough, half in and half out of the water was the body of King Bull Sparra. With a great splash Constance waded into the shallows and dragged the corpse up on to the mossy bank.
‘It looks as if he’s been drowned, Brother. Quick, get some help and bring lanterns. Hurry!’
The badger thrashed about in the water. Why, oh why, hadn’t the search party thought of looking in the Abbey pond?
Help arrived swiftly.
‘Out of the way, Constance! The rest of you keep those lanterns high.’ With hardly a ripple, Winifred and three of her otters slid into the water. As she swam Winifred issued orders. ‘Spread out and dive deep. We’ll quarter the pond between us. I’ll take the south corner.’
Tense moments ticked by. A crowd of creatures lined the banks. All that could be seen was the still dark water, broken at intervals as the sleek form of an otter surfaced and dived again.
A cry went up as Winifred appeared, towing a still shape. Willing paws dragged the otter’s burden up on to the bank.
Shaking herself like a dog, Winifred panted, ‘Look what I found half-sunk in the water over there. It’s a good job the rushes held him up.’
Creatures crowded around, all asking the same questions.
‘Is it Matthias?’
‘Is he dead or alive?’
Constance pushed her way through to the limp, sodden figure. The Abbot and Cornflower were close behind her.
Abbot Mortimer appealed to the onlookers, ‘Give us room there! If you really want to help, then stand back, please. Someone give Cornflower a lantern. Good mouse, hold it up.’
Obediently the crowd fell back. More lanterns were brought forward. The Abbot worked feverishly, resuscitating, levering and pounding the prone form of Matthias.
Cornflower voiced the question that was on the mind of every creature there. ‘Oh Father Abbot! Is he alive? He doesn’t seem to be moving.’
The otter clamped a damp paw about her shoulders. ‘Hush now, the Abbot is doing everything in his power. We will know soon enough.’
Brother Alf pushed through, carrying something. ‘Winifred, one of your otters has just come up with this sword belt and scabbard. He found them near where Matthias was.’
‘Bring them forward,’ said Constance. ‘They may be of some help if Matthias opens his eyes. You never know.’
The Abbot beckoned urgently. ‘Cornflower, give me that lantern, child. Quickly!’
Holding the lantern-glass close to Matthias’s nose and mouth, the Abbot was rewarded by the sight of the faint mist that appeared on it. ‘He lives! Cornflower, Matthias is alive! Bring blankets, get a stretcher, we must get him inside the Abbey….’
Without a word to anyone, Constance lifted Matthias gently as if he weighed no more than a feather. Carefully the big badger clasped the young mouse close into the warmth of her rough coat. The crowd formed an aisle either side of her as she strode swiftly to the Abbey. Lanterns bobbed about in the darkness like fireflies as the great Joseph Bell tolled out a message of joy and hope to Mossflower.
THE NEW DAY dawned in a haze of soft sunlight. It crept across the countryside suddenly to expand and burst forth over all the peaceful woods and meadowland. Blue gold tinged with pink, each dewdrop turned into a scintillating jewel; spiders’ webs became glittering filigree, birdsong rang out as if there had never been a day as fresh and beautiful as this one.
The extravaganza of nature’s glory was completely lost upon Cluny the Scourge. His one good eye squinted upwards through the smoke of the morning campfires.
‘Huh, it’s going to be as hot as hell’s furnace, but at least it won’t rain,’ he muttered aloud to himself.
Under the impatient eye of the Warlord, Cluny’s horde gulped down a hasty meal and scurried about picking up weapons. Suitably geared for battle, they quickly fell into ranks.
Cluny’s personal armourer put the final touches to his Chief’s war apparel. With the tip of the standard Cluny signalled his captains. Darkclaw, Frogblood, Fangburn, Cheesethief, Scumnose, and Mangefur scrambled into their positions.
As yet Cluny had not chosen a new second-in-command, though he had let it be known that any of his followers who distinguished himself in the coming battle would receive immediate promotion in the field. Killconey the ferret stood alongside his Chief with a drum that he had made from an old water butt. He had unofficially appointed himself drummer-cum-soothsayer. The ferret watched Cluny intently; the Chief was going to speak. He banged the drum, calling the horde to silence. Cluny lifted the visor of his war helmet and stared out across the waiting horde.
‘This time there will be no mistakes!’ he yelled. ‘And there will be no retreat! We stay, even if it means putting Redwall to siege. We stand firm! Anyone who takes one backward step is dead. Anyone who disobeys orders is dead. Anyone who does not fight tooth and claw with all of his might is also dead.
‘That is my promise, and Cluny always keeps his word. Hear me! All we face is a lot of peaceful mice and some local woodland creatures. Defeat them and I will give you rewards you never dreamed of. The enemy are not trained fighters like we are, not natural killers. There is not one among them who can lead as I lead you.’
/> At the centre of the front rank stood a rat who had been wounded in the first encounter at the Abbey. He whispered out of the corner of his mouth to his comrade-in-arms alongside him, ‘Huh, leads us my foot! Last time we attacked he stood well out of the way, back in some meadow.’
The sharp ears of Cluny had caught what the unfortunate soldier had said. The Warlord leaped down from his rostrum and seized the trembling miscreant, booting him forward into plain view of the army.
‘See this traitor?’ Cluny shouted. ‘Here’s a rat who doesn’t think I lead my horde. Cluny the Scourge sees and hears all. Watch now, and let this be a lesson to anyone that dares doubt me.’
The wretched rat soldier lay shaking on the churchyard path. A hush fell across the entire horde. He stared beseechingly into the merciless eye of Cluny.
‘Oh please, Chief, it was only a joke, I didn’t mean to—’
Crack!
The powerful tail whipped expertly out, slashing across the rat’s face with its poisoned metal war barb. The army looked on in horror as the stricken victim shuddered and lay dead at Cluny’s feet. Ignoring the slain soldier, Cluny the Scourge pushed his way roughly through the horde until he reached the cemetery gates. It was going to be a long march to Redwall, burdened as they were with the battering ram and all the paraphernalia of destruction. They would have to camp overnight by the roadside, and the great attack upon Redwall would take place early the next day. There was to be no secrecy. For maximum effect the army must be seen marching boldly up to the very gates of the Abbey in full array.
Cluny shook his standard. As the ferret’s drum thundered out he roared madly, ‘On to Redwall! Smash the gates! Kill, kill!’
The shimmering heat waves from the road reverberated to the shouts of the horde: ‘Cluny, Cluny, kill, kill, kill!’
IN HIS FEVERED dreams the young mouse wandered through dark caverns. Somewhere a voice was calling out to him.
‘Matthias, Matthias.’
It sounded vaguely familiar, but he had other things to do than identify the voice. He must find the sword. In the stygian gloom he saw the late rose; it was bathed in a pale blue light. What was it doing here in this dark netherworld?
Matthias saw that all the tiny thorns on the rose stems resembled small swords. He felt he should speak to the rose.
‘Please tell me, late rose, where will I find the sword?’
The topmost rose quivered. He watched it blossom before his eyes. At the centre of the blooming petals was the face of Methuselah. ‘Matthias, my friend, I can help you no more. Seek out the aid of Martin. I must go now.’
The face of the old gatehouse-keeper faded. Slowly, his feet hardly touching the floor, Matthias travelled a long corridor. At its end were two figures. He halted by the first figure, unable to distinguish who it was, but feeling an aura of friendly kinship emanating from it. Matthias looked to the second figure. Here was something he had never before encountered. It had neither arms nor legs. With a hissing sound the spectral thing opened wide its mouth. Inside there were two sharp fangs and a flickering tongue which quivered and turned into a sword. With a cry of joy the young mouse started running forward, only to be restrained by the phantom figure of the first apparition. Matthias was not surprised to see that it was Martin the Warrior.
‘Martin, why do you stop me from getting the sword?’ he asked.
Martin’s voice was warm and friendly. ‘Matthias, I am that is. Stay! Beware of Asmodeus.’
Martin took hold of Matthias’s shoulder. The young mouse tried to wrench himself free.
‘Let me go, Martin! I fear no creature that lives.’
Martin tightened his hold relentlessly upon Matthias’s shoulder. Pain shot through him like a red hot lance. Martin cried out, ‘Hold him still now, hold him still!’
The agony increased. Matthias’s eyes snapped open.
‘Hold him still now, hold him still!’
It was the Father Abbot. He was saying the same words as Martin had said. Brother Alf held tight to Matthias’s shoulder as the Abbot dug deep with a probe. He extracted a dark pointed object which he tossed into a bowl that Cornflower was holding.
‘Ouch! That hurt, Father,’ Matthias said weakly.
The Abbot wiped his paws upon a clean cloth.
‘Well, my son, you are back with us at last,’ he said. ‘That must have hurt. There was half of a sparrow’s beak lodged in your shoulder.’
Matthias blinked and looked about. ‘Hello, Cornflower. You see, I got back in one piece. Oh hello, Brother Alf. I say, is that Basil in the next bed?’
‘Hush now, Matthias, and lie still,’ Cornflower chided him. ‘You’re lucky to be alive. It was touch and go right through the night.’
Abbot Mortimer pointed at the first rays of sun streaming in through the window. ‘Yes, but you are back now; and see, you’ve brought with you a magnificent June summer morning.’
The young mouse lay back upon the crisp white pillows. Aside from a bursting headache and the pain in his shoulder it felt good to be alive.
‘But what’s Basil doing asleep in the next bed?’ he persisted.
‘Oh him,’ Cornflower chuckled. ‘He says that he has an honourable war wound that requires a lot of food and rest, the old rogue.’
‘That may be,’ replied the Abbot. ‘But it would be churlish to begrudge Basil’s requests. After all, he did recapture our tapestry from Cluny. It was a very daring deed.’
Matthias was delighted. ‘Martin’s tapestry, back here at the Abbey? How marvellous! I’ll bet old Methuselah is over the moon to have it back once more.’
There was a moment’s silence. The Abbot turned to Brother Alf and Cornflower. ‘Please, would you leave us alone for now? I have something to tell Matthias. You may visit him tomorrow. He still needs a lot of rest.’
The two mice nodded understandingly and left.
Half an hour later, after unfolding the sad tale of Methuselah, the Abbot also took his leave.
Matthias turned his face to the wall, bereft of any tears or lamentation after the stresses of the experience he had recently come through. The death of his old and valued friend left a feeling like a large leaden lump inside his chest. He curled up and tried to hide within himself.
How long he lay there, racked by grief and misery, he had no way of knowing. Basil Stag Hare awakened and called across, ‘What ho! Well, bless me medals if it ain’t young Matthias! How are you, laddie buck?’
Matthias replied in a small sad voice, ‘Please, Basil, leave me alone. I’ve lost Methuselah. I don’t want to speak to anyone.’
Basil hopped nimbly across and perched on Matthias’s bed. ‘There, there, young feller m’lad. Don’t you think I know how you feel? Good grief, an old campaigner like me? When I think of the chums I lost in bygone battles…. Good and true friends they were, but I taught meself to keep a stiff upper whisker, y’know.’
Matthias remained with his back turned upon the hare.
‘But you don’t understand, Basil.’
The soldierly hare snorted. He grabbed Matthias and turned him over so they were face to face.
‘Don’t understand? I’ll tell you what I don’t understand, young chip. I don’t understand how a chappie like yourself who is supposed to be a great warrior can lie there moping. You’re like an old lady otter who’s just lost a fish. If old Methuselah were here now, he’d chuck a jug of water over you and turf you right out of that bed on your fat little head!’
Matthias sat up and sniffed.
‘D’you think so, Basil?’
The hare slapped his ‘injured’ leg, winced, then laughed aloud. ‘Think so? I know so! Do you imagine that old mouse sacrificed his life so that you could lie about feeling sorry for yourself all day? Huh, he’d have told you himself. That’s not the way of a warrior. Get up, sir, stir yourself, make Methuselah proud of you!’
Matthias’s eyes gleamed with a new determination.
‘By golly, you’re right, Basil! That’s exactly
what my old friend would have wanted! I’m sorry; you must think I’ve behaved like a dreadful young fool.’
The hare’s ears flopped comically as he shook his head.
‘Not at all, m’dear feller; think nothing of it. I must confess that I was a bit like you when I was a leveret, y’know. Now, what d’you say we get about the business of living properly again? I say, I’m positively famished; what about you?’
Matthias could not help laughing at the irrepressible hare.
‘Well, I am a bit peckish, now you come to mention it.’
‘Capital,’ cried Basil. ‘I could eat a stag, antlers and all. I say, they do a wonderful nosebag for us wounded heroes, y’know. Just watch this, m’lad.’
The hare tinkled a small brass bell on the bedside table. Within seconds Friar Hugo and Cornflower appeared.
‘Ah yes, the catering staff,’ said Basil. ‘Er, harrumph! The other injured warrior here and myself would be greatly obliged for a little sustenance. Nothing too grand, y’know; just something for our poor wounded teeth to nibble on. Got to keep body and fur together, what, what?’
Cornflower was pleased to see Matthias looking so much better. She exchanged winks with him and Friar Hugo. The fat friar bowed in a servile manner as he answered the hare. ‘Very good, Mr Stag, sir. Two bowls of gruel coming up.’
Matthias and Cornflower struggled not to laugh aloud. Basil exploded. ‘Gruel! What the devil do you mean by gruel? What sort of slop is that to give renowned warriors, eh? We want to be cured, not killed! Now listen to me, you pair of scullery fusiliers, I want a decent brunch: half a dozen boiled eggs, some crisp summer salad, two loaves of hot bread, two hazelnut cream junkets, two – no, better make it four – oven-baked apple pies, oh, and chuck in some of those medium-sized quince tarts if you see any lying about. Well, don’t stand there with your great jaw flapping! Cut along now, quick as y’like.’
Cornflower curtsied with mock solemnity. Friar Hugo held up a paw. ‘You forgot the October nutbrown ale, sir.’
Basil thumped the bed. ‘Good Lord, so I did! Er, just four flagons, thank you, my good mouse.’