Cheesethief slunk cautiously out of the undergrowth. It was safe to move now; the woodlanders had gone from the parapet. Behind him, limping and complaining, came the survivors of the ill-fated raiding party. Cheesethief ignored them as he moved among the bodies that had fallen from the high branches: four rats, a ferret, and one weasel. Three of the rats and the ferret were dead. They lay where they had fallen, their limbs in grotesque positions. The survivors immediately pounced upon the bodies of their fallen comrades, plundering weapons and objects of clothing that they had coveted. Cheesethief stood riveted by the single eye.
Cluny was alive!
Beneath the plank Scragg stirred and groaned. Amazingly, he too had survived.
Cheesethief sprang into action; surprised that Scragg still lived but fatalistically accepting that nothing could kill Cluny. ‘Quick, get that plank over here, you lot. We’ve got to get the Chief out of here.’
Using the plank as an improvised stretcher they carefully lifted Cluny on to it. Cheesethief knew Cluny was watching him. Tenderly he lifted the dangling tail and arranged it gently alongside his leader. ‘Try not to move, Chief. Lie still, we’ll soon get you back to camp.’
The stretcher-bearers moved off slowly through the woods. Cheesethief avoided Cluny’s eye. An idea was taking form in his mind. He sniffed piteously, wiping an imaginary tear from his cheek.
‘Poor old Scragg! What a good weasel! I think he’s still alive. Listen, you lot: carry on and get the Chief home safely, I’ll double back and see if I can help Scragg.’
Cheesethief sniggered to himself as the survivors disappeared into the night, carrying Cluny on the plank.
Matthias followed the baby squirrel through bramble and bush. Whenever he tried to communicate, all that he received was a nod or a shake of the tiny creature’s head. They had been travelling for quite a long time. As the pale fingers of dawn crept across the sky Matthias was beginning to doubt that his companion knew the way.
Then, suddenly the little fellow pointed to the east with his paw. In the distance Matthias could make out the shape of the Abbey.
‘There’s no place like home,’ he said thankfully. ‘What a splendid pathfinder you are, my friend.’
Still sucking his paw, the small squirrel smiled shyly. He took hold of Matthias’s tail as they went forwards together, the mouse talking animatedly, the squirrel nodding vigorously.
‘I’ll take you to Friar Hugo’s kitchen and see that he gives you the nicest breakfast you’ve ever had. Now what do you say to that?’
Suck, suck, nod, nod.
When Matthias arrived at the wall he felt like patting the old red sandstone. He turned to his companion. ‘This is where I live.’
A noise nearby caused them both to freeze momentarily. It sounded like some creature groaning. Instinctively Matthias and the squirrel ducked down among the ferns. Cautiously, they crept along in the direction of the sounds.
Silently parting the ferns, they gazed in horror at the dreadful scene around the base of the elm tree. Among the dead animals that lay stretched in unnatural attitudes was a badly injured weasel. He was moaning and twitching fitfully.
Before either of the friends could decide what to do, a rat appeared on the scene. They remained motionless.
Cheesethief was in a cheery mood. He hummed happily under his breath as he prodded Scragg with his foot.
‘Scragg, wake up. It’s me, Cheesethief. Oh come on now, I’m sure you remember me? The stupid one, the rat whose job you were going to take?’
Scragg’s eyes were barely open. He groaned in agony.
Cheesethief cocked a mockingly sympathetic ear. ‘What’s that, Scragg my old mate? Tired, are you? Yes, you must be, lying there like that. Tell you what, I’ll help you to go to sleep, shall I?’
The rat placed his foot on the weasel’s throat and began pressing down. Scragg struggled feebly, fighting for breath, unable to stop his tormentor. Cheesethief took malicious pleasure in his revenge. Cruelly he leaned his full weight upon the weasel’s rasping throat. ‘Hush now. Go to sleep, Scragg. Dream of the command you never had.’
Scragg made one final gurgling whimper and lay still.
Cheesethief slunk off chuckling with satisfaction.
Hidden in the ferns, Matthias and the baby squirrel held their breath in disbelief. They had seen murder committed!
Matthias and the squirrel waited until they were sure the coast was clear. At last they emerged from the ferns, and Matthias, cupping his paws round his mouth, ventured a low halloo up at the wall. There was no reply.
The little squirrel shook his head. He pointed to the floor with his paw in a gesture that Matthias interpreted as, ‘Stop here.’
With breathtaking speed and skill, the tiny creature raced up the trunk of the old elm. Reaching the thin branches above the parapet he ran out along one. Using it as a springboard, he bounced nimbly on to the ramparts and vanished, sucking fiercely at his paw.
Matthias had not long to wait before the small door in the wall nearby grated open on its rusty hinges, and Constance peered cautiously out. Seeing Matthias, she ran to greet him, with the little squirrel perched upon her back.
Matthias was not sure what sort of a reception was in store for him. He need not have worried; Constance hugged him, patted his back and shook him by the paw.
The badger forestalled the explanation that was upon the young mouse’s lips. She beckoned Matthias inside, shutting the door behind them. ‘You can tell us everything later, Matthias. Right now I insist that you come to the main gate. There’s something you must see.’
A minute or two later all three were standing on the gatehouse wall, shoulder to shoulder with countless other defenders. Cluny’s horde was retreating, back down the road to their camp at Saint Ninian’s church. There was a wild cheering from the ranks of the mice and woodlanders.
Cluny was being borne upon the plank in the midst of his army. Redtooth, who was still disguised in the Warlord’s battle-armour, had draped a blanket over Cluny to hide him and keep up the masquerade. But nobody was fooled! Both sides of the wall had heard the tale of misadventure in all its gory detail. They knew that the strutting rat in armour was not Cluny the Scourge.
Redtooth nevertheless strode proudly along. Cluny might not recover. Besides, he revelled in the respect that he received, dressed as he was in such barbaric finery. He knew that it was only borrowed plumage, but he could always hope that the position might become permanent.
On top of the gatehouse ramparts feelings ran high. The Abbot had issued strict orders that no missiles or weaponry be discharged at the enemy in retreat. Amid the cheering there was quite a bit of resentful grumbling.
Why not smash Cluny’s army once and for all?
Now they were on the run, this was the proper time to consolidate a resounding Redwall victory!
But the good Father Abbot would not hear of it. Like a true gentlemouse he believed in tempering triumph with mercy. The jubilatory sounds died away to an eerie silence as the rats toiled raggedly off down the road, raising a column of dust in the early dawn. Dispirited and battleworn, carrying their fallen leader, the maimed and wounded hobbled painfully along at the rear, the bitter ashes of vanquishment and defeat mingling with the dust from their stumbling vanguard.
Even the silent victors began to realize that victory came at a high price. Freshly dug graves and a crowded infirmary bore silent witness to the reality of war.
Matthias felt a gentle paw intertwining with his own. It was Cornflower. Relief showed in her eyes and her voice.
‘Oh Matthias, thank goodness you are back safe! It was dreadful, not knowing where you were or what had become of you. I thought you’d never come back.’
‘I’m like an old bad penny, I always come back,’ Matthias whispered.
‘Oh, by the way, how is your father?’
Cornflower brightened up. ‘He’s made a marvellous recovery. He refused to lie in bed and has been up on the wall helping out. Yo
u can’t keep a good Fieldmouse down, my dad always says.’
Matthias barely had time to bid Cornflower a hasty goodbye before he was ushered off to the Abbot’s room for an early morning conference. He took his seat and looked around the table. There were Constance, Ambrose, Winifred, Foremole, the Abbot, and also his friend the baby squirrel, who stood on a stool, dipping his paw into a bowl of milk and honey, sucking it with noisy enjoyment.
‘I think that you would have been in trouble without Silent Sam here, Matthias,’ the Abbot said.
The young mouse nodded. ‘I certainly would, Father Abbot. So that’s his name? Silent Sam? Well, he certainly lives up to it.’
‘Indeed he does,’ replied the Abbot. ‘His mother and father are old friends of mine. They’ll pick up his tracks and be along here later to collect him. Do you know, this little chap hasn’t spoken since he was born. I’ve tried every remedy known to Redwall on him, but none has worked, so he was named Silent Sam. But don’t let that fool you, he knows Mossflower Woods like the back of his paw, don’t you, Sam?’
The tiny squirrel licked his paw and smiled. He indicated a large circle with it, pointing at himself with his unsticky paw.
Matthias reached over and shook the paw heartily. ‘My thanks to you, Silent Sam. You are truly a great pathfinder.’
During the meeting there was much useful information exchanged. Matthias told of the rescue at Saint Ninian’s, and his encounter with the strange hare.
‘Surely you don’t mean Basil Stag Hare?’ cried Constance. ‘Well, I never! Is that old eccentric still bobbing around? I expect we’ll see him turn up with the Vole family around about lunch time. I never knew Basil to miss the chance of a free lunch back in the old days.’
The assembled creatures passed on a vote of thanks to Matthias for his resourcefulness and bravery. Matthias blushed. Then he sat listening intently whilst those who had taken part in the battle recounted all they could remember. In the aftermath of that memorable conflict there was much speculation as to what the future held.
Would Cluny recover from his injuries? Had his horde been so soundly defeated that they had learned their lesson? Or would they be back?
It was the Abbot’s opinion that Cluny and his rabble would not bother Redwall again. Their leader’s injuries would doubtless prove fatal. This statement was strongly opposed by the others, and Constance was elected to speak for them.
‘Cluny is still the prime factor,’ said the badger. ‘That rat is physically tougher than we could ever imagine. It is only a matter of time before he recovers sufficiently to attack us again.’
Constance pounded upon the table with a heavy paw, emphasizing each word. ‘And make no mistake about it, Cluny the Scourge will attack Redwall again. I’d stake my life on it! Think for a moment. If Cluny were to give up the idea of conquering this Abbey, he would lose both face and credibility with the army he commands. Furthermore, and most important of all, word would spread across the land that Cluny was not invincible, that he could be beaten by mice!
‘This would mean the end of Cluny as a legend of terror; so you see, when Cluny recovers he will be virtually forced to mount a second assault upon Redwall.’
There was a sober silence around the table.
The Abbot arose. He had arrived at a decision.
‘So be it. I have listened to your counsel and opinions, my dear and trusted friends. Although I yearn for peace, I feel that I must base my judgement on your words, which I know to be true. Therefore my power as Abbot, and any assistance that I can give are yours for the asking. It is my wish that Constance, Matthias, Winifred, Ambrose, and Foremole take complete command at Redwall in the event of a second invasion. I will concern myself with aiding the injured and feeding the hungry. And now, my friends, I must adjourn this meeting as I have other matters to attend to. Come, Sam. We must wash those sticky little paws before your parents arrive. Oh, and before I forget, Matthias, Brother Methuselah would like to talk with you. He is in the Great Hall.’
CLUNY THE SCOURGE lay upon his bed, racked with crippling pains. Rat Captains gathered in the corner of the sick room. They sat silent. The terrible injuries would have proved fatal to any other rat on earth, but not to Cluny – a broken arm, a broken leg, numerous cracked ribs, a fractured tail, smashed claws, and other hurts not yet diagnosed.
Redtooth and four of the others might have set upon their leader and finished him off for good.
But the fear of his legendary powers was too strong!
Nobody knew for sure the extent of Cluny’s remorseless vitality. Watching him now, the barrel-like chest heaving up and down, the still-strong tail swishing spasmodically, Redtooth marvelled at Cluny’s strength. He was not even sure if Cluny was shamming, pretending that his injuries were severe merely as some kind of test or trap that he had set for his Captains.
The twelve sentry rats were locked in the hut they had been set to guard. It was now repaired. They had been soundly flogged for letting the Vole family escape. As a further punishment for concocting lies about a big hare and a young mouse, Redtooth ordered that the twelve be starved until further notice. He had been lenient with them. Cluny would have sentenced them to death and personally killed them with his bare claws.
Outside in the churchyard the leaderless horde did absolutely nothing to reorganize. Sitting about licking their wounds and waiting for the Chief to recover seemed to be the order of the day.
Again the mouse warrior, armed with his ancient sword, returned to haunt Cluny’s fevered dreams.
Once more he was falling from the plank on the Abbey wall, falling, falling. Below him waited spectral figures: Ragear, with a blue face bloated to many times its normal size; a rat-skeleton dressed in Cluny’s own battle armour; a huge hare with enormous feet, and a thick-bodied, venomous-looking banded snake. He tried to twist away from them as he fell, but, however much he swerved and tried to change direction, Cluny had only to look down and see the fierce-eyed warrior mouse – waiting, always waiting, the sword held point upward for him to be impaled upon. Cluny tried to cry out, but not a sound came; it was as though his throat were being squeezed tightly.
He felt the sharp sword pierce his chest.
Bong!
Once more the sound of the Joseph Bell tolling out across the fields from Redwall wakened the Warlord. Fangburn, who was trying to extract a piece of elm branch from his Chief’s chest, leapt backwards in fright as Cluny’s eye snapped open inches from his own.
‘Get away from me,’ Cluny rasped.
Fangburn retreated, mumbling excuses. Cluny eyed him suspiciously – he didn’t trust any of them.
‘If you really want to help, go and get hold of some of those new recruits who lived locally and bring them here to me,’ he gasped.
Within minutes Fangburn had assembled a band of the recruits around Cluny’s bed.
‘Where’s Scragg the weasel?’ Cluny growled.
Cheesethief stepped forward, wiping imaginary tears from his face with the back of a filthy claw. ‘Don’t you remember, Chief? He fell out of the big tree. After I’d taken care of you I went back for him, but when I got to him the poor weasel was dead. What a good, kind—’
‘Ah, shut your moaning face,’ said Cluny irritably. ‘If he’s dead, then that’s that. Here, you recruits, come closer and listen to me.’
Apprehensively the little group shuffled forwards. Cluny raised himself slightly on one elbow.
‘Do any of you know where a healer can be found? I don’t mean one like those mice. I need a creature that knows the old ways, a gypsy, one who can cure anything for the right price.’
Killconey the ferret bowed elaborately. ‘Ah, ’tis your lucky day, yer honour, for don’t I know the very vixen.’
‘Foxes?’ echoed Cluny.
‘Aye, foxes, sir,’ the ferret replied. ‘Didn’t me ould mother always used to say, “there’s nothing like a fox to fix”? There’s a whole tribe of ’em livin’ across the meadow, sir. Old Sela the v
ixen is the girl you’ll be wanting, her and her son Chickenhound. They’ll fix you up as right as rain if there’s something in it for them. Does yer honour want me to fetch them?’
Slowly Cluny’s tail wound itself about the ferret’s neck, drawing him in close.
‘Get them,’ Cluny said hoarsely. ‘Find the foxes and bring them here to me.’
Killconey’s throat bulged as he tried nervously to swallow. ‘Glug! I will indeed, if you’ll just let go of this pore ould ferret’s neck, sir, I’ll go as fast as if the divvil himself was chasin’ me. You lay back now and rest your noble self, sir.’
Cluny released the ferret and lay back with an agonized sigh. Now was the time to think and plan ahead. Next time would be different.
‘Redtooth,’ he called. ‘Take some soldiers and scout around. See if you can find a great hard timber, a big log or tree trunk, something that will serve as a battering ram.’
The mice might have won a battle, but Cluny had not yet lost the war, by the claws of hell thunder!
Those Abbey mice were going to pay with blood for what they had done to Cluny the Scourge.
BROTHER METHUSELAH WAS busy with a small brush and a pot of black ink. As he brushed the dust of ages from each letter on the wall, he filled it in with ink. This would make it easier to read the message that had been graven underneath the tapestry.
‘Ah, Matthias, there you are,’ Methuselah squeaked.
He blinked over the top of his glasses at the young mouse. ‘Look, this is something I want you to see. Quite by accident I discovered this writing beneath where Martin’s picture once hung.’
Matthias was full of unconcealed excitement.
‘What does it say, Brother Methuselah?’ he cried.
The old gatehouse-keeper sneezed as he brushed more dust from the lettering on the wall. ‘All in good time, young mouse! Here, make yourself useful. You brush the dust off the words while I ink them in. Between us we’ll soon get it done.’
Matthias set to work with an energetic goodwill. He scrubbed vigorously, sending up clouds of dust. Between sneezes Methuselah hurried to keep pace with him.
Redwall Page 11