‘Oh, what’s the use?’ he cried. ‘It’s gone, all gone! There’s only bits of half-finished food, old slates, butterfly wings, and this stupid old chair.’
In his frustration, Matthias gave the sagging armchair a hefty shove. One of the legs collapsed and it fell backwards, revealing crossed lattice strips of hessian on its underside.
Dunwing hopped on the upturned chair, twittering with elation. ‘Look see! Look see! King hide stuff under um old wormchair!’
Through the crossed latticework Matthias could see the shine of black leather and silver. Hastily they ripped and tore with beak, claw, and paw. Dust and aged stuffing flew everywhere. Matthias triumphantly pulled the scabbard and sword belt free of the wreckage.
There it was, supple, shining black leather, chased and trimmed with the purest silver. The scabbard fitted perfectly into the well-made holder on the belt. This was truly the equipment which had belonged personally to Martin the Warrior of Redwall Abbey!
‘No time for um mousedream! You hurry, quick!’
Matthias paid full heed to Dunwing’s plea. Sweeping the belt and scabbard up, he slung them across his shoulder.
‘I’m with you, Dunwing! What next?’
The usual way for sparrows to leave the Court was to fly out from under the eaves. Not being a sparrow, Matthias felt his stomach turn a cartwheel at the prospect of what he must do next. He would have to go on his back under the eaves and, with nothing beneath him but a heart-stopping void of space, negotiate his way out and around the curving gutter to reach the steep upward sweep of the roof.
The first mistake he made was to peep over the edge of the eaves. Far, far, below, the Abbey grounds looked like a spread-out pocket handkerchief, the great wall representing its border. With the blustery howling wind pinning flat his ears, and forcing the breath back down his throat, Matthias giddily covered his eyes with a paw. He felt physically sick at the mere thought of it all.
‘It’s no good, Dunwing. I’ll never be able to do it,’ he gulped.
The mother sparrow pecked him sharply upon his paw. ‘Matthias mouse got to do it. You no go you um mouseworm. King Bull come back. He killee you. Huh, me thought you warrior.’
‘So did I until I saw how high this lot is,’ Matthias wailed.
Dunwing patted him with a reassuring claw. ‘You go gettum climb rope. Bring here. I showum how.’
The young mouse rushed headlong back to the nest, rummaged in the haversack and found a stout climbing rope.
Dunwing was waiting for him. She tied it firmly around his waist. Matthias tested the knot apprehensively as the sparrow told him what she proposed to do.
‘Me fly out on to um roof. Holdum other end of rope plenty tight. You swingum out. No worry, me pullee up.’
Grasping the rope in her beak, Dunwing flew out on to the roof and braced herself.
‘Matthias come now, me ready,’ she called.
‘Don’t think about it,’ Matthias told himself aloud. ‘Just do it!’ Clinging for dear life to the rope he launched himself over the edge of the eaves.
Matthias closed his eyes. His heart seemed to stop as he dropped. The rope went taut and he came to a sudden halt. The boisterous wind buffeted him about like a feather. Gritting his teeth, he began pulling himself up paw over paw, unable to reach the wall for help as the rope was held outward by the projecting gutter.
‘Climb good. Dunwing have um rope plenty tight hold,’ the sparrow called out from the roof, her voice muffled by the wind.
Matthias’s paws quivered with the strain of hauling up his own body weight. He strove gallantly upwards, reaching the gutter. It took all the young mouse’s courage to let go of the rope and grab for the thin curving edge. Nerving himself he did it in one clean move, clamping his paws heavily into the weatherworn, sandstone groove. Under the unexpected weight it crumbled and broke!
Matthias plunged downwards, his feet now where his head had been a second before. A chunk of stone hurtled past him on its flight to earth. The rope went taut with a jolt that drove the breath from him. Matthias dangled on the rope’s end for a moment, then he started to slip slowly down.
Above him on the roof, Dunwing had lost her footing. The sparrow’s claws screeched and grated on the roofing slates as the weighted rope pulled her downwards on the steep slope. Dunwing leaned back, trying to dig her claws in somewhere to check the inexorable slide. The broken gutter edge loomed up, surprisingly bringing with it a desperate chance. With lightning speed, Dunwing tugged hard on the rope, gaining a little slack. Giving a skilful flick, she jammed the rope in the niche of the broken stone edge. It slipped for a moment, then held. Flying out, Dunwing took a few extra turns upon the rope, locking it firmly off on the projecting edge. Letting go of her end, the sparrow flew down underneath Matthias. She started pushing him upwards.
Matthias climbed as he had never done before. Aided by Dunwing, he made it. He grabbed for the gutter just as the sharp, newly-broken stone sawed through the rope.
Snap! Grab!
As the rope parted, Matthias clung to the gutter. With Dunwing pushing as she flew upwards, he scrambled over the edge of the gutter and rolled inwards to safety.
Dunwing joined him. They both lay completely exhausted as the wind howled around them, stunned by the danger they had come through.
The mother sparrow was first to recover. She drove her mouse friend relentlessly to his feet. ‘Matthias, come hurry! We waste um time.’
The climb of the sloping roof was extremely treacherous. Slightly unhinged by the perilous events, Matthias giggled to his friend, ‘It’s all in the average day’s work of a warrior. No use of a warrior worrying, ha ha ha.’
Taking into account loose slates, buffeting wind, and the occasional slide backwards, Matthias reckoned he had done pretty well as he gained the roof ridge. He straddled it with both feet, gazing straight ahead at the north point of the weather vane.
Dunwing fluttered above him. She saw the look of achievement upon his race and ruffled his ears with her claws. ‘Matthias mouse, me gotta go now, no can helpee anymore. Takum care. Good wormhunt.’
Dunwing flew off to her nest back at the court of King Bull Sparra. Matthias pressed forwards along the roof ridge.
He would never forget Dunwing and her eggchick Warbeak. Friends in need are friends indeed.
Bracing himself against the weather vane, Matthias shielded his eyes and peered down into the Abbey grounds. Starting from there he began a systematic search upwards. Most of it was too far below him to make out anything clearly.
The Joseph Bell boomed out the lunch hour.
At first Matthias could not be certain. He slitted his eyes and looked hard. A small dark blob was definitely making its way up. He waited with bated breath as it came nearer.
It was Jess Squirrel!
Clinging to the vane with one paw, Matthias jumped up and down in a frenzy. He waved frantically, shouting at the top of his voice. ‘Hi Jess! It’s me, Matthias. Hurry. O please hurry!’
Jess was trying her best, but from the start she had been handicapped by her big curling bush of a tail. The rude winds swept it about playfully. She could not stop her own tail from dragging and pushing her hither and thither.
The champion squirrel climbed gamely onwards. Normally she would not have attempted the climb under such blowy conditions. She concentrated hard on the ascent. Matthias’s voice had not reached her across the vagrant wind, but someone had heard the young mouse’s shouts: King Bull Sparra!
Having found neither sword nor snake, the King had become peeved and bad tempered. He issued orders to the search party that they were to stay on the floor of the woods until they found something. Meanwhile, he must go back to the Sparra court, where he said there were important matters to attend to. Bull Sparra flew away from the woods secretly relieved. On reflection he did not fancy a second meeting with the giant Poisonteeth whether it was alive, dead, or just pretending, as Poisonteeth often did. Muttering and grumbling to justify
himself, the King flew upwards to his court under the roof.
‘Jess, up here! Look, I’ve got the scabbard!’
Bull Sparra’s mad bright eyes glanced upwards to the weather vane. There was the accursed mouseworm, waving and shouting with the sword case and belt slung about him. He saw it all now. He had been tricked, duped!
Maddened by his own berserk rage, Bull Sparra flew straight upwards. When he was high above the young mouse, he dropped like a stone, right on target.
Matthias screamed aloud in agonized terror as the King’s beak buried itself into his shoulder. Instinctively he lashed out with his free paw and struck Bull Sparra in the eye. The furious claws almost lifted Matthias from the weather vane as the King gripped the belt, trying to drag it off him. Letting go of the vane, Matthias battered at Bull Sparra’s head with both paws. He felt his feet leave the roof as the maddened sparrow heaved away at the belt, causing the scabbard to become disarranged. It flapped down across the young mouse’s face.
In a fighting fury, Matthias grabbed the scabbard. He used it like a sword, smashing it mercilessly once, twice, thrice, into the Sparra King’s face. The force of the blows from the weighty sword case knocked Bull Sparra senseless. He toppled from the roof out into space. Matthias screamed in panic. The King’s claws were still caught fast in the sword belt.
Below, Jess Squirrel clamped a paw across her mouth in horror. She heard the scream and saw Matthias and Bull Sparra topple from the roof, locked together by the sword belt. They fell outwards into space from the topmost point of the Abbey roof.
CHICKENHOUND WAS HAVING one of his sniggering fits, even attempting to dance a little jig. He had been left to his own devices.
The old fool of an Abbot and his stupid devoted band of creatures were all outside, shoring up gatehouses, drilling, fetching, carrying, and generally being good and useful.
What a crowd of ninnies!
With a sack upon his back the wily fox roamed from room to room. The Abbey was his oyster.
‘Hmm, this is a nice green glass vase.’
‘Why hello, what a lovely little silver plate.’
‘My my, fancy leaving a beautiful gold chain like you all on your own.’
‘There now, I’ll just pop you all into my sack. Don’t worry, Uncle Chickenhound will take care of you!’
Sniggering delightedly, the fox trotted along the corridor into the next room. More and more small valuables and family keepsakes belonging to the mice and their woodland guests vanished into the thief’s sack. He sniggered uncontrollably. Imagine all the hard work and fighting that Cluny was going to do, just to get at all this, and here was he having first choice.
He was Chickenhound, master burglar. He had outlived Sela, outwitted Cluny, and pulled the wool over the eyes of an Abbeyful of mice. One day they would speak his name as the Foxprince of Thieves! Chickenhound paused to admire a handsome pair of brass nutcrackers. Oh yes, very elegant indeed! Into the sack they went. He trotted down the stairs into Cavern Hole. The tables had been laid for afternoon tea. Stuffing and gorging, he moved from place to place, choosing only the tastiest morsels. On his tour of the dining hall he collected a good quantity of cutlery and some fine antique cruets. Anything that did not suit the young fox’s taste was smashed or vandalized. Milk was spilt upon the floor and bread trampled into it: candles were broken and vegetables squashed across the walls.
Chickenhound shouldered his sack and turned his attentions to the kitchen. He booted the door open and walked straight in, slap bang into Friar Hugo. The fat old mouse was bowled completely over.
The unexpected fright sent Chickenhound dashing back through Cavern Hole with the outraged Friar’s shouts ringing in his ears.
‘Stop thief! Stop the fox!’
Chickenhound bounded up the stairs into Great Hall. Behind him the Friar, having regained his feet, puffed along raising the hue and cry.
‘Stop thief! Come back here, you villain!’
With great love and care, Methuselah was putting the final touches to his repair of the tapestry. Only a very sharp-eyed observer would be able to tell that it had once been torn. The warning shouts caused him to stop what he was doing. He turned to see the fox racing towards the door with Friar Hugo trailing far behind, shouting for all he was worth.
Methuselah had only to move a few paces and he was blocking the doorway. Bravely he held up a frail paw at the oncoming fox.
‘You young blaggard! So this is how you repay our kindness. You are far worse than your wicked mother!’
Chickenhound swung the loaded sack with both paws at the old gatehouse-keeper’s head.
‘Out of my way, you doddering old fool,’ he panted.
The heavily-laden sack struck Methuselah a crushing blow. He collapsed instantly on the floor and lay still.
Chickenhound froze momentarily. The sack of loot clattered from his nerveless paws. Friar Hugo halted in his tracks. The fox stared down at the pitiful crumpled figure, he had not meant to hit him so hard.
‘Murderer! Oh, you barbarous creature! You have killed Brother Methuselah!’
Friar Hugo’s cry galvanized the fox into action. He grabbed the sack and fled from the Abbey.
The fat little Friar fell to his knees, tears coursing openly down his plump face. He cradled the sad, small bundle that had once been the wisest and oldest mouse of Redwall.
Chickenhound sneaked along, keeping close to the Abbey. He slunk swiftly across the grounds to one of the small doors in the massive outer wall. The murderer had to get out into the woods before Hugo regained his senses enough to raise the alarm. Wrestling wildly with the stout bars and bolts, he managed somehow to open the small iron door. Without a backward glance the fox bolted off into the Mossflower woodland. As he ran the Joseph Bell began tolling out the alarm.
Chickenhound’s confidence grew as he raced through the woods. He sniggered. Daft old fool! Served him right, he should have got out of the way. Hadn’t he realized that he was facing Chickenhound, the overlord of all criminals?
Pressing deeper into Mossflower he paused and listened upon the wind for sounds of pursuit. Faintly he could distinguish certain noises. Whoever it was seemed to be travelling at a breakneck pace with little regard to obstructing bush or foliage. The sound of snapping branches and undergrowth being trampled grew nearer. The fox’s finely-attuned sense of smell told him that there were two creatures on his trail. One of them was a hedgehog, but the other? Chickenhound’s legs began to tremble. His heartbeats echoed in his ears. There was only one creature in all the wood with that heavy unmistakable scent … Constance the badger!
Instinctively, the terrified fox looked wildly about for a place to hide; running was out of the question in his present state of panic. It was as if some dark force had heard his silent plea. Not ten metres from where he stood was the ideal refuge, a hollow in the base of a dead oak. There was a space between two thick roots, partially covered by ferns, and Chickenhound slung the sack down the hole and dived in after it.
To his surprise he found it quite large and dry with a thick carpet of dead grass and leaves. It was dismally dark, but still, it was the best place at a moment’s notice. He would be quite invisible and safe from detection. Let them try and find him now!
With Ambrose Spike trailing in her wake, Constance crashed through the woods. So great was the badger’s anger and grief that she was oblivious to any notion of stalking or tracking. She barged along straight through anything that stood in her way, the heavy striped face a mask of cold fury. The hedgehog stayed behind Constance. Those huge blunt paws were ready to tear some creature into dollrags; no power on earth would save the murderous fox if Constance caught him. But the badger’s retribution was not to be.
Quaking with fear, Chickenhound held his breath as the woodland juggernaut thundered by within a couple of metres of the hideout. He listened hopefully as the path of destruction trailed off into the distance of Mossflower. Once more the woods grew quiet.
Chicken
hound finally exhaled a long sigh of relief.
Once again the newly self-titled overlord of crime had outsmarted a couple of mere animals.
Who on earth did they think they were?
When word got around of his daring exploits other creatures would come to him, foxes perhaps. Yes, he could see it all, Chickenhound at the head of a band of robber foxes, plundering and thieving wherever the whim took him. Of course he would change his name to a title more fitted to his position: Redflash, or Nightfang, or maybe Mousedeath. Yes, he liked the sound of that, Mousedeath! His band of minions would admire him, telling each other tales of his astonishing deeds, convinced that the mysterious Mousedeath had always been an infamous thief, unaware of his humble beginnings as Chickenhound, son of Old Sela.
As he crouched in the darkness the young fox decided that the coast was now clear. He could venture out again. Reaching behind, he felt for the sack that contained his first solo haul. Before he left he wanted to fondle his treasures once more, to reassure himself that they were an auspicious start to his new venture. In the gloomy hideout his paw reached out and felt something.
It was not the sack of loot.
‘Asmodeussssssssss!’
That evening the Joseph Bell rang out a message of sadness and grief to Redwall Abbey.
Mice and woodlanders sat about on the stone floor of Great Hall, each creature with its own sorrowful thoughts.
Two Redwall mice dead upon the same day.
Jess Squirrel sat with her head between her paws. Mr Squirrel had taken the inconsolable Silent Sam off to bed. Jess had explained fully to the Abbot and the Council how she had witnessed Matthias’s fall from the roof with the sparrow. Instead of falling straight down, both creatures had been swept out of Jess’s line of vision by huge gusts of wind. Where Matthias’s body lay now nobody knew.
As soon as her feet touched ground the squirrel had gone about organizing search parties. They had scoured the area until the light became too bad to continue, returning after fruitless hours spent searching Redwall grounds and Mossflower Wood.