The mother sparrow shushed soothingly and dragged Matthias off to the safety of her nest.
Warbeak had gone off hunting again. Dunwing sat down and tried to reason with the angry young mouse. ‘Matthias not let King Bull hearsay him stupid oaf. You be dead wormbait much soon.’
Matthias opened his mouth to protest. The sparrow silenced him with an upraised wing. ‘All birds know that King Bull mighty fighter. Him save Sparra tribe many time from um enemy. He sometime lazy, sometime bad temper, but not stupid. Bull Sparra sly like hum fox, only pretend to be stupid, just like Matthias.’
Dunwing had guessed that Matthias had gone to the King’s chamber for other reasons than to gain his freedom. This was a very wise mother bird. He decided to put all of his cards on the table.
‘Dunwing, listen. I want to tell you a story,’ he said. ‘It is all about the mice who live in the Abbey beneath us, and of one mouse in particular called Martin the Warrior….’
The sparrow listened intently as the young mouse unfolded the story of Redwall Abbey and the part that he was playing in its hour of need. When Matthias had finished his tale, Dunwing saw the truth of it in his open face. She drew close and said quietly, ‘Matthias, Dunwing knew! Um first day you come here I see um belt you wear. It all same as thing behind chair in King’s room.’
‘But why—?’ Matthias interjected. Again Dunwing silenced him.
‘Young mouse sittum still,’ she said. ‘Now me tell you um story. Many time ago, before my mother was egg, King named Bloodfeather. He stealum sword from northpoint. Sword make Sparra folk proud, brave fighters, strong eggchicks, much wormfood to eat. Sword hang in court of Sparra. Bloodfeather die, who know how? Bull Sparra become um King. My husband Greytail tellum me this ’fore he die. Bull Sparra wear um warrior sword. Case be too heavy. Leave case behind in room backa chair. Carry sword in clawfeet. King Bull he much showoff. Dig worm with sword. My husband go longa with him. One day they hunt in Mossflower trees, giantworm come, one with poisonteeth. Alla time say “Asmodeussss”, like that. Bull Sparra droppum big sword. Even he scared of poisonteeth. Giantworm curl round um swordhandle. Bull Sparra, he order my husband Greytail gettum sword back. Greytail try, but worm bite um with poisonteeth. He hurt bad, but fly back to court with um Bull Sparra. They leave sword in Mossflower with giantworm. My husband die. Bull Sparra say hurt in starling fight. Not true. Greytail tell me all ’fore he die. Warbeak still egg; not know how father die.’
Matthias watched sympathetically as Dunwing fought back her tears. Gently he patted the widowed sparrow. ‘Greytail be um mighty warrior to face poisonteeth alone. You glad um Warbeak be his eggchick.’
Dunwing smiled through her tears. ‘Matthias be good mouse.’
There followed an embarrassed silence. Matthias spoke half aloud. ‘So, it seems my quest has been in vain. But what of the scabbard?’
‘Scabbard mean um sword case?’ Dunwing inquired. Matthias nodded.
‘Me tellum ’bout sword case,’ Dunwing said bitterly. ‘King Bull Sparra be frighten to tellum rest of Sparra that he lose sword. Huh, he not know um Greytail tell me, but I watchum King, Dunwing know. Bull Sparra still pretend um sword in case. That way he stay King. If I tell, he killee me and Warbeak, this I know. Someday Warbeak my eggchick be Queen. She have royal blood, then Sparra folk be better, be happy. Bull Sparra rule for now, huh, lose heart, lose sword. Um no good crazy bird, Bull Sparra.’
That night as he settled down to sleep in Dunwing’s nest, Matthias had a good deal to reflect upon. So, King Bull had lost the sword to a giantworm with poisonteeth. Matthias knew the description fitted only one thing: a snake!
Poison probably meant it was an adder. He had never seen an adder, nor any other type of snake. At Redwall he had learned of snakes from the talk of others. They spoke of the adder as if it were a reptile that was half legend, half nightmare. It was said that even the Father Abbot himself would flatly refuse to treat a snake, no matter how bad its condition might be. Luckily there had never been cause to. There had never been reports of an adder in the area of Mossflower, that was why most creatures tended to treat it as a mythical reptile; but wise ones like Constance, the Abbot and old Methuselah assured everyone that the adder was cold, deadly fact. They said that in all the world there was nothing more feared; the strong coils, hypnotic eyes, and poison fangs.
Matthias shuddered. It sounded even more fearsome than Cluny the Scourge! How could a mere mouse take the sword from this adder that Dunwing had described? The one that said ‘Asmodeussss’? Matthias tried to put it from his mind. Gradually sleep overtook him.
‘You come quick, mouseworm. Um King wanta see you.’
Rough claws seized Matthias, dragging him from the nest only half awake. It was the two Sparra warriors, Battlehawk and Windplume. They lugged Matthias off without further explanation, tugging cruelly on his lead. The last things he saw before he was pulled off into the darkness of the court were the pale, worried faces of Dunwing and Warbeak.
He shouted to reassure them: ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be all right. Take care of yourselves.’
Battlehawk hit Matthias in the face with a stiff, bony wing. ‘Mouseworm, shuttum beak or me killee.’
‘Not before I see your King you won’t,’ the young mouse retorted.
Battlehawk aimed a kick at him, but Windplume deflected it. ‘Leave mouse alone. You killee him, King killee us.’
Windplume grinned at Matthias. ‘Mouse cheeky, but brave like um Sparra warrior.’
King Bull Sparra had finished napping. Something was disturbing him about the captive mouse. He had been too busy guzzling candied chestnuts to let it bother him. But now that he was wide awake it hit him like a ton of bricks.
The mouseworm’s belt!
What had taken Dunwing a single glance to recognize had finally dawned on the King. Matthias’s belt was the same as the sword case behind his own chair!
A broken piece of mirror reflecting the moonlight was the only illumination in the King’s chamber. He dismissed his two warriors to wait outside. The King of the Sparra folk sat staring at the young mouse in silence.
Matthias stood his ground bravely, not knowing what to expect. Bull Sparra stood up. He strutted about in front of Matthias, then around behind him. Matthias felt his belt gripped from behind by strong claws. The crazed King whispered close in his ear.
‘Where mouseworm gettum belt?’
Matthias swallowed hard. He tried to act casually.
‘Belt? Oh, you mean this belt? Mouse always have um belt for many long time. Not know where me gettum.’
Thump!
Matthias hit the floor as the King shoved him fiercely in the back. ‘Mouse lie. King Bull not um wormfool! Where you gettum? Tell, tell.’
As he shouted madly, the sparrow pulled at the belt. Matthias knew he was facing death with the insane ruler in one of his lunatic rages: he must think fast.
‘No gottum more candynuts,’ the young mouse cried. ‘Please, Majesty, give um mouseword, no more candynuts. Me give um great King this belt, then he lettum mouse go freehome.’
Matthias’s plea had the desired effect upon the mad King. He sat in the big chair, his eyes glinting cunningly.
‘Sparra law say King must killee mouseworm, but me um good Majesty. No killee mouse. Give um belt to King.’
Matthias unbuckled the belt and handed it over. King Bull fondled it, then fastened it on himself. As he admired the belt, strutting in front of the broken mirror, the sparrow spoke in a normal voice.
‘Nice, good belt. Mouse know of great sword?’
Instantly Matthias was on his guard. One wrong word might spell death for Dunwing and Warbeak. He must affect ignorance to allay the King’s suspicions.
‘Oh, Majesty, that um good belt. Make King look fine, like mighty warrior. Not lookum so good on mouse.’
Bull Sparra appeared flattered. He preened himself then asked the question again, this time in a coaxing tone. ‘Surely Matthias know of um great sw
ord?’
In spite of his dangerous predicament Matthias was inwardly amused at the King’s use of his name. Slumping to the floor, he sat with his head between his paws, the picture of dejected innocence.
‘Oh mighty King, mouse not have um more candynuts. Not know ’bout um sword thing, not even have belt now. Me die if not soon go free. Please lettum poor mouseworm go home.’
Matthias’s show of pathos seemed to cheer the King. He tucked his wingtips into the belt that he had fooled the mouseworm into giving him. Ha, he had eaten all the mouse’s nuts too! Feeling no end of a fine bird, he gave a sharp whistle that brought his two warriors on the double.
‘Looka this mouseworm,’ he scoffed. ‘He not happy that I spare um. You take um mouse back to my sister Dunwing. Tell her King say, take care of um mouseworm. He give me good gifts, candynut, belt. Maybe mouse find more gift for good Majesty who lettum live. Take ’way now. Must get more sleep. Go.’
As Matthias was dragged off once more, he pretended to cry out in distress. This caused Bull Sparra much amusement. He waved a wing in farewell, calling out to the prisoner, ‘Gettum good sleep, mouseworm. Thinkum way to get more gift for Majesty, hahahahaha!’
The two warriors and a nearby fledgling who was half awake laughed obediently with their King.
Matthias thanked his lucky stars that he had once more come out alive. Had he refused to give the belt he would surely have died. Anyhow, he reflected, it was only a temporary loan. As he planned on stealing the scabbard from Bull Sparra, why not the belt to go with it?
BASIL STAG HARE and Jess Squirrel were as thick as thieves. When they were not helping with the defences, they could be found in odd corners whispering together. Nobody knew what their conversations were about, or what exactly they were plotting. But with the fastest runner and the champion climber of Mossflower, it was sure to be something spectacular!
Cornflower and Silent Sam watched them stealing off at lunchtime to continue their conspiracy beneath the trees in the orchard where they would not be disturbed.
‘What do you suppose your mum and Basil are up to, Sam?’ asked the young fieldmouse, whose curiosity was aroused.
Silent Sam shrugged his tiny shoulders and buried his head in the lunch-time milkbowl. He drank in a noisy, enjoyable infant fashion. Whatever Jess was planning had Sam’s complete approval, simply because his mum could do no wrong as far as he was concerned.
Basil stretched comfortably in the shade while Jess sat out in the sunlight, her tail, curled overhead, acting as a sunshade.
‘Ah, this is the life, Jess me old climber.’ Basil yawned cavernously as he fed crumbs to the ants. ‘Plenty to keep the inner creature satisfied. Scorching June weather, and a top-hole billet for snoozin’, what, what.’
Jess nibbled on a wedge of cheese. ‘Aye, and it’s up to woodlanders like us to keep it that way, Basil. What sort of a neighbourhood would this be for young uns like my Sam to grow up in if Cluny and his lot were to take over?’
Basil humphed through his military-style whiskers. ‘Good grief, doesn’t bear thinkin’ about, old gel! Those rats and vermin, an absolute shower of yahoos and cads! Bad influence, y’know.’
They both sat nodding in agreement, faces full of grim righteousness, uttering dire home truths and generally working themselves up into a fine old state of indignation.
‘Huh, Cluny the Scourge! A bully and a braggart if ever I clapped eyes on one.’
‘Yes, and a robber to boot. Fancy stealing Martin’s tapestry from the mice! What harm have they ever done to him?’
‘Y’know, it strikes me that it’d do the Father Abbot’s heart good to see that tapestry back in its rightful place again.’
‘Indeed it would, and the troops would take new heart.’
‘Ha, what a blow it would be to that feller Cluny and his filthy band of robbers.’
Basil bounded up and ate the last of Jess’s cheese decisively. ‘Well, what are we waiting for then? Come on, Jess you old hazelnut woffler. Up and at ’em. Forward the fur!’
Jess flexed her climbing claws and bared her teeth angrily.
‘Just you try and stop me,’ she chattered fiercely.
Without telling anyone of their intentions, the two expert campaigners slid out secretly by one of the small doors in the Abbey walls. Soon they were stealing through the green, noontide depths of Mossflower Wood.
Cluny was up and about. His first decision was to put the horde through their paces. He had decided that they had become fat and lazy from lying about in the church grounds while he was confined to bed, but now he was on the mend they were going to do some drill. Standing on a tombstone, he leaned slightly upon his standard and viewed the army in training.
Panting and sweating, a large mob of rats dashed to and fro burdened by the battering ram. The captains, hoping to curry favour with Cluny, harangued the hapless runners: ‘Pick your feet up, you lily-livered scum! Come on, lift that ram properly, you idle devils.’
Practice tunnels were being dug willy-nilly owing to the lack of communication between rats and other species. Ferrets, weasels, and stoats, their faces smeared with moist, dark earth, popped out of the ground in the oddest of places. Unaccustomed to such strenuous labour, they would stop digging as they pleased, basking in the sun until they were trodden on by columns of marching rats. A squabble would ensue until they all became aware of the watchful eye of Cluny. Then it would be heads down, resume marching, get back to tunnelling.
Either side of Cluny on the tombstone stood Darkclaw and Killconey. Scornfully watching the chaotic manoeuvres, the Warlord would criticize first one then the other for the shortcomings of the creatures they represented. Both squirmed under the lash of the Chief’s tongue.
‘Darkclaw, look at the way those rats are marching! Idiots! They look like a flock of lambs at a village school outing! Haven’t you taught them anything?
‘Oh hellfire! That stupid lot with the battering ram have just marched straight into a tunnel! Killconey, tell those morons of yours not to tunnel into the parade ground. Just a minute, that weasel there, the one grinning all over his face like a drunken duck: lock him up without food or water for three days! That’ll wipe the daft smile off his face. Well, what a fine pair of commanders you two turned out to be. I can’t turn my back a minute and you’ve got all hands behaving like mad frogs in a bucket.’
Cluny ranted and fumed at the animals under his banner. They were going to march, sweat, dig, carry, drill and tunnel, until they performed to his satisfaction. Sloppy idle lot! He’d show them now that he was back; he’d keep them at it all day and all night if need be. Cluny had taken a vow whilst he lay injured: never again would he allow himself to be thwarted by mice and woodland creatures.
At that precise moment, two of those very creatures stood on the fringe of Mossflower Wood, spying across the common land to where Cluny’s army was exercising.
But for the gravity of the situation, Basil and Jess would have seen the chance for many a good laugh. What a difference between the antics of this rabble and the way in which the Abbey defenders went about their business of training! Jess observed that it was the contrast between slaving under a tyrant and voluntary cooperation arising from determination and good fellowship.
The plans of the two comrades were well laid. Basil decided that now was as good a time as any to put them into operation. He turned to Jess.
‘Well, you old tree-jumper. Let’s see if we can’t baffle the blighters with science!’
They shook paws and ventured out on to the common land: Basil Stag Hare, camouflage-expert and foot-fighter, in the lead; Jess Squirrel, champion climber and pathfinder, close behind him. They were like twin cloud-shadows drifting silently across the land.
Cluny had climbed down from his perch on the tombstone. He stood by the churchyard fence, intent on trying out the whipping powers of his fearsome tail upon a few rats that he had dubbed ‘the awkward squad’. Flexing his long scourgelike tail he gave a few expe
rimental swishes and cracks as he shouted commands.
‘Left wheel! I said left wheel, you buffoons! You there, don’t you know the difference between your left and your right? Hold out your left paw.’
The frightened rat stuck out what he fervently hoped was his left paw.
Swish. Crack!
The unfortunate rodent screamed and danced about with the stinging pain of the thick, whiplike tail. Cluny foamed with ill-temper.
‘Blockhead! That was your right paw. Now hold out your left, stupid! I’m going to make an example of you this lot won’t forget.’
A voice interrupted him. ‘Tut tut, officer striking an enlisted creature! Bad form, old chap, thumping bad form!’
Cluny whirled round. Just out of reach across the fence on the common land stood Basil Stag Hare, in the ‘at ease’ position.
Cluny goggled in thunderstruck silence at the audacious Basil, who merely scowled in mock censure.
‘Not the sort of thing one expects from a horde commander, what! Personally I’d have you blackballed from the church premises.’
Cluny’s voice was a strangled yell: ‘Get him! Grab that spy! I want his head!’
Basil chuckled. ‘What’s the matter? Isn’t your own head good enough? No, I don’t suppose it is. Ugly-looking brute, aren’t you?’
A mob of rats had scrambled through the fence to catch Basil, but it was like trying to catch smoke upon the wind. He was there and gone. From her hiding place Jess tried hard to stifle her giggles.
After several exhausting minutes it became apparent that neither the rats nor the dozen or so panting ferrets, weasels, and stoats who had joined the chase on Cluny’s orders, were remotely close to apprehending the strange hare.
Gripping the standard in bloodless claws, Cluny climbed over the fence to the common land.
The comrades’ scheme was beginning to work.
Basil bobbed up alongside Cluny. ‘What ho, old rat! Showing a bit of initiative? Never ask the troops to do what you can’t do yourself and all that! Splendid!’