Sela groaned despairingly as Cluny kicked her son viciously. ‘Who said anything ahout tunnelling, fox? I only mentioned digging.’
Sela attempted to save the situation. ‘Please, sir, take no notice of the young fool. All he meant was that when you said dig—’
A whack from the bannerstaff silenced Sela. Cluny’s voice was icy with condemnation. ‘Traitors! All that he meant was that you slipped up when you copied my plans for an attack with a battering ram. So now you know that I intend to tunnel into Redwall.’
Sela licked dry lips. She stared pleadingly at the Warlord; but there was no mercy in the single eye.
‘You know too much, vixen. You and your son played a dangerous game. Nobody outsmarts Cluny. I’ve won, and you have both lost.’
The foxes clasped their claws. They knelt, whimpering pitifully. Cluny stood over them, enjoying his power as judge. He signalled to Cheesethief and Darkclaw.
‘Take these miserable turncoats out of my sight. You know what to do.’
Shrieking and screaming for mercy, the foxes were dragged away. Cluny turned back to the ferrets, weasels and stoats.
‘Now, about this tunnel.’
MATTHIAS AND WARBEAK had made slow progress. The climb up to the arches and stained-glass windows was long and arduous. Matthias had relieved the sparrow of her brick to make the going easier, pinioning her wings instead. At intervals the young mouse drove spikes into the joints of the stone. He was careful not to look down: it was a terrifyingly impressive distance down to the Abbey floor. Only once did he risk a quick glance, not certain if the dark spot on the ground might be Methuselah watching them.
There was real peril negotiating the curve at the top of the arch. Hanging tightly to the spikes he had fixed, Matthias leaned out dangerously; there was nothing but determination and the strength in his paws to stop him from plunging down to a frightening death. Gritting his teeth, he made it to the apex of the arch. He reached over the stone ledge which divided the arch from the stained-glass windows above and, taking a firm grip, propelled himself upwards and sideways. His legs landed further along the ledge. With his cheek resting on the stone, he gave one last heave and rolled on to the safety of the ledge.
Sitting up, Matthias knotted two ropes together. He lowered them to Warbeak, who was waiting below at the base of the arch. The sparrow looped the rope about herself. As she climbed she aided Matthias by finding clawholds and making use of the spikes.
Leaning back against the stained-glass windows they ate lunch. Warbeak gave a twittering laugh.
‘Matthias um all red mouse.’
‘Ha, you should talk, Warbeak!’ Matthias replied. ‘Look at yourself. You’re blue all over.’
The bizarre effect was created by sunlight shining through the stained glass. As they ate, Warbeak would dodge her head from side to side, changing colour as she did so. ‘Lookee! Now me green, blue again, now red like um Matthias mouse.’
‘If you don’t sit still you’ll be white with fright, because you’ll fall,’ Matthias warned.
When they were sufficiently recovered to start again, Matthias tried the sandstone centre rib of the window. It was carved into a profusion of curlicues and niches which made the climb considerably easier. Soon they reached the wooden ridge at the bottom of the roof curvature. It was perilously narrow. Together they edged along it, their backs bent unsafely forward with the curve of the ceiling behind.
Neither of them was aware of the inquisitive, beaked face of a sparrow who watched them from the corner of a stained-glass window. It noted the would-be intruders, then flew off.
Matthias drew his dagger. He stuck it into the wooden ceiling to steady himself as they halted to look for the next loft door.
‘I can see it,’ said Matthias, ‘there, along to your left. You’ll have to lead, Warbeak.’
Gingerly the sparrow slid her claws along the smooth wooden ridge. Suddenly Matthias felt the dagger come free from the wood. He lost his grip and leaned outwards, teetering and waving his paws. Warbeak stopped him falling by pulling him back. The dagger went spinning down – it was a considerable time before they heard the faint clatter as it hit the Abbey floor.
‘Gosh!’ said Matthias in an awed voice. ‘I thought I’d had it then. I was certain I’d fall. Thanks for saving me, Warbeak.’
Gradually they inched their way along until they arrived beneath the loft door. It was too high and difficult for either of them to reach. Matthias made several attempts before he had to admit defeat. He sat upon the ridge, kicking his legs and feeling quite angry with himself, failure staring him in the face.
‘A fool, that’s what I am! A little fool, climbing all this way to be beaten by an old loft door.’
The sparrow tapped him with her claw. ‘Why not Matthias cut Warbeak free? Then fly with Sparra wings and open little worm door.’
Matthias looked blank. ‘Beg pardon?’
Warbeak explained again. ‘You no listen. Warbeak say, cut wings free, fly up and open door.’
‘Give me your sparrow’s word that you won’t fly off.’
‘Is good. Give Sparra word. Promise no ’scape.’
‘Swear by your mother’s egg.’
‘By mother’s egg, Warbeak swear.’
Matthias undid the twine that pinioned the sparrow’s wings, and Warbeak flapped her wings experimentally. ‘Long time no fly. Me good, you see.’
The young sparrow launched herself off the ridge. She went into a series of zooming circles and performed a few acrobatic turns for her friend’s benefit.
Matthias grinned. ‘Righto, I’m impressed. Now get back here, you little showoff, and open this door.’
Warbeak sped back, hovering level with the loft door as she set her claws into the latch. ‘Watch out…. Door open, fall on um mouse.’
The young mouse backed away as the sparrow released the door. It banged down hard, flapping on its hinges.
This time Matthias was aware that there would be a shower of falling dust when the door opened downwards. Wisely he had edged far enough along the ridge to avoid both the heavy door and the dust shower.
With Warbeak flying behind him as a backup in case he fell, Matthias used the open door as a ladder. He was soon up through the opening. Though the inside was dull and gloomy, he could see they were in a long trench-like defile, one side of which was a fairly straight wall while the other side was a high curving slope, the reverse side of the arched wooden ceiling.
Matthias called Warbeak to him. He undid the collar and lead from the sparrow’s neck, and packed them away in the haversack. He patted his flying friend. ‘Warbeak, I can no longer keep you collared. You are a free sparrow and a very good friend.’
The young sparrow blinked her fierce little eyes. ‘Matthias, my mouse friend. I no leave um. Stay with you.’
Together they spent several minutes searching the high ceiling above. Warbeak, having the advantage of flight, was first to find the final trapdoor which they had guessed must exist.
It was not a hard climb for Matthias, merely an excited and rather undignified scramble up the curving wooden roofback. This time they found that the door opened inwards. It was really heavy. The two companions strained together until it creaked loudly and opened.
Matthias scrambled through, followed by Warbeak. They found themselves completely surrounded by sparrows as the door slammed shut behind them. The birds argued and chattered aloud as they sprang upon Matthias, pinning him to the lid of the door with many claws. He was unable to move a single whisker. As quickly as it had started, the noise ceased. The flock of birds parted. Matthias found himself staring straight into the bold, aggressive face of a big, strong-looking male sparrow. The bird glared at him with a crazy light in its bright, mad eyes.
‘Mouse worm, you um my prisoner! This um court of Sparra! Me King Bull Sparra!’
THE BODIES OF Sela and Chickenhound, the two traitor foxes, lay limp in the ditch that ran alongside the road. The rats of Cluny’s horde had
executed them with spears and tossed them there. Sela lay still, her once bright, cunning eyes glazed over in death.
But gradually Chickenhound began to twitch and groan.
He was still alive!
The fox’s entire body was afire with pain. Twice they had stabbed him, once in the back leg, and again right through the loose skin and fur at the scruff of his neck. Chickenhound had screamed and fallen into the ditch, helped by the feet of the rat executioners. He had immediately blacked out. Sela’s carcass landed on top of her son’s body in the shallow, muddy water.
The rats were satisfied that both foxes were dead, and if they were not, well, who was going to climb down through all of those stinging nettles into the slippery ooze to find out? They hurled clods of earth at the prone forms in the ditch and stood watching them for a time. When flies began to gather on the foxes, the rodents lost interest and wandered off.
Chickenhound regained his senses. He lay quite still with Sela’s body draped across him. When he was satisfied that the coast was clear he struggled painfully clear of the grisly carcass that had once been his mother.
Old fool! She would never have been in this mess if she’d let a much younger and smarter fox handle things.
With a total lack of sorrow for his deceased parent, Chickenhound began figuring out his next move. He would have to lie low in this stinking ditch until darkness fell. Even though he was severely hurt, the irony of the situation caused the young fox a silent snigger. It was he, not his mother, who had outwitted Cluny. Now he would soon be free with the revised plans of the attack upon Redwall Abbey. Surely that would be worth something?
As soon as it was dark, Chickenhound made his move. He was only too glad to do so. Flies, wasps, worms, and all manner of crawlies had been thoroughly investigating him all afternoon. Slowly and carefully he rolled about in the thick mud until it formed a poultice, cooling the wounds in his leg and neck, preventing further blood loss. Under the cover of night he wobbled unsteadily to his feet, limping away up the bed of the ditch towards Redwall.
The going was painfully slow, but Chickenhound consoled himself on the long journey by boosting his own ego. ‘Maybe a silly bunch of rats could put one over on Sela. Huh, she was old and had lost a lot of her guile. Not like me! They hadn’t reckoned with a smart intelligent young fox like I am. I’ll show them! Revenge will be mine! They’ll see what it’s like to be up against an expert in espionage.’
Hours later, within sight of the Abbey walls, Chickenhound discovered a slope that was not too steep and started to pull himself up out of the ditch. He gasped and cried out in agony as he climbed. Using some creepers and an overhanging bush, the young fox finally made it to the road.
Completely exhausted, he lay in the dust. How long he had been dragging his wounded body along the ditch bed he could not tell. In his present weakened condition he could not go a step further, but fell into a state halfway between unconsciousness and sleep.
Silent Sam was Cornflower’s bodyguard on her nightly round of the ramparts. He marched solemnly by her side as she gave out mugs of hot soup to the grateful sentries that watched through the night hours. Ambrose Spike watched hungrily as she poured him a steaming mug of the delicious soup. The hedgehog thanked her profusely, hoping that there might be seconds after the others had been served.
‘What a thoughtful little body you are, Miss Cornflower. I always say there’s nothing like some good home-made vegetable soup to keep the life in my old spines. It’s a fair night, but mark you, it gets a bit chill ’twixt dark and dawn, m’dear.’
Whilst the hedgehog and the mouse were chatting, Silent Sam was never still for a second. He trotted about on the parapet, always sucking his paw, leaping from stone to stone, fighting off imaginary foes with his tiny dagger.
At first Cornflower thought he was play-acting as usual. The baby squirrel stood on top of the gatehouse threshold. Pointing down to the road with his knife, he beckoned Cornflower and Ambrose with his well-sucked paw to come and see something.
The young fieldmouse wagged her ladle. ‘Put that dagger away and stop your climbing, you little scamp.’
Silent Sam remained as he was, like a well-trained pointer dog.
‘P’raps he’s trying to tell us summat, Miss?’ grunted Ambrose. He waddled over to the parapet and looked down to where Sam pointed.
‘Well, bless m’soul, Miss Cornflower. I do believe that our little soldier ’ere has spotted a hobject. There’s a creature a layin’ down there, but I’m blowed if it’s fish or fowl, there’s so much mud and dust plastered on it,’ whispered the hedgehog. ‘You stay put, Missy. I’ll go and fetch help.’
Cornflower and Silent Sam stood looking down from the parapet. Ambrose, aided by Jess Squirrel and the Foremole, ventured out into the road to investigate. At their back stood a dozen stout mice guarding the gatehouse door under the command of Basil Stag Hare.
‘Steady in the ranks there,’ said the hare quietly. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for signs of ambush, and no talking now.’
Chickenhound was lugged inside as rapidly as possible. Unable to contain their curiosity, the defenders questioned the limp, half-awake fox as they carried him across the Abbey grounds.
‘Did your friends the rats do this?’
‘I suppose it’s sanctuary you want now?’
‘Harr, warra you’m be about, a layin’ in yon road?’
Chickenhound’s head flopped from side to side as he was borne along. He would only say one thing. ‘The Abbot. I must see the Abbot. Keep that badger away from me, or you’ll learn nothing.’
Basil dismissed the rearguard and caught up with Ambrose. ‘I say, you’d best get that rascal straight to the jolly old Abbot. Let him make his statement before he pegs out, don’cha know.’
Chickenhound was hauled into the Abbey building and laid out on a bench. Abbot Mortimer shuffled up in his nightshirt, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He inspected the fox’s wounds with a critical, practised look and spoke dispassionately, ‘Well, fox, what do you want from us? No doubt Cluny your master has sent you here to spy.’
Chickenhound shook his head in weak denial. ‘Please, I must have some water.’
Jess Squirrel picked up the water jug but withheld it.
‘Tell the Father Abbot what you want, sly one,’ she rasped sternly.
The fox reached out feebly for the water jug. Much to the Abbot’s dismay, Jess still held it at a distance.
‘Speak first. You’ll get water when we get information,’ she insisted.
The sight of an injured animal distressed the Abbot, but he decided wisely to leave matters to Jess. The squirrel knew what she was doing.
‘Cluny’s horde did this to me,’ croaked the fox. ‘My mother, Sela … they killed her. I know of Cluny’s new plans. Care for me and I will tell you all.’
Chickenhound fainted clean away.
‘Huh, I certainly wouldn’t waste good time and medicine on this one,’ said Jess coldly.
Ambrose Spike scratched his stomach speculatively. ‘True, Jess, neither would I. But mayhap he has vital information, otherwise why would he drag himself ’ere in this state?’
The Abbot inspected the fox’s neck-wound beneath the muddied fur. ‘What Ambrose says makes sense. Would you lift the wretched creature up and carry him to the sick bay, please?’
Cornflower and Silent Sam watched the fox being carried away. Sam stood in front of her, his dagger drawn to protect them both. She ruffled his pointed ears.
‘It’s all right now, Sam,’ she said, gently. ‘The fox cannot hurt us. Thank you for protecting me.’
The little squirrel sheathed his knife and resumed paw-sucking.
Winifred and Abbot Mortimer sat by the bed in the sick bay. They kept up their vigil until Chickenhound regained consciousness. The fox whimpered. He gazed around at the homely little room.
‘Oh my neck! What is this place? Where am I?’ he groaned.
Winifred pushed the patient gently back on to t
he pillows and held a bowl of water to the cracked, dry lips.
‘Please drink this and lie still,’ she ordered.
Chickenhound slurped and gulped greedily at the water as the Abbot enlightened him. ‘You are in the infirmary at Redwall Abbey. As yet I do not know the full extent of your injuries. When you have rested my friends will cleanse you and dress your wounds.’
Chickenhound could hardly believe his ears. ‘You mean I can stay! But I haven’t told you of the new plans yet.’
The Abbot wiped driblets of water from his patient’s chin. ‘Listen to me, my son. We would not turn you away from our gates, unless you were an enemy that meant us harm. All creatures are cared for at Redwall Abbey and it is my task to care for the sick and injured. You are my responsibility. Whether or not you choose to give information is a matter that your own heart must deal with. Meanwhile you will receive our hospitality and sanctuary until you are fully recovered.’
Chickenhound lay thinking about what the kindly old mouse had said. Suddenly he blurted out, ‘The battering ram is only a decoy. Cluny means to use it as a diversion so that he can tunnel underneath your Abbey walls. I don’t know exactly where he plans to start digging, but I do know that he will come at you from under the ground.’
The Abbot shook his head reprovingly as Winifred lowered the lamp flame and drew the curtains. ‘Cluny is surely the spawn of darkness. He will stop at nothing, my son. Now I realize this and I believe what you tell me is true. But why did you crawl all the way to Redwall with this information – almost at the cost of your life?’
Chickenhound did his best to look sorrowful and outraged as he lied. ‘Because they killed old Sela, sir. She was my mother. I will not rest until justice is done to her murderers.’
The Abbot patted the young fox’s paw. ‘Thank you for entrusting your confidence in us, young one. Close your eyes now, and try to get some rest.’
When the Abbot had departed, Chickenhound snuggled his filthy body down against the clean white sheets. He felt a little better already, well enough to have a quiet snigger.