The ancient mouse refused to say more until they were safely inside his gatehouse study with the door firmly shut. Even then he said nothing that made any real sense, shoving Matthias to one side as he delved through old parchments and manuscripts, scattering books left and right.
‘Where is it? I had it not five minutes ago. Hullo, what’s this? Oh, the treatise on Bee Folk of Redwall!’ Methuselah hurled the dusty volume to one side, narrowly missing his companion. ‘Wait a tick. I think I may have put it down over there.’
Matthias gazed in bewilderment at the overcluttered study. Books, scrolls and manuscripts littered the small room. In his excitement Methuselah opened a desk and practically disappeared under an avalanche of paperwork.
‘Hey! Steady on, old mouse! What are you up to?’ cried Matthias.
Methuselah emerged jubilant, clutching a yellowed book. ‘Eureka! This is it! Sister Germaine’s literal translation of Martin the Warrior’s Abbey blueprints.’
He flicked swiftly through the dusty pages of the aged volume. ‘Let’s see: “Gardens”, “Cloisters”, “Belltowers” … ah, here it is, “The Great Wall and its Gates”.’
The old mouse winked at Matthias gleefully as he adjusted his glasses. ‘Listen to this: “On the west wall will be situated a main gate so that creatures may come and go, obtaining entrance to or exit from the Abbey of Redwall. This entrance will be guarded both night and day, for it is the main gatehouse, and as such is the very threshold of our Abbey.”’
The two mice hugged each other. They danced around amid the chaos of paper, chanting with joy,
‘The gatehouse is the threshold,
The gatehouse is the threshold.
The Abbot, who was passing by, heard the noise. He shook his head at Ambrose Spike who was coming from the opposite direction.
‘Mayhaps they’ve been at the October ale a little too much, Father Abbot,’ said the hedgehog.
The Abbot chuckled at the idea. ‘Well, if it helps them on their mission of discovery, Ambrose, perhaps they ought to drink some more, eh?’
‘Aye,’ Ambrose agreed. ‘’Tis enough to inspire any creature, good October ale. Perhaps it might inspire you one day to make me keeper of the cellar keys, Father.’
Inside the gatehouse study the two companions were once more at work, trying to break the code of the Great Hall rhyme.
‘Well, that’s another piece of the puzzle in place,’ said Methuselah. ‘But we’ve jumped ahead of ourselves a bit. There are four lines before that to crack yet:
“Look for the sword
In moonlight streaming forth,
At night, when day’s first hour
Reflects the north.”’
Matthias interrupted. ‘Those first two lines sound as if they could only be solved in the darkness. “Look for the sword in moonlight streaming forth.”’
‘I agree,’ replied Methuselah, ‘but the next line is of vital importance. It tells exactly when to look: “at night when day’s first hour”.’
‘Hmm,’ Matthias mused, ‘let’s look at this logically. Go through it word by word.’
Slowly they repeated the line together, ‘“At night, when day’s first hour”.’
Methuselah slumped in his armchair. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t mean anything to me—’
‘Wait!’ cried Matthias. ‘Midnight is the last hour of the old day, so by the same token, one o’clock in the morning is the first hour of the new day, but we still tend to class it as night time. It is as the rhyme says, “at night when day’s first hour”.’
‘I believe you are right,’ said the old mouse. ‘“Day’s first hour” is not when it becomes light. It’s one in the morning, still dark.’
Matthias leaned wearily against a stack of books. ‘But if the gatehouse is the threshold, where are we supposed to stand to see anything an hour after midnight?’
‘That’s easy,’ grinned Methuselah. ‘The rhyme says, “from o’er the threshold seek and you will see”. It’s simple! What is above our heads right now?’
Matthias shrugged. ‘The wall, I suppose.’
Methuselah banged his paw down on the arm of the chair. ‘Exactly. And where is the only place you can stand on a wall but on top of it.’
Suddenly it became clear to Matthias. ‘Oh, I see,’ he cried, ‘“From o’er the threshold”, means that we must stand on the wall directly above the gatehouse.’
As fast as they could run, both mice hurried up the steps to the top of the wall. With Matthias in the lead they pounded along the ramparts. Matthias stopped above the gatehouse and stamped his foot upon the stones.
‘I’d say about here. Would you agree?’
Methuselah looked a trifle doubtful. ‘It looks to be a very rough approximation.’
Matthias had to concede. He looked sheepishly about. The stones where they stood were no different from any other part of the wall. The trail seemed to have gone cold again. Dejectedly Matthias sat down on a heap of rock and rubble that had been there since the invasion.
‘Huh, what are we supposed to do now? Hang about up here until after midnight and wait for a miracle?’
The old gatehouse-keeper raised an admonitory paw. ‘Patience, young one, patience. Let us take stock and review the facts. Lend me your knife for a moment.’
Matthias drew the Shadow’s dagger from his belt and gave it to his friend. He sat watching as the old mouse began writing in the dust from the rubble.
Item one: Martin is Matthias.
Item two: We have found Martin’s tomb.
Item three: We have also found his shield and sword belt.
Item four: Our task is to find Martin’s sword.
Item five: Where? From here, the top of the gatehouse wall.
Item six: When? At one in the morning when moonlight streams forth.
Item seven: In which direction? To the north.
They sat in silence, digesting the facts on the list; then Matthias spoke: ‘Suppose we look to the north.’
Both mice turned their heads northwards.
‘Well, what do you see, young one?’ queried Methuselah.
Matthias’s voice was tinged with disappointment. ‘Only the Abbey, part of the bee hives, the north side of this wall, and the treetops beyond. What do your eyes see, old one?’
‘Exactly the same as yours do, though perhaps a bit dimmer. Don’t give up hope, though. Let us keep looking. Maybe we’ll see something.’
The surveillance continued. Apart from retrieving his dagger, Matthias sat very still, peering northwards. Eventually he had to give up, as his eyes were beginning to water and he was getting a crick in his neck. Methuselah had fallen asleep in the afternoon sun.
Angrily Matthias slammed his dagger point deep into the edge of the rubble heap. ‘I told you it was a waste of time. Can’t you stay awake for five minutes? Must you go to sleep on me?’
The old mouse awoke with a start. ‘Eh, what’s that! Oh, Matthias, there you are. Dear me, I must have dropped off for a moment. Sorry, it won’t happen again.’
Matthias was not listening. He was digging in the rubble with his dagger. Methuselah watched him curiously.
‘What in the name of goodness are you up to now?’
The rubble scattered as Matthias dug away madly. ‘I think I’ve found what we’re after! There’s some sort of shape in the stone down here. Trouble is, there’s too much rubbish on top of it. I think we need the Foremole’s help again.’
The Foremole and his team arrived panting, with Matthias running ahead. The moles collapsed on the rubble, breathing hard.
‘Yurr on’y gotten biddy short legs, us moles do, oi takes it you’m gennelmice needin’ our ’elp agin.’
This time Matthias understood. ‘Yes please, Mr Foremole. Do you think that you and your team could possibly move this pile of rock and rubble. There’s something we need to get at underneath it all.’
Foremole spread his stubby paws wide. He smiled winningly. ‘Hurr, no soon as said�
�n done, young un. Wurr ud you’m loik ’er shiften to?’
Matthias shrugged. ‘Oh anywhere, I suppose, as long as it’s not in our way.’
The Foremole spat on his paws and rubbed them together. ‘Arr roight, mateys, best dumpen this lot whurr it comed from.’
The two mice had to jump aside smartly as the mole team took over. With much ‘Hurr-ing and Arr-ing,’ they waded busily in, bulldozing the enormous heap of rock and rubble off the top of the ramparts. It tipped downwards in earthy showers, back into the trench in the Abbey grounds from whence it had first come.
Matthias watched admiringly. ‘What splendid workers these moles are, Methuselah.’
As the hill dwindled his friend heartily agreed. ‘Indeed they are, their skills and knowledge are passed on through families, you know. Earth, rock, shale or root, they can handle it all. Do you know, it was the moles that dug the foundations for this very Abbey. Foremole can claim direct descent from the mole who was in charge of the operation. In fact, it was Martin who bestowed the tide Foremole upon his ancestor.’
As the mice conversed, the moles hurled the last of the rubble from the ramparts, then set about brushing the stones clean.
The Foremole tugged his nose in salute. ‘Harr, we’m dum now, zurrs, oi’ll bid ee g’day.’
Ten seconds later they were all gone.
‘Moles aren’t too fond of heights,’ observed Methuselah. ‘Right, let’s see what they’ve uncovered.’
It was a circle cut into the stone.
On one side it was cut shallow, while at the opposite side it was carved deeply. The centre was domed with two slots graven into either slope. At the apex of the dome was the letter M. Beneath it were carved thirteen small circles, each with a smiling face upon it.
Constance came rambling along the wall, checking on the road beneath. ‘Hello there, you two! Are you staying up here all day? You’ll miss afternoon tea if you don’t hurry. There’ll be precious little left with three squirrels, three voles, and Basil Stag Hare as guests.’
Studying the carvings, Matthias waved absently at the badger.
‘You carry on, Constance. We’ll be down shortly.’
The badger’s natural curiosity was aroused. She came over and stood between the two mice. After a cursory glance she threw up her paws in mock despair. ‘Oh no, not more puzzles and riddles?’
Methuselah gave her a severe stare over the top of his glasses. ‘My dear Constance, kindly do not pour scorn on things you know nothing of. Leave it to those with specialized knowledge.’
Turning to Matthias, the old mouse continued, ‘Yes, most interesting. These thirteen small circles with smiling faces. What do you make of them?’
Matthias could only shake his head. He could not think what the circles might mean.
Constance interrupted. ‘What, do’you mean those things? Huh, they’re obviously the thirteen full moons of the year.’
Methuselah was distinctly piqued. ‘How do you know that? Explain yourself.’
Constance scoffed. ‘Ha, any badger worth its salt knows all about the moon. Do you want me to recite all its phases? I can, you know.’
Matthias was suddenly back on the track again. He counted along the moons, stopping at the sixth one.
‘That one will be this month, June! When is the full moon due in June, Constance?’
‘It’s tomorrow night,’ came the prompt reply. ‘Why, is something supposed to happen then? Some magic or a miracle?’
Methuselah ignored the badger’s attempt at levity.
‘If we stand up here at one o’clock in the morning on the night of the full moon, we may be able to find the sword of Martin the Warrior,’ he said, rather sternly.
Constance scratched her muzzle. ‘How are you going to manage that?’
Matthias ran his foot around the edge of the circle. ‘We’re not quite sure yet, but we are trying to figure it out. You see, it’s all linked closely with the rhyme from the wall of Great Hall, Martin’s tomb, and the stuff we found in it, this sword belt, a shield, another rhyme on the back of a d—’
Constance interrupted, ‘What type of shield?’
‘Oh, pretty much the standard kind used by warriors,’ Matthias replied. ‘A round steel affair with hand- and arm-holds.’
The badger nodded knowingly and continued where Matthias had left off. ‘Yes, I’ve seen that sort of thing before. Not much to look at; in fact, just the type of shield that would fit precisely into this circle. Can’t you see the slots for the arm-holds? But then again, if you look at that carved circle, you’ll notice that it is cut so that the shield would tilt, probably to reflect the moonlight….’
Both mice stared at the badger. There was awe and respect written upon their faces.
Matthias shook her paw with great ceremony. ‘Constance, wonderful badger, old friend. Don’t worry about afternoon tea. You just sit yourself down right there, because I, personally, am going to bring you the largest, most delicious tea that has ever been served within the walls of this Abbey.’
The warm, red stone ramparts rang to the echo of the three friends’ delighted laughter.
CLUNY LAY WITH his one good eye half open.
From beneath its slitted lid he watched Sela the vixen.
The sly old devil was definitely up to something, he was certain of it.
Cluny had secretly questioned Fangburn about the conversation that had gone on between Sela and her son. There was no doubt about it, the foxes were trying to dupe the Warlord.
Cluny had cursed Fangburn for twenty different kinds of an idiot. Fancy not being able to read, and allowing Sela to write out a message! Imagine letting Chickenhound go free without first getting the scroll read.
If he had been a little fitter he would have personally slain his oafish captain. But as it was, Cluny kept silent about it all. Even if Sela was playing a double game, he needed the fox’s healing powers to regain his health and strength.
Meanwhile, Cluny the Scourge made his own counterespionage moves. He allowed Sela to minister to his wounds, but he secretly stopped taking the herbs and potions to help him sleep.
Early next morning Chickenhound returned. He carried a bag laden with medicinal ingredients. Cluny feigned sleep, but secretly he observed the foxes closely. They nodded and winked at each other quite a bit. When they were reasonably sure he was asleep, the two held a hurried whispered conversation. And though, unfortunately, he could not hear what they said, their behaviour was secretive enough to make Cluny sure he was right. They were planning a double cross!
Cluny did not tell any of his officers of his suspicions. He kept everything to himself. This way there could be no possible leak of secrets. Cluny was content to watch and wait, getting a little stronger each day.
Then after a while he came up with a fiendishly simple idea. He ordered that the room be cleared: he wished to be alone so that he could rest. When he was quite sure that he would not be disturbed, Cluny took a quill and parchment from the bedside table. He drew a diagram, complete with pointing arrows, horde positions, lines of attack and defence, together with written instructions. It was a plan for the second full-scale invasion of Redwall Abbey. Cluny made it clear that the success of the attack depended solely on the battering ram breaking through the main gate.
When he had finished writing, Cluny pushed the parchment under his pillow, taking care to leave just a small corner of it jutting out. His officers would be too slow and dull to notice it – a tiny scrap of parchment showing from beneath the pillow. Even if they should, they would attach no importance to it.
But Sela the fox would!
Cluny settled down to wait.
Redtooth and Fangburn returned with their captive guest an hour later. Cluny stretched himself luxuriously and yawned aloud.
‘Aaaah, I had a nice peaceful nap without you three clattering about the room and creating a noise. How’s that tree-felling coming along?’
Redtooth leaned upon his spear. ‘Shouldn’t t
ake much longer now, Chief. I’ve ordered some of them to get a good blaze going so that the trunk can be fired and hardened.’
Cluny flexed his injured tail slowly. ‘Good, make sure that all the large branches are cut off close to the trunk. It’ll make it easier to carry. Now, fox, how about changing these bandages and giving me something to make me sleep tonight. That stuff you gave me yesterday wasn’t much use. I was tossing and turning for hours before I got any rest.’
Sela made a sweeping servile curtsey. ‘Now that my son has brought my new ingredients I can certainly give you medicine to make you sleep, sir. I guarantee you’ll go off like a bug in a blanket, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir.’
‘Just as long as it gets me to sleep,’ said Cluny, smiling inwardly.
That night, Cluny allowed Redtooth and Fangburn to guzzle their fill from a cask of barley wine that had been found in the church cellars. He gave Sela permission to drink also. Cluny watched as the fox pretended to drink as much of the barley wine as the rat Captains. While she was doing this, Cluny also pretended to take his sleeping medicine. Cluny and Sela continued with their pantomime, neither letting a drop pass their lips.
It was late night. Cluny joined in the snores of his drunken officers. The room was comfortably warm. A lone candle flickered in its socket. Cluny felt the pillow move slightly.
Sela was taking the bait!
Cluny gave a big imitation snore and smacked his lips contentedly. Some day he must learn to play chess. He betted himself that he would be unbeatable.
Cluny also made a wager with himself that the plans would be back, safely tucked under the pillow, by morning, and that Sela would have an accurate copy of them hidden away somewhere. Now he could catch a few hours’ sleep.
No doubt the mice would be interested to learn of his scheme to attack the main gate with a battering ram. They would strengthen the gatehouse and deploy the main body of defenders in the immediate area. Cluny could have laughed out aloud.
While they were defending the gate, he would be tunnelling under the south-western angle of the Abbey Wall!
Redwall Page 14