The Abbot indicated chairs. They all sat except Cluny, who lounged against the table using the chair as a footstool. He glared at Redtooth until he stood and waited alongside his Chief. Idly Cluny picked up a bowl of honeyed milk and sampled it.
Slop! He spat it out on the floor.
The Abbot folded his paws into the wide sleeves of his habit and stared impassively at the Warlord. ‘What do you want at Redwall Abbey, my son?’
Cluny kicked the chair over and laughed madly. As the echoes died around the room his face went grim.
‘Your son, ha. That’s a good one! I’ll tell you what I want, mouse. I want it all. The lot. Everything. Do you hear me?’
Matthias’s chair clattered on its side as he sprang forward, breaking free from the restraining paws of the Abbot.
‘Listen, rat, you don’t scare me! I’ll give you our answer. You get nothing! Now do you understand that?’
Shaking with fury, Matthias allowed himself to be pulled back on to the chair. The Abbot turned to Cluny.
‘You must forgive Matthias. He is young and headstrong. Now, as to your proposal, I am afraid it is out of the question. Should you or your army require medical attention, food, clothing or help upon your way, you will find us only too willing to assist—’
Cluny interrupted rudely by pounding upon the table until the Abbot was silenced. He pointed a claw at Redtooth.
‘Read them the articles.’
Redtooth held up a tattered parchment. He cleared his throat. ‘These are the articles of surrender to be obeyed by all creatures who come under the claw of Cluny the Scourge or any of his commanders. One: surrender will be total and unconditional. Two: Cluny will execute the leaders of all who choose to oppose him. Three: all property conquered will belong solely to Cluny the Scourge. This includes homes, food, crops, land, and additionally all creatures dwelling on said property: they shall be owned by Cluny—’
Thwack!
Redtooth got no further. Unable to contain himself, Matthias sent his staff ripping through the middle of the articles. As the torn document fluttered to the floor, Redtooth launched himself at Matthias with a snarl.
The rat was actually in mid-air when a huge blunt paw knocked him flat. He lay stunned with Constance standing over him.
‘Why pick on a small mouse? Surely a big strong rat like you can deal with an old badger? Come on, try me for size.’
It was only the timely intervention of Abbot Mortimer that saved Redtooth’s life.
‘Constance, would you please let the rat up? Much as I would like to see him get his just deserts, you must remember we cannot break the law of hospitality in our Abbey.’
Redtooth staggered shakily to his feet, backing warily away from the badger. Cluny spoke as if nothing had occurred, ‘You, Abbot mouse, you have until tomorrow evening to give me your answer.’
Not normally given to anger, the Abbot stared Cluny in the eye, his face a mask of cold fury.
‘I will not need until tomorrow, rat. You can have my answer now. How dare you come here with your robber band to read articles of death and slavery to me? I tell you that neither you nor your army will ever set paw or claw inside Redwall, not while I or any of my creatures have breath in our bodies to fight and resist you. That is my solemn word.’
Cluny sneered and turned on his heel. Followed by Redtooth, he stamped out. On the stairs between Cavern Hole and the Great Hall he stopped and turned, his cold voice echoing between both chambers, ‘Then die, all of you: every male, female, and young one. You have refused my terms. Now you will suffer the punishment of Cluny. You will beg on your knees for death to come swiftly, but I shall make your torment loud and long before you die!’
It was then that Constance did something that creatures would speak of in years to come.
Exerting the full strength of a female badger, she lifted the massive Cavern Hole dining table. It was a huge solid oaken thing that no dozen mice could even move. Dishes clattered and food spilled as Constance heaved the table above her head. Her voice was a roar. ‘Get out, rats! Leave this Abbey! I’m weary of your voices. Hurry before I break the laws of hospitality and ask the Abbot’s pardon later. Go, while you still have skulls.’
With the best grace he could muster, Cluny walked rather quickly up the stairs, followed by Redtooth, who laughed nervously. ‘Big country bumpkin, eh, Chief? One more word from you back there and she’d have thrown that table and crushed us.’
Remembering who it was that he had spoken to in this insolent fashion, Redtooth cringed, expecting Cluny to deal him a blow for impudence. But nothing happened.
Cluny was standing transfixed.
Oblivious to all about him, even Matthias and the Abbot who had followed him out, Cluny stood staring at the tapestry.
‘Who is that mouse?’ he gasped.
Matthias followed the direction of the rat’s gaze. He walked to the tapestry with his paw outstretched.
‘Do you mean this mouse?’
Cluny nodded dumbly.
Matthias, still with his paw outstretched, declared proudly, ‘This is Martin the Warrior. He founded our Order, and I’ll tell you something else, rat. Martin was the bravest mouse that ever lived. If he were here today he’d just take up his big sword and send you and all your bullies packing. Those of you he didn’t chop up into crow meat.’
Much to everyone’s surprise, Cluny allowed himself to be shown out. He was like one in a daze all the way back to the gatehouse.
A hush fell over the mice on guard as Cluny and Redtooth were let out on to the road. Swiftly, the horde gathered around the Warlord and his lieutenant. They awaited orders. Deputizing for Cluny, Redtooth called out, ‘Form up. Back to the church, everyone.’
Cluny marched automatically, shaking his head in disbelief.
Martin the Warrior. The mouse who pursued him through his nightmares. What did it mean?
As Redtooth marched away, a voice hailed him from the wall. He turned and looked upward. The torn articles – the parchment wrapped around a fistful of rotting vegetables – splattered in his face. Livid with rage he clawed the foul mess from his eyes and saw Constance leaning over the parapet with a wicked grin of delight on her striped muzzle.
The badger shouted mockingly, ‘Don’t forget to call again, rat. I’d be delighted to see you. We’ve got some unfinished business that I’m looking forward to settling. Just you and me, Redtooth! Bye now.’
Before the rat could reply, she had vanished from sight.
LATER THAT EVENING Brother Alf was patrolling his stretch of wall when he noticed a movement in the ferns at the edge of Mossflower Wood. Constance and Matthias were summoned hastily. They peered over the parapet as Brother Alf pointed to where he had seen the ferns moving.
‘Over there, to the right of that aspen. Look, they’re moving again.’
Matthias had better nocturnal vision than either of his friends. He was the first to recognize the forlorn figure that rolled on to the grass.
‘It’s Ambrose Spike. He’s hurt. Quick, let’s get down there.’
‘Hold fast,’ Constance warned. ‘It may be a trap.’
Matthias was loth to hang about whilst a creature was lying injured within his sight, but he had to heed his friend’s advice. There just might be some of Cluny’s rats lying in ambush for any creature that ventured into the shadowy fringes of Mossflower. However, Matthias was growing impatient.
‘We can’t leave poor Ambrose lying out there, Constance. He’ll die. We’ve got to do something.’
The badger sat down with her snout between her paws. ‘Yes, we’ve got to think. Anyone got an idea?’
The two mice joined her. Hardly had Matthias sat down when he leaped up again.
‘I’ve got it. Stay here. I’ll be back in a tick!’
Brother Alf watched the little figure flip-flopping off. He gave a sigh and shook his head. ‘What do you suppose our Matthias is up to?’
The badger smiled affectionately. More and more s
he was coming to trust Matthias’s natural skill as a leader and tactician. ‘Don’t fret, Brother Alf. Whatever it is, you can bet your habit it’ll be an original Matthias gem. That youngster has got more in his head than a pile of acorns.’
Brother Alf looked out at the still form in the grass. ‘It may be too late. Ambrose isn’t even twitching. Look, he’s not rolled up in a ball any more.’
Further speculation was curtailed by the appearance of Matthias. With him were half a dozen moles.
Their leader glanced out at the hedgehog. He scratched some hasty calculations on the wall with his claw, then turned to Matthias. ‘Oi think we can get yon ’edgepig back, sur. You’m get us outen the gate and stan’ watch.’
Turning to his team, the Foremole (for that was his official title) began discussing tunnel width, coupled with reverse prickle drag, forward traction, and all the other specialist details that are routine to the average qualified tunnel-mole.
Matthias whispered to Constance and Brother Alf, ‘The Foremole and his crew are first class at rescue work. They’ve often rescued burrowers from cave-ins. All we have to do is stand guard by the south-east wicket gate until they’re safely back.’
‘Right. What are we waiting for? Let’s go,’ said the badger.
Silently they slid through the small green-painted iron door, Matthias straining his eyes anxiously to see if there were any signs of life in the hedgehog. He still lay about a hundred and fifty mouse paces from where they stood.
The moles unravelled a rope sling. Foremole stood watching as two of his team started the dig.
Matthias looked on in wonderment. One minute they were above ground, a moment later there was a veritable shower of loam and topsoil as they vanished beneath the earth: nature’s own technicians.
In a trice they were back, moist snouts poking from the excavation. They made their ground report to the Foremole.
‘Harr, he’m be noice an’ soft, sur. Baint no rock nor root to stop us’ns, straight furrer we’m a-thinking.’
Satisfied, the Foremole moved towards the test hole with the rest of his team. ‘Oi’ll dig ahead, you’m woiden workin’s. Gaffer and Marge, foller up a-shorin.’ He tugged his snout respectfully to Matthias and Constance. ‘You’ m gennelbeast bide by ’ere ’til us back.’
Another quick shower of soft dark earth and the moles were lost to view beneath the ground surface.
Constance sniffed the breeze as Matthias turned his ears to the night-time woodland sounds. They watched the ground humping into a continuous hillock that progressed further as the moles tunnelled towards Ambrose Spike. The night remained calm and still, but Matthias and Constance stayed alert, both knowing if they failed to observe this rudimentary law of nature, the penalty could be fatal.
Matthias did a little shuffle of excitement. ‘Look, they’ve come up right under poor old Ambrose! My word, what splendid moles. Good heavens, he’s vanished completely! They must have him inside the tunnel.’
In a surprisingly short time the tunnellers were back. Emerging from the hole, they carried the hedgehog in the rope sling across their backs, refusing any help from the badger or the mouse. The Foremole merely tugged his snout.
‘Nay, may, you uns on’y getcher paws durted.’
As swiftly as possible Ambrose was hurried to the Abbey infirmary and sick bay. He was attended by the Abbot himself. A hasty diagnosis revealed that the hedgehog was suffering from a long jagged wound that ran from the back of his ear to the tip of his paw. Brother Alf nodded sympathetically.
‘That’s probably what caused old Ambrose to pass out. Pain and loss of blood. He must have travelled a fair way in that condition. D’you think he’ll live, Father Abbot?’
The Abbot chuckled quietly. He cleaned the long ugly wound and applied a poultice of herbs. ‘No cause for alarm, Brother Alf. Ambrose Spike is made of leather and needles. Tough as a boulder, this old ruffian is. Look, he’s beginning to come around already.’
Sure enough, after some peculiar grunts and much curling and uncurling, the hedgehog opened his eyes and looked about. ‘Oh my aching ear. Father Abbot, you wouldn’t see a poor son of the Spike suffering like this without a drop of last October’s nutbrown ale to wet his parched gullet,’ he pleaded.
All the creatures laughed aloud with delight and relief at seeing their old friend alive and well once again.
Matthias was astonished at the amount of nutbrown ale which Ambrose supped before he deemed himself fit enough to make a report. The hedgehog smacked his lips noisily.
‘Aaaahhh, that’s better. Now, let me see. I did as you asked me, gave as many creatures fair warning as I could. The Joseph Bell helped a great deal to warn everyone. Well, to cut a long story short, it must have been near noon when I stopped at Vole Bank. I told the Voles the bad news, and blow me if that little ninny Colin Vole didn’t go to shrieking and screaming all over the place as to how they’d all be murdered in their beds. Believe me, there was no way of silencing the daft young thing. Anyhow, his noise must have alerted a pack of those rats who were out foraging. Before you could say “knife” they were upon us. There was such a gang of them that I couldn’t do anything, I had to curl up. They carried off young Colin and his mum and dad, but try as they would there was no laying claws on Ambrose Spike, no sir. Then one of them had a go at me with a point of an iron churchyard railing. Stabbed away at me, the devil did. They reckoned I was dead. Said I was too spiky to eat, so they dragged the Vole family off and I lay still until the coast was clear. I made it as far as Mossflower and that’s all I can remember. Er, is there any more left in that jug? This wound’s giving me jip. I need ale for medicinal purposes, Father Abbot.’
Matthias groaned and hung his head in despair. The Vole family taken captive; death or slavery was all the wretched creatures could look forward to. Emboldened by the rescue of the hedgehog, Matthias was about to suggest that he and Constance, together with some hand-picked helpers, venture to undertake a rescue mission to Saint Ninian’s church. It was as if the Abbot and Constance both read his thoughts at the same time. Abbot Mortimer sighed and shook his head at Matthias. The badger was more voluble.
‘Matthias, forget it. Abandon any hopes you have of snatching the Vole family from under Cluny’s nose. Imagine it, a few of us going up against several hundred armed rats in their own camp. Ridiculous. A fat lot of good we’d be as defenders of Redwall with our heads fixed to Cluny’s standard. Matthias, you’re a very brave young mouse, so please try to set an example to the rest by not becoming a foolish or dead one.’
On reflection, Matthias could see the wisdom of the badger’s counsel. Long after they had all retired for the night he sat up thinking. A hundred mad ideas pounded through his brain, each one wilder than the last. Feeling at a loss, he wandered up into the Great Hall and stood in front of the tapestry. Without consciously realizing it, he found himself talking to Martin the Warrior.
‘Oh Martin, what would you have done in my place? I know that I’m only a young mouse, a novice, not even a proper Redwall member yet, but once you were young too. I know what you would have done. You’d have buckled on your armour, picked up your mighty sword, gone down to that church and battled with the rats until they released the Voles or perished beneath your blade. But alas, those days are gone. I have no magic sword to aid me, only the advice of my elders and betters, to which I must listen.’
Matthias sat down upon the cool stone floor. He gazed longingly up at Martin the Warrior, so proud, so brave. What a dashing figure he cut. Looking back down to himself in his baggy green robes and oversized sandals, Matthias felt hot tears of shame and frustration spilling from his eyes and dripping on his young whiskers. Unable to stop himself, he wept freely; then the soft touch of a gentle paw on his back caused him to look around. It was Cornflower.
Matthias wished he were dead!
He quickly turned his face away, knowing she could see his tears.
‘Cornflower, please go away,’ Matthias sobbed. ‘
I don’t want you to see me like this.’
The little fieldmouse, however, would not go. She sat down on the floor next to Matthias. Taking the edge of her pinafore she softly wiped away his tears. For such a shy little mouse she had quite a bit to say.
‘Matthias, don’t be ashamed, I know why you cry and grieve. It is because you are kind and good, not a hard-hearted pitiless rat like Cluny. Please listen to me. Even the strongest and bravest must sometimes weep. It shows they have a great heart, one that can feel compassion for others. You are brave, Matthias. Already you have done great things for one so young. I am only a simple country-bred fieldmouse, but even I can see the courage and leadership in you. A burning brand shows the way, and each day your flame grows brighter. There is none like you, Matthias. You have the sign of greatness upon you. One day Redwall and all the land will be indebted to you. Matthias, you are a true Warrior.’
Matthias, with his eyes dry and his head held high, stood up; he felt himself stand taller than ever before. He helped Cornflower to her feet and bowed to her.
‘Cornflower, how can I ever thank you for what you have said. You too are a very special mouse. It is late now. Go and get some rest. I think I will stay here a while longer.’
The fieldmouse untied her headband. It was her favourite one, pale yellow bordered with the cornflowers after which she was named. She tied it to Matthias’s arm, the right one, just above the elbow. A maiden’s colours for her champion warrior.
Silently she crept off. Matthias could feel his heart beating against his chest. He spoke to the image of Martin.
‘Thank you, Warrior. You spoke to me through Cornflower. You gave me the sign that I asked of you.’
AT THE CHURCH of Saint Ninian, Cluny sat in the wreckage of what had once been a pulpit. Redtooth, Darkclaw, Cheesethief, and Fangburn lounged about at his feet on old burst hassocks. Cluny was in one of his strange moods again. He showed little interest in the captive Vole family, merely ordering that they be kept under guard until he found time to deal with them. Most of his army slept in the choir loft or the lady chapel. The rest were posted on sentry-duty outside.